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

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.

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

Well, I am having another good hair day today, and some days, that is just what you have. Good hair. I am grateful.

I am polyurethaning my floors, repairing the damage done by our now deceased and well-loved poodle Deboney, (We are getting a puppy!) and I inadvertently, of course, polyurethaned my pocketbook into my bedroom. At 6 AM. The only way to retrieve it was to polyurethane the bottoms of my feet and I was not interested.

So I drove Anneke to school without my license or coffee money. I had to beg for credit at the coffee shop which they graciously tendered. This makes good sense because I have most certainly drunk at least one ocean of Coffee Obsession coffee since Mike died. (Back then, solo morning coffee was just too hard and I moved my ritual to the shop, making friends in the process. All in all it was a good deal.) (Did I mention we are getting a puppy?)

What is really on my mind today is that my friend Beth’s partner died last week and I also just found out that my dentist, for whom I happen to care a great deal, was diagnosed with ALS.

I am in my fifties and it just seems too early for so much of this sort of thing. My heart says stop, stop…I don’t want to hear any more. Like when I was a little kid and my brother teased and I put my hands over my years and yelled “la la la la”. That is what I feel like doing now. I just don’t want to hear it. I have been there and I know what is in store for their loved ones.

Professionally, I am fine. I put on my work hat, and I work with widows and we laugh and we cry and they make strides. I love my work. I love being helpful. I love being good at what I do.

But when it strikes close to home, I resist. It seems to me, having been through the loss of my husband, that I would be good at this. After all I am a coach for widows. And in fact my community looks to me as the expert. But I lose most of my hard earned perspective when it is a personal connection and what I feel is pain and I don’t like it. I may need a coach.

And, did I mention that we are getting a puppy?

Well, we are. We are getting a miniature Australian Labradoodle. And talk about good hair… These small, snuggly, beautifully mannered, sort of calm, puppies have wicked good hair. Way better than mine. Although, I don’t shed either.

http://www.logcabinlabradoodles.com/

The idea of a new dog has been swimming around in my brain for 6 months now and when I found this particular site and kennel and heard that the  male parent of the next litter might be Willie Nelson, (the miniature Australian Labradoodle that is, not the singer) well, it felt preordained. (Mike took me to a Willie Nelson concert in 1999. I had never seen so many tatooes in one place…and then he asked me to play ‘To all the Girls I’ve loved Before”  by Willie and Julio at his funeral. I did.)

So, in the middle of more sadness and fear, we also celebrate. Each night Anneke and I talk about names, or how to gently teach a puppy to sit, or how to clean little puppy ears, or where it will sleep, or should we get the CD that plays tummy noises so that it WILL sleep, a harness for the car or not, and would I Pleeeese consider bringing it to Anneke’s high school when it is old enough so that she can show him or her off, and how do you brush a dog’s teeth? Crest? (Yes, we will need lessons.)

This little ball of fleece hasn’t even been born yet and we are joyfully planning for its college. OK, maybe not college, but puppy school…

The puppy will belong to Anneke, but please, I am not stupid. I know who will be on poop and potty  patrol etc. And, I am quite fine with that. For in a short 2 years, she/he will be mine anyway, when Anneke moves on to bigger and better places than Falmouth Massachusetts, and my empty nest will be a little less empty.

So I think about my dentist and send love and caring to his family, and I will spend some good time with Beth.

And then, I think about Anneke and how she will love having a little puppy to care for and I think about our little puppy and potty training, and I continue to slowly polyurethane the rest of our floors in preparation.

Warmly, Mie Elmhirst

For a sample coaching session, feel free to call me at 508-540-4421.

Mie Elmhirst. Help for Widows. The Widows Coach.

“It is so much more that losing your husband.” This description of widowhood was from my first client  this morning.

“What do you mean, MORE than losing your husband?” you may ask. “Isn’t widowhood about losing him? Your husband? How could it be more than that? ”

Well, losing him is the start of widowhood. It is what makes you a widow, it is why the world calls you a widow, and it is what the world believes you are grieving.

And, you are grieving him.

But a widow grieves a great deal more.

She grieves the changed nature of everything around her. She grieves the fact that the adorable 4 year-old trick-or-treaters will not seem funny this year, the loss of her family Christmas’s as they should have been, the loss of shared cups of coffee, dinners for two, arguments and making up, barbecued steaks, home repairs, financial stability….

The losses are too many to count. And just when a widow thinks she has experienced them all, there is a parent-teacher conference, or a visit to the doctor for a suspicious lump that reminds her once again that the losses keep coming.

A few weeks ago I was helping some friends understand what it was like to lose a spouse. I told them ‘years’ when they asked how long it took to recover.  These very bright, well educated women looked at me in shock.

And really, if I had not experienced it myself, I would have agreed with them “Years? Don’t you think that is just a little self-indulgent?”

Well no, it is not.

What I didn’t tell them was that it took me over five years. FIVE years. Oh, I wasn’t crying for five years, but it took me five years to really let go of Mike and embrace a new future.

This was how it went.

• Year one was horrible.
• Year two was horrible.
• Year three was sometimes horrible and sometimes fun and sometimes just OK.
• Year four was occasionally horrible and mostly OK and sometimes really fun.
• And year five was horrible about three times and for the rest, filled with hope and just regular life. Ups and downs.

So yes, five years.

Because of this a widow needs to give herself lots of time, love, and compassion for the road is long and arduous. And, she must ask for help.

Mie Elmirst, The Widows Coach

For a sample session email Mie@widowsbreathe.com or click ‘contact’

My (rather new) significant other is a geologist. A few months ago, he left (Martha’s Vineyard) for the desert West of Palm Springs CA to do field work. He called me each day, either before he left to do field work in the desert, or after he returned. All was well. I was, and am, bonkers over him. I enjoyed our telephone connection. We were a new couple so the phone calls were a daily surprise and not an expectation. Or so I thought.

One day, after a week of this, he was in the desert working longer that he usual and I did not receive a call. I didn’t know that cell service was not reliable from that location and his call did not make it through.

Mildly concerned, I called his cell at 4 PM with no answer. Then again at 5 PM. Then at 6 PM, 7 PM. You get the picture. (!!!)

By 9 PM I was beside myself. Possessed and Crazed. I was quite sure that something had happened. Death by rattlesnake I figured, or maybe sunburn.

I tried to employ my brain’s executive functions.
9 PM East Coast was 6 PM West Coast. 6 PM is not late. He is fine. He will call in a little while.
And yet, my anxiety continued to escalate.

I called my sister in Connecticut, looking for a calming influence. She said smart things like, “he is probably out of cell range”, and “did you both agree that he would call?” and “isn’t he with a partner?”. Yes it was true, cell connection was tentative in the desert. No, we had no such understanding. And yes, I was pretty sure he was not alone.

She suggested that I go to sleep and call the state police the next morning if I had still not heard from him. This suggestion comforted me enough that I finally went to bed.

Two hours later he called, high from a geological discovery. I shared a little of my anxiety with him, too groggy to go into detail. We said good night and I slept soundly.

As many widows have done, I watched my husband take his last breath in a cold, noisy and impersonal intensive care unit. I was alone. No matter how well I am doing in my life, when my daughter comes home later than expected, or someone I care about is not where I expect him or her to be when I expect them to be there, I get anxious. Still, 8 years later, the possibility of loss seems just around the corner.

I know that this is not logical. I am smart and have two degrees to prove it. (???) But my brain, the brain that watched Mike die, fails me and I become irrationally concerned.

I am sure that gradually, I will grow out of this habit of thinking the worst. In the ICU I learned on a very deep level that really bad things really do happen so it will probably take some time.

In the meantime, I am grateful for the grown ups in my life who are reasonable and can gently remind me that death by rattle snake or sunburn are quite unlikely.

Mie Elmhirst, Widows Coach.  Help for Widows

Widows Breathe Coaching

Please call 508-540-4421 for a sample coaching session or to enroll in the Widows Dating Again Teleclass

Who knew how hard it would be to ask for help? Or, how important it would be? I learned the answers to these questions Christmas of 2000, two weeks after Mike died.

Christmas morning my seven-year-old daughter received from Daddy/Santa a model of a robot-arm. Mike’s idea behind this present was that he and Anneke would make a project of assembling it and in the process, Anneke would learn all sorts of real neat things about screwdrivers, wires and batteries etc. It was to be a bonding experience; they would grow closer, and she would learn those things that I could not teach. Great idea, in theory.

So Mike died and there we were, Anneke and I, with this robot arm. Or rather, the many unrecognizable components of the robot arm. (What had he been he thinking? This gift had not been my idea.) And yet, like most newly single mothers, I desperately wanted to be a good parent to my child, especially now that she had lost her Daddy. I had the somewhat distorted idea that I should now be mother AND father. So this robot arm assembly was something that I should not only tackle, but also complete successfully and triumphantly. Like a man.

On the other hand – I remember looking at the box filled with of what seemed like a million and a half parts and thinking that that there was no way that I was going to be able to pull it off. No Way. And, that this must be some sort of cosmic joke. Payback for all of those little household tasks that Mike had completed and for which I had not been adequately grateful.

But my daughter’s beautiful blue eyes looked up at me, full of both hope and fear. Hope that I could still be her mummy who would be there for her no matter what and fear that I might just dissolve in my tears and disappear in my heartache.

So I mustered my courage and declared that yes, we would indeed put this thing together. Not only would we assemble the robot arm but also the successful completion would serve as proof that we would be OK. It would be a sign. A sign that Anneke and I would not be defeated by the loss of our beloved father and husband. It became a point of honor for both of us – a sort of ‘we against the odds’ that we put it together and do it without outside help. I brought up a large worktable from the basement and put it in the middle of the living room, ready to receive the millions of itty-bitty parts and the book of directions that seemed thicker than the Bible.

Now, Anneke and I had (and still have) very similar temperaments. Prior to this we had not done well on projects we’d attempted together, possibly with the exception of baking Betty Crocker brownies. Hence, our first step was to make some agreements. My hope was that these agreements would insure not only a completed robot but also an intact relationship. The following agreements were taped to the living room wall.

1. This was going to be fun (damn it).
2. We would not ask for help (damn it). (Okay, I left out the ‘damn its’ – she was only seven.)
3. If either one of us was to get hot under the collar, we would both walk away until the next day when we would be calm enough to try again.
4. We would only work on it as a team.

Weeks passed. Between tears and everything else that needed to be dealt with, we found time almost every day for our robot. Seemingly, all went well. The robot was finally completed. It was time to push the buttons and make it do what it was meant to do. Pick up stuff.

Anneke pushed the button. Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. How can this be? “Try again. Push it really hard.” Nothing. “Come on Anneke, REALLY push it.” Lots of quiet. Anneke did not look well. As a matter of fact, she looked scared. We were supposed to be able to do this, and we were supposed to be able to do it without help. If we couldn’t put together a simple a robot arm, how would we make it as a family? Were we doomed?

Finally, and very meekly, “May I call Dan?” I asked. I could tell by Anneke’s expression that she thought this was a very good idea. Dan was our neighbor who could do anything, and I mean anything. I made the call, and he was over inside a minute. He did the troubleshooting for our robot in two minutes, and our robot was picking up stuff in three. Anneke was happier than happy.

My enormous lesson was this. Asking for help did not diminished Anneke’s sense of accomplishment one little bit. Nor mine. This is key. Asking for help does not diminish you. When you ask for help, everything becomes easier, there is less pressure, less fear and shared responsibility. You are not in it alone. For the most part, people are happy to help. They just need to be asked, and they need to be given specific tasks. If you think there is no one to ask, I’ll bet there is. That old fellow down the street you never really spoke to, a teacher at school, the teenager across the way.

Asking for help requires that you let go of what others think of you. Asking for help is a courageous act. Model this for your children. Who knows when they might really need help? The more willing they are to ask for help, the more they will understand their own need to offer help when they are able. They will realize the blessings of giving and receiving. Yes, you may have been brought up to be independent. We live in a pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps country. That does not mean it is necessarily right.

If you are getting offers of help, great. Take all the help you can get. If people are not offering help, don’t wait for them to offer. And don’t bother being mad that they didn’t think to ask. It is a waste of your precious energy. No one knows what you are going through. They don’t understand because they have not had the experience. They can’t understand it. You may not like it, but it is your responsibility to ask for help. Go after it.

Please visit www.widowsbreathe.com or click on ‘contact’ for more information about one-on-one coaching.

Mie Elmhirst, The Widow’ Coach

Time to talk money.

Approximately seven months after my husband died I began in earnest (and unconsciously) to look for something outside of myself to make me feel better.

As in “I will do anything to get rid of this loneliness!” I swear to God I would have eaten nails if I thought it would have made me feel better. I was not alone in this as I was to discover in my coaching practice.

For some, this anything takes the form of overeating or alcohol or a new relationship. For others, it is shopping.

This blog posting is about the treacherous shoals of retail therapy, or “shopping with the primary purpose of improving the buyer’s mood or disposition”. (Wikipedia)

Of course there is nothing wrong with shopping. I have done some of my best mother-daughter bonding in the juniors department at Macy’s. Yet when we overspend, (spend money we don’t have or spend money that is earmarked for something else), or spend for the wrong reasons, the result is not what we might have hoped for. With the exception perhaps of those very few moments immediately before and after the purchase (we all have appreciated this shopper’s high at least once), shopping for the sake of shopping will not make us feel better. The bigger the purchase, the bigger the hole in the wallet and the greater the hole in the soul.

I know this is true. I own a fire-engine-red-fake-suede office chair that is no more reflective of who I am than a leopard print teddie. Yet at that moment, standing in Jordan’s Furniture, all alone and surrounded by the latest in seating, I had to have that chair. And, I was absolutely positive that it would make me a better coach, make me happier, and that it would make me forget that my husband had died.

I have learned to spend consciously. It is not that I don’t have the money – I do. However, when I spend money with the expectation that I will feel better the whole venture backfires and I end up feeling worse. And I end up with just another ‘thing’ to add to my collection of ‘things’.

So.

1. Can I afford it?
2. Can I survive without it?
3. What do I expect to feel after the purchase and is this expectation realistic?
4. In one year will I be happy that I spent my money on this item?

As you can see, I do know what it feels like to want to spend money just for the sake of spending it. And, while I don’t avoid it completely, I have adopted these behaviors:

1. When the mood hits, I head for the dollar store or the Gap, but not Saks Fifth Avenue.
2. I save receipts.
3. I don’t take the tags off for at least a week unless I wear it.

It took me that long to see that the gauze tie-died midi-skirt did not flatter me, regardless of what the sales girl said.

Spending money is not bad. It just doesn’t heal what hurts. How to heal what hurts? Talk. Talk some more. And then again. Talk to the people who can really hear you without making you wrong, or sick, or just plain weird.

Please  click  ‘contact’ for more information about one-on-one coaching.

Mie Elmhirst, The Widow’s Coach. Support for Widows

Why is dating (and I really mean dating, rather than settling in to a long term relationship) so important for a widow? Why shouldn’t she just go and find her second Mr. Right?

Well, think back to when you were sixteen. Or eighteen.

Or better yet – think about your daughters when they were teenagers. Do you remember what you wanted for them? I bet that you were not eager for them to fall in love with the first or second fellow they dated. I bet that you wanted them to take time, to have fun, to experience life, to learn what it was like to date all kinds of boys.

I have a fifteen-year-old daughter – and you had better believe that I want her to experience dating many boys before she latches on to one and settles down. Many. She may think she knows who she is (and most girls do think they are very self-aware) but as a grown up, you have a more mature perspective. You are able to see that she still has a great deal to learn about herself, about men, and about healthy relationship. You understand that she still needs to find herself.

She needs to experiment. She needs to figure out who she is, what kind of boy or man is right for her, and she needs to learn how to hold on to the essence of herself while she is in relationship before she makes any decision or commitment. And the way that she does this is to date around. (Notice that I did NOT say ‘sleep around’.)

The same holds true for you as a widow.

As a widow, you are changed. Everything about you changed the moment your husband died. Everything. What you used to enjoy, you may no longer enjoy. The friends you used had when you were part of a couple may no longer be the people with whom you choose to spend your time. The kind of man you used to find exciting may no longer excite you. Your sensitivities may have changed. Your values may have changed. Even your tastes may have changed.

When my husband died I began to paint my house – and what emerged was a home that was very different from the home that he and I had shared and decorated together. Not better, just different. The changes in my environment reflected the changes that were happening inside me. So in addition to doing the grief work that must be done, you need time to emerge as the new person you are becoming.

It takes a long time to get re-grounded in this new you. The discovery process takes time. This is one of the reasons my clients hire me.

When you are ready to date, (and the process of getting ready to date takes a good deal of time – don’t rush it) see it as a learning process, an experimentation, or an exploration.

Dating allows you to explore. You get to experiment with different activities…(I just went to my first baseball game fully expecting to be bored out of my mind – I was not!). You get to experiment with setting boundaries. (If you don’t want to kiss on the first, second, third, or fourth date – great! Tell him.) You get to experiment with different types of men. The strong silent type, good communicator, wears-his-heart-on-his sleeve, fun-loving, athletic, irreverent, blue collar, professorial, scientific…(my favorite).

Again, widowhood has changed you. So it stands to reason that the type of man you will want to be with has changed, at least a little. When we date we get to see ourselves reflected in the gentleman we choose, and we gradually learn who we are, what matters to us, and then, what kind of man we really want, rather that what kind of man we think we should want.

Eventually, after a significant period of dating and exploration, most women wake up one day and simply declare a moratorium on dating. They understand that they have learned what they needed to learn, and they are now ready for Mr. Right. They are no longer willing to date men simply to explore. When that happens, you will know who you are, who you want, and you will be ready to connect for real. You will be ready for commitment.

Mie Elmhirst. The Widow’s Coach

Please visit www.widowsbreathe.com or click on ‘contact’ for more information about one-on-one coaching.