Widows Support, Coaching for Widows

Dear Readers.

After a needed vacation, and lots of time to reflect, I am back. Thank you for your “where are you Mie” emails. It is always good to know that one has been missed. I am still here, hopefully wiser and, well, wiser.

Much has happened since my last posting. Lots of fun stuff, some hard stuff, and truthfully, too much personal growth for my liking. I think I may declare a moratorium on personal growth for it always seems to happen after something particularly painful rather than just a good ole time.

However, April was wonderful and it brought the prom, a happy occasion and very sweet.

Anneke radiated beauty and joy as she greeted her date in her thrift store gown. In his rented tux, (I swear the  pant legs must have been at least 13 inches too long and I loved him for it) her date was what all mothers would hope for and I worried not a bit. He assured me that he would have her home by a certain hour and did not disappoint. They had a good time and I am sure both will remember the event fondly.

But of course, after maybe 723 photos, the handsome couple finally left and there I was.

There is nothing like a prom to remind us that our children are growing up and most likely already have one foot out the door. I counted the months on my fingers, and realized that I have exactly 16 to teach my daughter everything that I have up until now, forgotten to tell her. You know, important things, like don’t chew sugarless gum before a date because it gives you gas.

But equally important, I have only 16 months to prepare myself for her leaving.

As I type those words my eyes fill with water and my chest hurts and I wonder, how will I do this? How will I say good-bye to this child who I adore, this child who kept me sane when Mike died, forcing me to be present? How will I say good-bye to the incessant singing of “Matchmaker, Matchmaker” or “If I Had a Fine White Horse”? How will I say good-bye to the jokes, (A man walks into a bar and says ‘ouch’), a bedroom that could easily pass for the town Waste Management Facility, or the daily recitation of early morning dreams – so long and detailed they rival James Joyce? (Although not as boring…)

How? How will I say good-bye to all that and more?

When I dropped Anneke off at camp 4 years ago, and walked back to my car, I met her counselor. I asked her for a minute of her time and proceeded to tell her that I thought, gulp gulp, that Anneke, gulp gulp, might need some attention because gulp sniff gulp, I thought that Anneke might be sad. She was perfect, and gently she put her hand on my shoulder  saying most compassionately, “don’t worry Mrs. Elmhirst, you will be fine.” I slunk to my car, and drove away to the radio playing “No Woman No Cry.” The same song Mike danced to with Anneke in his arms, all those years before. I kid you not.

Letting go is not easy for anyone.

I positively hate it. But unless I decide to chain her to her bed, this child is on her way and I will have to walk through what every parent before me has had to face.

Can we prepare for loss? I really don’t think so. I think if we try,  we just miss living.

The real answer is probably the same for all of life’s beginnings and endings.

And that is, as best we can, when life happens, to be open to our feelings whatever they are,  with compassion and permission.

Compassion as from a Higher Power who says yes, letting go hurts and I love you and you will be OK and don’t face it alone.

And permission to be with the feelings rather than thinking we have to get over them before we are ready.

Much Love, Mie

Coaching for Widows

Support for Widows

I can still remember and I can still feel it, deep in my gut, how hard it was to go on after Mike died.

Until I hired my coach who was my main source of support and who eventually became my friend, I was alone. I am so grateful I found him. I cannot imagine walking this walk by myself.

Because that is what it feels like, once he is gone. The isolation of grief is compounded by each relationship, each friend who can not understand.

I wondered.

• Will I ever sleep soundly again?
• Will I laugh again?
• Will I look at a sunset and feel joy again?
• Will I ever again be happy at weddings?
• Will I ever want to cook a good meal?
• Will I be genuinely happy at Anneke’s milestones? Or will I always think about who is missing?
• Will the sun make me happy?
• Will rain on my face feel like rain instead of tears?
• And when I asked my friends, I did not trust their answers.

Please. Ask. For. Help.

Ask for help from me, therapists, clergy, friends, other widows…

This is too hard and it takes too long to go it alone. It amazes me, even after doing this work for 8 years, how many men and women deprive themselves of help.

Isolation is bad for the heart and for the soul.

Call or email me for a sample coaching session. It is free.

Blessings, Mie

Help for Widows

The Widows Coach

Ahhh, Valentines Day.

I had a blind date set for tomorrow… but thankfully, when he realized that it was Valentines Day (both of us were clueless) he balked at the prospect of standing in line surrounded by couples gazing into each other’s eyes. I am so grateful for his foresight and we are meeting today instead.

Valentines Day is so memory laden!

Mike gave me my first cell phone on Valentines Day. In those days they were ‘car phones’. The package was huge because car phones came in briefcases way back then…and as I held it, wondering why he put my earrings in such a large box, he dialed the number from the house phone. Of course when the still-wrapped package rang, he practically danced a jig at this amazing piece of technology, positive that I was as excited as he. While I kissed him in gratitude I quietly wondered why on earth I needed a telephone in my car. The next snowstorm gave me my answer.

Then there was the year we were tight for cash and decided no gifts. I was fine with our agreement.  But the ladies who worked for Mike convinced him that I really didn’t mean it and that if he came home gift-free, he would pay. And pay, and pay and pay…

So at 5:00 on Valentines Day he stopped at the florist on the way home from work and bought the last piece of flora in stock. It was the hugest, greenest, and most magnificent exotic plant available on Cape Cod in the dead of winter. I swear it was bigger than me. Heck, it was bigger than our dining room and I used a Radio Flyer Wagon to wheel it from room as I searched for its final destination.  I think Mike took out a second mortgage to afford it. Of course, I had nothing for him and I quietly cursed the ladies.

Then there was the year of the Sea horse earrings that were so long they practically reached my armpits and I couldn’t turn my head without lifting them…he had my daughter pick them out. She was four.

And the year of the dolphin earrings…she picked them out also.

The year of the lighthouse earrings…. yes, Anneke again. Obviously too young to understand diamonds.

Ahhh Valentines Day. Memories so sweet.

At first, I could not think of past years without a searing pain through my heart.

But now, when I share these memories with Anneke, we laugh. She loves to hear, and I love to tell her. No pain. Just a simple joy at remembering that we were very human beings doing our best.

Mie Elmhirst

Coach for Widows

Call 508-540-4421 for a sample coaching session.

I fell this morning.

It began as I stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes. I turned to the right to watch my puppy Bear rip apart a toilet paper roll that I had smeared inside with peanut butter to make it more desirable than my pant leg. Which up until then had been her chew toy of choice.

I was wearing Anneke’s crocs and that is important only because they are made out of a very hard rubber, probably recycled automobile tires. They don’t turn well on linoleum, or at least not with me in them and as my body turned and my feet did not, I felt myself tilt, slowly and unnaturally, to the right.

I don’t go down without a fight, so when my feet finally unstuck from the floor I began a clumsy galloping across the kitchen. My head lead the rest of my body by about a foot, and as I unwillingly entered the dining area, still galloping but a lot closer to the ground, I heard my inner voice say something like “I am not going down I am NOT going down…dammit I WILL NOT go down…”

I could not abort the descent.

I connected loudly with the dining room table. Bear barked a prolonged high-pitched alert that was as startling as the noise made by three of my dining room chairs as they hit the ground with me.

No one heard of course, and as I lay taking stock Bear quieted down and decided that this episode was just a prelude to play, finally happy to have me at her level. She jumped on my side, nipping playfully. She is no Lassie.

Slowly and carefully I stood up. There were no broken bones.  My right hip took a bit of a hit but thankfully it is well-padded and although my right shoulder doesn’t feel quite normal I am sure that whatever was slightly stretched will regenerate in a day or so.  I am not worried. Mostly, I was stunned.

And when I calmed down, as most widows will understand, I began with the “what ifs”.

What if I had broken my wrist, or my hip or even my vertebra?

What if I had fractured my SKULL?

Is fifty-six too young for Lifeline? You know, those little things you wear around your neck that make “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” less deadly.

My father refuses Lifeline saying it is for old people. He is 87.

I guess it would look bad if I had one and he didn’t.

I know that I am not the only widow that understands this element of having once had a spouse and then not.

The first time I had a cold, one of those bronchial, lots of phlegm colds that make even your best friends run in the opposite direction, I deeply felt the loss of that person who cared enough to bring me soup, and then, of course, gleefully order take out for himself.  What if I coughed myself to death in the middle of the night?

I have a good friend, a bit older than I, who emails her other good friend every day, at 7 AM, just for security. If the email is not answered within 15 minutes, it is followed by a phone call. etc.

No, I am a fit, healthy woman and obviously not ready for lifeline or even an email pal. I enjoy dating, but I do not have a forever partner.  Although I am really beginning to wonder, I just can’t imagine that this gorgeous, bright hunk-a-female will be on her own for the next 25 years.

Yet, I am also a realist and the statistics are abundantly clear. Women out number men. By how much, I am not interested in knowing, but I think it doesn’t bode well.

My plan all along has been to have a partner. Not a marriage partner, but a partner.

But lately, every once in a while, I remember that my plan is not always THE plan.  Even disregarding the statistics, I am pathetically picky.

What is hard for me and I know for many of you, is that we don’t have a crystal ball, we don’t know what lies ahead and for women who have suffered trauma and the resulting deep sense of insecurity, we sometimes feel strongly the need to KNOW, especially, the unknowable.

I am so very tired of the phrase “living in the moment”, probably because I am ridiculously bad at it.

But isn’t that the ultimate challenge? To accept the gifts that come our way, without always trying to manage or change them. To be grateful for what is rather ungrateful for what is not. As I write this I realize how much I have grown, and, how much I still have to learn.

For now, no broken bones, one chair that needs re-gluing, a puppy useless in an emergency but full of love, crocs that will be used in the garden and not in the kitchen and good friends, both male and female who care, and if I can get to the phone, would be here in minutes.

Blessings, Mie Elmhirst

Coaching and Help for Widows.

Cal 508-540-4421 for a sample (free) coaching session.

I am trying to write this week’s blog with my new puppy at my feet. She demands instead, that I instead pay attention to her. I pick up one of her many balls and roll it, encouraging her to “gogettheball”. She just waits.  Instead she wants my pant leg. And since I am wearing the last pair of pants without itty-bitty puppy teeth marks in it, I cannot ignore her. I get down on the floor and play. Little Bear asks little of me; she wants to cuddle, play fetch and hopefully, get a treat. The treat I give her is the same puppy food that she gets three times a day but it seems that eating it out of my hand instead of her bowl makes it better. Like when Anneke and I eat pizza on the floor in front of the fireplace. Its just better that eating it at the dining room table.

So, I love my puppy. I know this. I will do anything for her. I loved her the moment I laid my eyes on her. But of course, for most of us, a puppy is not enough. We are social beings. Most of us want some sort of companionship.

How do you know if what you feel for your man is love? You know that it is better than that bone-crushing loneliness you had before you met him.

But is it love? Or is settling, or obsession, or a diversion?

Rather than asking yourself how you feel about him, please ask yourself the most important question of all.

How do you feel about yourself when you are with him.

Do you feel marvelous? Happy to be you? Appreciated and celebrated?

Or do you feel slightly on edge? Anxious. Like you have to prove something. Maybe  you feel that you are just a little bit less than who he wants. Maybe you should wear different clothes or maybe lose a couple of pounds…Or maybe, and this is really a bad thing, he lets you know in a vague sort of way that you don’t quite satisfy him the way a better or sexier woman could. Talk about a spirit killer.  It is mean and cruel, and yet women put up with it.

Do you remember the movie Murphy’s Romance? I saw this movie in 1985, and even back then, with little dating experience, its very simple lesson made sense. Of course I had no idea that it would be useful to me now, in my fifties.

Sally Field’s character becomes friends with an mature, older, and respectful man played by James Garner and eventually there flows an attraction between them.  Yet, when her smooth talking, immature ex-husband returns, she allows him to move in with her again.  He is disruptive and creates chaos in her life as he simultaneously, preys on her sympathies and emotions.

James Garner’s character, watching this transpire, finally has enough and lets her go saying something like ‘when you are ready for a real man… let me know’.

What is a real man? And, is the man you are with, a real man?

This is what I absolutely know about men and real men..

If, when you are with him you feel great about who you are, he is probably a real man. He wants you to feel good. He celebrates this.

If his actions, not just his words, are honest and respectful at all times, then he is probably a real man.

And if, at the same time he also pays attention to his own needs, (he respects himself), He is a Real Man. Pay close attention to this man.

Oi Vey. I finally get it. At 56 years old, I understand the difference between a man playing at being a man, and a real man.

The biggest danger for a widow is that she accepts less that she deserves. Sadly, I did this myself and called it love, and I know a good number of you have done the same. I know this because I speak to you almost every day.

Please call me for a sample coaching session. You have a chance, again, to ask for  and expect…the best.

Warmly, Mie Elmhirst  508-540-4421

The Widow’s Coach

Widows Dating Again Teleclasses…call 508-540-4421

So the good news is that  Anneke got her license.

The other good news is that we are talking again. Both of us are recalcitrant. Me for publicly fighting with the glove box and chattering endlessly and her, for telling me to ‘zip it’. (!)

Hopefully none of that will happen again.

But, it probably will.

In my defense, when Anneke asked me to be her sponsor (in Massachusetts a sponsor rides in the back seat and doesn’t talk), I asked her if she was sure that she wanted me. “You know how I am…” I said.

“You’ll be fine Mom”, she said.

Clearly a case of misplaced confidence.

Anyhow, that particular day the glove box was jammed shut. With the registration in it.

Now, Anneke and I have anticipated this day, the day of the License… for over nine years, it being a concrete sign of independence, both hers and mine. So a jammed glove box was not going to defeat me.

I yanked and pushed and wriggled over and over again, my disbelief and determination both escalating as if maybe the three hundred and nineteenth yank would be the magic number and the glove box would fall open revealing the desired registration. It did not happen.

Desperate times and desperate measures.

Short of taking a hammer to the dashboard, which I seriously considered, I finally lay on my back on the floor of the passenger side, half in and half out of the car, praying my legs would not be run over, and using the car key, I unscrewed two screws to what I thought was the bottom of the glove box.

I worked fast, under the gun, knowing that at any moment the examiner could be saying to Anneke…”Where is your sponsor?” And Anneke would have to say something like “She’s making an fool out of herself in the parking lot…” Did I mention that it was 28 degrees Fahrenheit?

Anyhow, the piece of the car that I loosened did not lead to the glove box. I got an unexpected view of the inner workings of my 1995 Volvo, which at that moment did not interest me. And for your information, it takes 15 minutes to unscrew a screw using a car key.

More desperate measures. (And where was Mike anyhow… this wasn’t even supposed to be my job.)

I jammed a pen between the glove box door and the dashboard and I WAS ABLE TO SEE THE REGISTRATION! through the 1/8th inch slit. My determined grew. Vigorously stuffing my now frozen fingers through that 1/8th inch slit, expanding it to ¼ inch, I touched it!!! I touched the registration!

But no matter how I wiggled and pushed and shoved and abused my hands, I was unable to retrieve the prize. And my fingers were getting very puffy.

Tweezers! I ran back to the registry a. to get warm and b. to canvass the line for tweezers. Do you have tweezers? Do you have tweezers? Do you…I could see little smirks on the faces of those who were proudly prepared, hanging on to their registrations. Smug.

And all the while Anneke was in the corner trying to disown me, sliding further and further down into her seat.

Didn’t she know I was doing this for her?

And finally, when I realized that I might be able (since we were already at the registry) to simply get a copy, (for a handsome fee I was sure)  the  computers went down.

That was it. We would have to return home.

Finally, defeated.

The examiner was 45 min late. Which of course was OK because of the glove box thing. But not for Anneke’s nerves.

I moved to her bench, hoping against home that some light conversation might be helpful and that she would forgive me my behavior.

Instead, out of my mouth came the thing Anneke most feared…chatter. Anneke, in response, unable to hold her tongue any longer, rebutted with her now famous, “Zip it.” Now, at another time and at another place, perhaps, that ‘zip it’ would have resulted in huge consequences.

But at the registry, I could hardly blame her, so humiliated by her mother who was just being herself. I did zip it.

But I felt bad and she knew it and she felt bad and I knew it.

When Anneke’s name was called we explained to the examiner that we would need to return home. No registration, no test. We knew the rules.

This beautiful woman, I swear she had a halo shining above her angelic head, looked at Anneke, with sympathy in her eyes and said, “No, you don’t want to do that. I will get you a copy.”

At that moment, miraculously, the Gods shone upon us once again, and we heard the whir of the computers as they booted up. We were sold a replacement registration for the mere sum of $25.00.

So.

As the sponsor, I sat in the back seat. The examiner sat in the front.

All was well.

Until, inexplicably, Anneke picked up speed in the quiet residential neighborhood of Yarmouthport.  I resorted to our (my) agreed upon signal and tapped my fingers lightly on the dog crate in the back seat. This was supposed to signal a need to slow down. In her defense, Anneke never actually agreed to this signal and she appeared not to hear.

I tapped louder. Still no indication that she heard. Was she ignoring me? Was she actually accelerating?

I practically pounded the crate. Nothing from Anneke. The examiner turned to me, a quizzical look on her face but said nothing and I gave up. I slumped back in the seat and had to resist the urge to lie down and take a nap.

And then, breaking her silence, in her so very sweet, meek way, as she barreled down a street made for strollers and bicycles, Anneke asked, (and I could not believe her timing…) “So, how am I doing? Have I passed so far???”  This was met with a loooong pause.

I almost cried with sympathy. For Anneke and the examiner. Mostly for Anneke. I felt her vulnerability. She was scared.

I wanted to hug her. But I knew, thank goodness I knew this, that if I uttered even a peep, she would have gone directly from the registry to court, appealing to be an emancipated minor.

I feared the test was over. The examiner said something like “well let’s wait and see” and told Anneke to pull over. “Now”, she said. We felt our heads jerk forward as Anneke applied the brakes.

It was time for the three-point turn. Anneke executed it flawlessly, as she did parallel parking.

And then finally, “Congratulations, Anneke. You have your license.”

“But,” the examiner said before anyone could shout a big Hurrah, “we need to talk about speed.” And she did at length. She told Anneke that some kids go too slowly when they are nervous… and some speed. “Which group do you think you are in?” Anneke nodded her head in agreement, words not necessary.

The examiner was respectful but clear. I was grateful.

We parents need all the help we can get.

I drove home. We both had some calming down and making up to do. We expressed our frustration. We also tearfully made amends, hugged, celebrated and finally, laughed. (You asked the men for tweezers Mom!!!) (Well, you know Anneke, nose hairs and all…)

We celebrated by eating too much Chinese food. Fried shrimp, Peking noodles, and Scallion pancakes as the vegetable.

Anneke will not get the car for a while. She is OK with this.  So am I. It just isn’t time yet.

And I wonder, if Mike is aware, and I have no real opinion on this any more, but I do wonder, if he could think, what he would say.

It could be anything from “Good Job Mie” to “You used the car key to unscrew the glove box that wasn’t even the glove box what were you thinking???”

Yes, Mike and I were as opposite as opposites could be. I have no doubt that with him; the experience would have been very, very different. Not better, not worse. Just different.

Mie Elmhirst.

Call me for a sample coaching session at 508-540-4421 (I am a far better coach than sponsor!!! )

Help and Support and Coaching for Widows

Do you remember the exhaustion you felt when your new baby was about eighteen months?  When she was waking up at 4 AM ready to play, thrilled to be alive and expecting that you were in a similar frame of mind even though you had only gotten four hours of sleep?

We have a new puppy. So I guess that is all there is to say about that.

Her name on Saturday, was Little Bear. So very cuddly.

On Sunday, it was Bear. We were up three times the previous night.

On Monday, it was The Howler. She hates the car. Anneke and I ended up with splitting headaches in the five minutes it took to get home from the vet.

On Tuesday it was, for a moment, Bad Dog. But just for a moment, until I retrieved my Pashmina Scarf from her puppy clutches.

Wednesday, it was Cujo.  She does not like the sound of the shower at all. I got a full view of  her many itty bitty puppy teeth and what I think was her epiglottis, through the shower curtain, as I was washing my hair and blocking my ears at the same time. It was scary.

Thursday, her name was Good Puppy. She stopped howling after an ear-splitting 7 minutes in the car. The point was that she stopped.

Right now, she is again, Little Bear. She is sleeping.  Her head rests on a Beanie Baby Bear, and honestly, she looks angelic. I could eat her up.  I love her.

I don’t remember being so tired with Debs, our faithful poodle of twelve years. It seemed easier. Smoother. Quieter. Easier.

Oh yeah, that’s right. We were two parents back then.

This blog is a warning. Most of you won’t need it.

But for the few of you who are considering a new puppy to sooth yourself after a wicked break up (oh right, that’s what I’m doing) I have a few words for you.

1. I suggest a maternity-leave-type situation. This is WORK.

2. Earplugs. Bose sells Noise Canceling Earphones for a mere $299 and I am seriously considering a pair.

3. Your sixteen-year-old may love the cuddling…but she will be very un-fond of using the pooper-scooper no matter what she commits to ahead of time.  Whatever you do, don’t believe her. Love her, but don’t believe her.

4. And finally, although you probably don’t need reminding, everything is harder with only one parent, absolutely everything.

Please tell me how it is, that after nine years, a boyfriend or two, and now a new puppy, that I am still surprised  that ‘we’ are a ‘me’?

Little Bear, cute and cuddly and funny and full of life, reminds me that she is my responsibility, not our responsibility and that the buck stops with me.

I know I should know this by now, and I do. Most days, I am OK with it.

But I still don’t understand it.

Oh, I know how it happened, the day-to-day decline… But I don’t get THAT it happened. It makes no sense.

Maybe, it will never make sense. I expect that it won’t.

In the meantime, I follow this cuddly ball of fur around, Oxy Solution Carpet Stain Remover in hand, knowing that for a while at least, she occupies some of that space in my brain that tends to think just a little too much.

Mie Elmhirst    Coaching and Support for Widows

Call 508-540-4421 to schedule a free sample session.

I believe in optimism. I even believe in Eternal Optimism. (OK, maybe not eternal….) I also believe in laughing and playfulness and fun.

It’s not that it always comes easy to me, and in fact, sometimes it is difficult.

When life throws me a really hard ball…you might find me on a Friday night eating cheerios topped with grape jelly convinced that absolutely every other widow and widower, or maybe every human being in the whole United Sates, (no, no, the whole world) are on a fabulous date, in love, laughing it up on some moonlit ski slope, getting ready to go inside where they will link arms, snuggle up and share a snifter the Best Brandy, of course, in front of a roaring fire. And there I am, as cheerios occasionally drop to the floor, listening to NPR and getting more and more depressed over the state of the world.

The wonderful thing about being human is that we get to choose a perspective. The day after a grape cheerios night I will probably again, choose hope and smile at the ridiculousness of my feminine mind.

Our perspectives are not locked in. They are not part of our hard drive, no matter what we might believe. I was taught as a child that the world was unsafe. “What is said here stays here…” My parents lived in Nazi-occupied Holland and they risked death daily. Their world WAS really unsafe.

I can choose differently. I don’t live in war-torn Holland. I live on Cape Cod and other than getting in the car with my 16 year-old behind the wheel, my life is not at risk. My world may feel unsafe at times, but it is not.

I get to have faith in people’s good natures. I get to assume, and it takes work sometimes, but I do get to assume that good happens. To me and to you. It takes less energy. Of course people have occasionally let me down as I have let them down. That is what we do as humans, we make mistakes.

And of course, people die. For a very long time, that was evidence enough that the world was unstable and at any moment a very bad thing could happen.

But after a while, that perspective held me captive. It did not allow healing.

I needed a new one.

It goes something like this…

The people in my life might die before I do. Many will. I will not feel OK for a long while but I know, because I have experienced it, but I also know that I will be OK and I will again experience joy.

Widowhood is so rigorous and long and arduous.

Because of this, we assume that it will never end. We assume that we will be, in our hearts, women in pain for the rest of our lives.

Part of what I do in my work is to move people along, to show them the next place to look, and to help them recognize how far and in what ways they have made progress.

Take a look at your perspective. Is that the perspective you want? Because if it isn’t, don’t assume it is hard wired.

Warmly, Mie Elmhirst

For a sample session call 508-540-45421

Coach for Widows

This past December, I hibernated. Actually I think it began sometime in October when I wasn’t paying attention. It lasted until January 3^rd. Exactly. I did the basics; I kept our home, I cooked, I cleaned, I worked,  I taught Anneke to drive, (Go left! No go right! Watch Out!  GO STRAIGHT!) (Poor child…) I took walks and I knitted. I wrote nothing, not even a blog. I was thoroughly uninspired.

I expected very little of myself.  I gave myself a vacation from “being all I could be”, to borrow a phrase from the Army. I was far less than I could be.

I was recovering from a broken heart. All in all, it took me about 10 weeks and about 48 hundred boxes of Kleenexes, lots of rehashing, re-thinking, and friends.

It was my first since Mike died, and apparently it was time once again for me to be pathetic. And, I was pathetic. Out came the slippers, the spoon, and the Ben and Jerry’s. No bowl. I may sound rather quip-ish here, but it was ugly.  It was so ugly that Anneke got me a mug for Christmas that said something about running into one’s ex… with a car. She obviously meant it in jest, for she liked him, but I can’t help thinking that it was not as much about how I might feel as it was about was how she felt as I wept into my OJ while Christmas carols blared from the radio.

The truth is he did nothing wrong. He just decided that I was not quite what he was looking for and although I have unfortunately come to understand the thinking of a stalker, I also understand his point of view. How could I not understand? Haven’t we all been in that same situation at least once? It is the risk we take when we look for love. No blame. No blame.

So…I have learned.

• I CAN fall in love. (And so can you..)
• I can survive a break-up. (And so can you…)
• I am not as smart as I think I am. I am capable of making the very same mistakes I counsel others not to make.
• I may have to take the class I teach…

• And…

• Being widowed opens us up like open-heart surgery and exposes our core, our heart to the elements. The only good thing that I can see about this (at least today in my newly recovered state) is that we develop an almost instant access to our feelings. We feel deeply and clearly. Commercials make us cry. A beautiful sunset makes us both laugh and cry. The sight of many stars on a subzero night hurts. And love can feel both wonderful and awful.

This is not a bad thing.

As I was nursing myself back, I realized, in the middle of a holding-my-belly moment, that I felt a certain sense of satisfaction.

I had done it. I had really let someone in!!  And although my lesser self protested “Never again!!! This is it!! I have had it!! This stinks!!” I knew that in time, I would again welcome someone in. Maybe a little more cautiously, or a bit more wisely, but I will.

On January 3rd, 2010 I renewed my vow to love again. Amen.

Mie Elmhirst   The Widows Coach

Help for widows.  508-540-4421 for a sample coaching session.

I cleaned out Mike’s underwear drawer two days after the funeral. I stuffed a shopping bag full of the old, the very old, and the new. No tee shirts, no socks, just underwear. I did it in secret, afraid of my relative’s gaze. Maybe they would think I was glad the fight was over?

I was not.  But I was tired of cancer and the control it exerted over our household. Thinking that unloading underwear would sooth my heart, I threw the bag into the back seat and made for the dump. Of course, it changed nothing.

Two months later it was his suits.  In the parking lot of the thrift store I gathered an armful, shoving my face deep into what he had left behind. And there he was, ready for work, standing beside his Subaru, briefcase in hand, with his trademark grin of anticipation. He waved and I wept.

I saved his wedding suit. Anneke uses it when she needs it for a play.

It took a year for me to go through his personal papers. In our bedroom, I sat on the floor, surrounded by piles. There I was, in the epicenter of his life, but without permission.

There was a lot from his early years, years that hadn’t include me. What would he have thought about me handling these papers?

I was jealous that others had had him longer than me, that they had had a healthy Mike. I didn’t like that I was jealous.

I saved those early papers. They say when you don’t know what to do, do nothing. So I did nothing. His divorce decree, photographs and mementos now lie tucked away in the back of the attic, waiting for me to decide where they will go, if anywhere.

We knew each other for twelve short years.

How was it possible that he was here for all of those years, and then suddenly he was not?

I kept papers that felt like he had breathed on them. Little scribbles, reminders, emails or letters that would tell Anneke more of who he was when she was ready to hear.

Two years later I found his belt. His ugly, weekend belt. I think it came from his first marriage. At least I would like to think so. Circa 1969. A gift from his ex-wife perhaps. It was a fat belt, well worn, suede with curled edges…a hippy-wannabe belt.

I never told him, in all those years, what I thought of this belt. There are certain things you just don’t do. You might think that I would be glad to finally get rid of it, but I wasn’t. I tucked it behind my sweaters.

So now, nine years later, I am again face-to-face with his five-ounce can of Porcupine Peckers. I kid you not. This can of miniature sausages (presumably) masquerading as porcupine peckers landed on our scene sometime around 1995. Now, so many years after purchase, it bulges from both ends and I am sure some horrible bacteria would invade our home if I were to open it. I think it was a gift from his Yooper brother. Or maybe he bought it. Anyhow, I thought it had been disposed of years ago but it showed up shortly after he died and it has been moved from room to room and drawer to drawer ever since.

Why can’t I get rid of this thing? It’s positively embarrassing, this relic, and yet every time I stand poised about the kitchen trashcan, ready to drop it in, I instead raise my arm and stick it back into the basket sitting on top of the refrigerator. It is there now. I cannot say when I will finally be done with it. Hopefully soon.

Pretty much now, my house is my house, not our house. Early on I thought that I would have to move to make the transition from ours to mine. Fifteen paint jobs later, many rearrangements of furniture, the evolution of time and a bit of dating, the house is finally mine.

I have a short list of articles that continue to hang around. I am pretty much OK with this random group.

1. A Diaper pin he used for my stepdaughter Carrie who is now 35 years old. I will give it to her when her first child is born.
2. A gold stay that he used in his dress shirts.
3. His one-year sobriety medallion.
4. His ten-year sobriety medallion.
5. Four pieces of Roseville pottery.
6. His Grandma Leelee’s coffee table.
7. His Grandma Leelee’s music cabinet.
8. One 5-ounce can of Porcupine peckers.

Mie Elmhirst.

The Widows Coach

Help for Widows

Call 508-540-4421 for a sample session.