Month: October 2019

When is it OK to answer, “What does your wife do?”

How do you answer those awkward questions about death

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There’s a series of simple questions that become complicated to answer.

What does your wife do?

 Does mom live in the same house?

What’s moms contact number? 

Switch it around and replace wife and mom with husband and dad, and the questions still linger in the air.  Thoughts rapidly flutter the mind with how you are supposed to answer. The TRUTH is usually the first thing that comes to mind, but I’ve learned that it’s far easier most times to play along and not create an awkward scene.

In the immediate aftermath of Maureen’s passing, we all put on a good face most days, but we were trying to keep our stuff together.  There was a gaping hole in our lives, and we were still in shock, trying to figure out how to get through our days without breaking out in tears.  We had a vacation planned about two weeks after Maureen’s Celebration of Life.  It was supposed to be five days of relaxation by the beach because Maureen said that was what she wanted to do that summer.  I put it out to the kids, and they all agreed that we should still go. I admired their courage. We packed our fragile and heartbroken bodies into the car and headed south.

Putting the questions to the test

We were learning to deal with a lot that trip, and there were times when thoughts of her loomed over us, with her presence being ominous.  The check-in at the hotel was the first time that I had been asked the question, “Does your wife need a key?”.  Of course, I was still wearing my wedding ring.  I fumbled my way through it and was glad the kids were preoccupied and didn’t have to watch me search for the right answer. It must have created an emotional moment for me because it struck me that it was something we needed to discuss together. It can be a simple question about your mom, but one that brings back emotion and sends the mind racing.

I don’t remember how the initial discussion started because we were all trying to take care of each other. I wanted to keep these conversations ongoing and was open about bringing up difficult and emotional topics as they arose.  Humor is good therapy, and since we’ve developed a bit of dark twist in our perception of the world, death gave us good material for keeping the subject alive and active. Keeping the subject active was important back then.  We could cry, but we could also laugh, and memories are much satisfying when they make you smile.

Dark humor is good therapy.

While not my favorite family vacation, it is memorable because of the time we had to ourselves, doing something fun, and learning how to keep going.  We hadn’t been able to agree on a correct response, but the talk was ongoing with some wild ideas.  We were having a good day with lots of smiles when we decided to get lunch.  Kids were busy deciding what kind of tasty beverage they were going to enjoy when the waitress approached and asked, “Will your wife be joining you?” Before I had time to think, I replied, “No, She’s home resting…In Peace”.  It was a very deliberate pause.  I could hear the kids all giggling as I answered with my straight face, trying hard to hold back my grin. It wasn’t the response for the long term, but for right now, it was good and something to hold in your back pocket for emergencies.

It gave us the chance to make light of serious questions and allowed us to avoid it for a while.  The proper response has not yet been found by any of us though.  It’s usually a pause and awkward silence followed by some lie, or worse yet, the truth.  Spill out the facts a few times, and you realize it was a mistake.

I try to have a healthy relationship with death and am still working on it. The passing of my wife was shocking, but I’ve learned that life can be random and even cruel. That was a startling realization for me.  I’ve had many fairytale moments and many more still to be had, but I also accept that there will be more heartache and pain.  Part of that acceptance is learning how to cope with Maureen’s passing and other family members that are now just part of my happy memories.  I needed to do some soul searching on how death fits into my life because it was all around me.

More on relationships with death. http://onelobotomyplease.com/whats-your-relationship-with-death-like/

It’s hard, though, to bring up death randomly in communication, and you get tired trying to figure out how.  Perhaps it may be that after so many times of creating that conversation ending response, you stop testing people with it.  I want to be honest, though.  I want to be able to tell people that I’m widowed; the kids don’t have a mom, and she passed away. I don’t want to evade the truth.

It’s a real thing and a significant event in my life.  It sometimes feels like a dark secret that I can’t tell anyone.  I offer the truth as my way of being at peace with where I am.  When I speak of admitting that my wife will never again be physically joining us for dinner, I’m not trying to make you feel uncomfortable; it’s that I don’t want to hide from who I am. Yes, I am widowed, and I am a happy, relatively normal person. Life continues.

You learn how to gauge people and perceive who can handle the facts and who can’t. If I drop the truth on you, it is because I trust that you understand it’s part of my life and that I don’t feel sorry for myself. It does not happen often, though. Some can accept the truth; maybe they confronted death in their life or have exceptional people skills. Whatever the reason for their acceptance, it is relieving to let it out without it impeding communication.

Many times though, you guess wrong.  You make a connection, perceive something that lowers your guard, and the truth slowly spills out of your mouth and cast a dark shadow of silence over the room.  Most times the awkward silence is nervously followed up with a feeble change of subject.  Almost often, though, if the person has a way to escape physically, they will. I’ve sent people scurrying, not understanding why the honesty about my life scares them away.

I still give out Maureen’s cell phone as a contact number.  There are still teachers that think mom is home helping the kids cover their books or helping with homework.  I have business contacts that think I’m happily married.  There is an entire population of people that are going to be very shocked someday when they learn the truth. It’s not because I have intentionally tried to deceive them. It’s because the fairytale version is what they want to hear and death does not fit into that illusion.

“You may find this sad”

When I feel the situation is right, I’ve learned to preface my response with a disclaimer.  I’ll start by saying, “You might find this sad,” or “That’s a difficult question to answer.” Sometimes that little indication that I’m not going to come back out a typical response is enough to soften the blow. It is the best technique I have found for me.  There are other times, though, where I get tired and frustrated and willingly let it out, knowing that it is going to sink like a lead balloon. 

I don’t know yet what the proper answer is or if there is one. I’m sure that there are others with similar situations, where society does not see their life as typical and are having to create a false identity continually.  If you are proud of who you are or have accepted where you are, then you don’t want to have to hide it. I have a good life.  My kids and I are happy.  I don’t flaunt my situation, but I don’t want to pretend it does not exist. If we are honest with you, it is because we trust you and think that you can see the good in our lives and not the tragedy. It’s an honor if we are brave enough to tell you the truth.

When Death Comes for an Extended Visit

Death used to scare the hell out of me. Any wake or funeral that I had ever been to was awkward. I never knew what to say and always found myself fumbling for words. I could see the heartache and pain in people, but I had never known it myself and wanted to keep my distance. All that pain and sorrow I saw, just wanted me to turn it off and hide.  It was far easier to pretend death did not exist and that I would never have to figure out how to deal with the agony and suffering.

Then death came for an extended stay…

Maureen passed away in July of 2016. In November of that year, my next oldest brother passed away after a short battle with a rare and very aggressive liver cancer. He was receiving treatments and care while Maureen was going through her final challenging months, and I was still trying to claw my through the grieving of Maureen. It came too fast for both of us. For him, it was much too soon; it was as if cancer never gave him a chance, coming on fast and furious and taking its toll. For me, I was still numb.

I don’t know if my reaction to his death was a result of me being mentally and emotionally overloaded, or me just trying to come to grips with how death fits my life. My heart ached for his wife who was suddenly without the love of her life. High School sweethearts, best friends with years of happy companionship, all suddenly gone. I knew this feeling. I knew how she felt; having your heart torn out and your life turned upside down. That was heavy for me. I didn’t turn it off, but I could immerse myself so much into the emotional turmoil.

Then there were the kids. He was a hero to his kids; a good role model, loving, playful and supportive. I couldn’t fathom the thought of his children having to come to grips with his passing. Witnessing my children over the last three months and the obvious devastation that I would see on their face, knowing there were nights that they lay in bed weeping. It’s a pain no child should ever have to experience, and watching his four children grieve his loss opened up my wounds, not even close to being healed.

I felt guilty at first like I wasn’t properly grieving his loss. Wasn’t I suppose to be sad and upset that he was longer in my life? Maybe it was self-preservation? I had said goodbye to him long before his passing, and on my last visit, I knew that I might never see him again. Still, the day the news came, I sat in my room and cried. Tears came because I would never see him again; tears came because death had invaded my life again, and mostly, tears came because I knew how traumatic and painful this would be for his family, bringing back a flood of agonizing thoughts and feeling for me. My grieving became more about reliving my loss, feeling that same pain in others, and less about no longer having my brother in my life.

Why is there so much death in my life?

In July of 2017, almost exactly one year from the day that Maureen left us, one of her best friends(Kate) passed away as a result of a horrible traffic accident. Kate looked after Maureen tirelessly while she was sick and dealing with the poisoning side effects of chemo. She was a woman with two young children, a loving husband, and an active member of our close-knit town. It was devastating; she left the house in the morning and never returned. Her family would never see her again. The town was rocked by the tragedy, two years in row that a mom was taken away from their families much too soon.

The similarities opened up scars not quite healed for many and created new anguish for many more. It’s so close to home for many, making them look at their own lives and giving them a new appreciation for waking up and seeing your family every morning, realizing it can vanish in a flash. For me, it was reliving the previous July all over again, throwing me back into the throws of my deepest sorrow. What I was feeling was also different though. The sorrow I felt was related to my loss but mostly because I felt the pain of the husband and two children and not wanting anyone to endure the dreadful experience of figuring out how to carry on once your heart had been violently ripped out. I attended the service knowing it would be a challenge. I kept my distance, fading into the background not wanting to get too emotional and draw attention but somehow feeling that my understanding presence was enough to show my support. There were no words needed.

“Fear grows with ignorance.  I know and understand my fear”  Amit Jupi

While Maureen was going through her ordeal with colon cancer, my next younger brother was dealing with prostate cancer. His cancer metastasized and spread to his bones, and he’d been through numerous forms of treatments to keep cancer from spreading, but 2018 was a challenging year for him, and his quality of life was deteriorating. He was constantly in pain and no longer able to live the life he wanted to live and eventually decided that the treatment was worse than the disease. He accepted the consequences of that decision and began preparing for his precious final months.

I would occasionally make the trip to visit, never knowing if it were the last time I’d spend time with him. Things were changing for me, and I was more open about death and accepting the inevitable outcome. The conversations were often powerful and emotional as he wanted to know how I prepared for Maureen’s passing and how we managed in the aftermath. I was comfortable sharing this and knowing the hardship that would ensue, felt it was important that I was as open with him as possible, hoping that maybe it would help them all prepare.

When I last visited him, by the time I left, I knew it was my last visit. He had not been out of the house much, so I took him out to run some errands and grab breakfast at the local diner. He showed me the church where his funeral service was going to be held, and we talked about his end of life plans, discussing ideas for what to leave behind for his wife and children, but mostly we enjoyed the precious moment of two brothers hanging out and talking for maybe the last time.

As I headed back up the road, my thoughts were consumed by the cruelty of yet again, a young family losing a loving parent. Four daughters that will need to come to grips with never seeing their father again and his loving wife that will somehow be expected to pick up the pieces of her shattered life without the support of the person she needs the most. I felt the tears coming as these thoughts and emotions boiled up inside of me, and I was overcome with excruciating sadness. I pulled off the road, put the car in park and sat and sobbed with a pain in my heart, knowing that weighty days lie ahead for him and his family.

No rest for the weary

As I sit here and write this, my father has just finished his first treatment for Lymphoma, and I realize that this cycle is going to repeat itself. As far as I know, it is going to repeat itself for everyone in my life someday, myself included. Death comes to us all, often before we are ready for it and it’s really hard to fill that void for those we love. It can be devastating, and I know this now. I have felt that pain and sorrow and have let it wash over me. There is nothing I can do to alleviate that pain and each person needs to find their way to come to terms with their mourning and how they are going to let it shape their lives. What I can do, though, is offer an understanding hug, a shoulder to cry on(or with), or offer my presence and be with them in spirit. Like most scary things in life, once you get to know them, they are not that scary.