Tag: loss

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.

Conquering Fear with Love

My attitude towards grief has been driven by my love for Maureen, my desire for our children to have her presence in their life and by fear.  It may be unusual to have these opposite extremes as motivating factors, but they are intertwined for me and difficult to separate from each other.

Over the years we had evolved to form a truly loving partnership that not only reflected in our love and respect for each other, but also filtered down to the love we shared for our children.  She will forever be their Mom, and while I can’t physically bring her back to share all those moments/milestones throughout their lives, I’ve felt that it is important for them to know she is still there with them in spirit.

It is out of this powerful emotion of love, that my fear is manifested.  It seems to me, that the more intense and profound the love, the deeper and darker the potential depths of grief.  While never previously personally experiencing the death of a loved one, I have witnessed the crippling effects it can have on people through real life experiences as well as books, movies, etc.  I’ve seen devastation; jobs lost, houses lost, lives turned completely upside down due to loss of a loved one.  Grief is a powerful and destructive force and is the source of my fear.

“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness.  It took me years to understand that this too was a gift”

Maureen and I had many opportunities over the last few years of her life to have candid conversations about death.  She also understood the damaging effects of grief and how we would cope in her absence, always seeking my assurance that I would do my best to pick myself up and carry on with my life in a positive manner (In retrospect, I was so naïve).   While I always thought she was brave in accepting and facing her illness and end of life, it is now clear how truly remarkable she was in helping us all prepare for life without her when it would have been understandable to become self-involved with her own bitter fate.

In the immediate aftermath of her death, my assurances that I was able to so confidently convey in life, now seemed nearly impossible.  There was a feeling of overwhelming sadness, coupled with the challenge of suddenly becoming an only parent while being completely lost.  I could put on a brave face most days, but I was befuddled. My mind was so preoccupied that it was difficult to remember things, stay organized, make decisions or even get out of bed in the morning.  Suddenly those fears of crippling grief were looming like vultures.

I don’t know how things would have been without children, but they were certainly a motivating factor for me.  Knowing that I had four children depending on me for strength, direction and support was significant.  Everyone has their own unique relationship with grief, for me, I knew I needed it out in the open.  As a day dreamer with millions of thoughts and ideas constantly running through my head (sometimes taking over completely), I was afraid that grief would destroy me if I did not let it out.  Grief scared the shit out of me, but I was not going to run away and hide from it.  I wanted it out in the open, where we could see it, where we could experience it, where we could really get to know it.

I talked openly with the kids about life without Mom.  One night/week we would share favorite memories.  We would make jokes about her and have a laugh at her expense (the bickering table is our favorite ongoing joke). We would talk about what makes us sad, what makes us happy and about what we miss about her.  Sometimes there would be laughter, sometimes there would be tears.  The grief was there with us out in the open, not some monster lurking in the darkness, haunting us every day.

“Those who don’t know how to weep with their whole heart don’t know how to laugh either”    Golda Meir

I have not conquered grief, I doubt there is such a thing.  I have however faced my fear of it.  Grief will forever be a part of my life and I never know when it will decide to come and visit me.  Some days there is a sense of sadness and melancholy and I just let it be.  I let it come and keep me company, listen to what it has to say and then let it go on its way again.  I’ve learned from grief, and let it change me (reluctantly at times). Sometimes it comes and decides to stick around for a while and try to take over. It’s during these times that I remember my assurances to Maureen.  “I will pick myself up and carry on”.  It’s not always that easy, but that is the least I can do for you😊

True love is with us always

On July 2, 2016, my wife Maureen McEnaney passed away after a three-year battle with colon cancer.  This blog is not only my story about the pain and sadness I experienced while grieving her loss, but also about my journey of self-discovery, positive change and adventure as I wandered through my new world suddenly filled with uncertainty and ambiguity.

loss and learning mike mcenaney

Looking back, as much as I thought I had mentally prepared myself for that day, it was still a mind-numbing experience.  Maureen and I had fought as a team throughout the cancer, both of us remaining positive while at the same time preparing for less desirable outcomes.  I remember sitting by her side as she grew weaker and weaker; her last words expressing her devout love me.  I knew we loved each other, but as the tears rolled down her face, I experienced the most powerful expression of love I have ever felt in my life. We cried, holding each other dearly in a lasting embrace.  I’m a lucky man, to have known and seen true love, to experience it at its most vulnerable, to see the truth in it, to know it is real.  It is ironic how this moment of intense love and clarity is then followed by loss; our love is forever etched upon my soul and constantly gives me strength.

 

Her breathing became labored and erratic and I knew she would be leaving.   As her last breath was drawn, I froze.  Time seemed to stand still.  It’s one thing to prepare yourself for the concept of losing your best friend and soul mate, it’s quite another to comprehend the devastating reality.  Somehow, I mechanically was able to take care of the remaining business, but my spirit had been sucked out of me, I was empty.

 

A good friend drove me home, knowing I just needed to sit in silence.  Returning home to face my four children was daunting.  I was wondering, how I do this? Here was my first act as a solo parent, and it’s breaking the worst news of their young lives to them.  I had always loved being a Dad and considered myself a good parent, yet suddenly I felt incapable and incompetent without the support of my loving partner.  The physical act of death is so simple but the complex chain reaction of events that follow are so intense and emotional, that it’s impossible to fathom the severity and far reaching effects.  It’s like being stripped naked and dropped in a strange land, being left to figure out how to survive.

 

As I struggled for strength and direction, I knew that I was not going to let cancer beat our family.  It may have wreaked havoc on our lives, but I was not going to let it win.  Early on, that was my strength; it’s what kept me going.  My drive and my motivation today is to continue the fight and somehow keep our family healthy and strong, while also keeping the spirit and love of Maureen McEnaney alive within us all.