Widows Support, Coaching for Widows

Last night it was cold and damp here on Cape Cod so I lit a fire in the fireplace and invited Anneke, my 15 year-old to join me. She had her laptop and I had mine. She did her homework and I did mine. It was quiet and lovely and I felt gratitude. I have come to a place of deep peace since my husband died. It took years and a lot of help.

But, every once in a while I forget that my daughter is 15, and I assume she grieves as I do. I forget how profoundly different it is to lose a father than it is to lose a husband.

When Mike died we lost our footing. Nothing made sense. I remember feeling as if I were caught up in a vortex and I wondered when we would fall and if we would land on our feet or if we would land, broken into little pieces.

Anneke grieved, because she was 7, in short, deep spurts, bereft one moment and playing happily with her friends the next. She was a child, and because children grieve so differently, she seemed to roll with it better than I did.

Although I could count on regular meltdowns from Anneke, especially after the rare occasion when I needed to resort to discipline, these meltdowns were brief.

I would go something like this…

Me, (after a minor transgression).  “Honey you need to go to your room for a little while and think about what you did (or said)…”
Anneke. “I waaaaant myyyyyy daaaaaddyyyyyy……”

It wasn’t simply that she was a manipulator and knew how to get me to soften.

We had been a three-person-household, instead of now two, and discipline from one parent always meant that Anneke had the other parent to lend support and balance.  I was the stricter of the two parents and Mike’s laid-back attitude was a wonderful stabilizing force for us. We relied on him for this. His absence was deeply felt by Anneke when she and I did not see eye-to-eye.

Now, eight years have come and gone since Mike died. Anneke and I see eye-to-eye more often than not. She has now known more years without him than she knew with him. Anneke has matured into a gorgeous, articulate, balanced young woman. I have no question that Mike continues to have a strong hand in her up bringing.

I want to put a period on this story. A period that goes something like this.

“I am in a good place, I am dating, I love my life (finally, due to some really good coaching), I am taking voice lessons, I have learned how to dance, I have a good job, I know that I will meet my special someone at some point and I have no big worries. Therefore, Anneke is fine also. Period.”

But that is not how it works. Yes, I am fine.

But last night, I got up from the fire and went to get ready for bed. After an hour or so, I called downstairs to say goodnight. Anneke’s response was a somewhat muffled “goodnight” so I knew something was up and I went downstairs to investigate.

Anneke’s grief continues in a way that mine does not. The man in her life who was supposed to tell her that she is a princess, that she is beautiful, that he is so proud of her musical performances that he might burst, and that she can do anything she wants to do, is gone. The man who was supposed to teach her about boys, to tell her that she is a desirable young woman and who was supposed to interrogate nervous young men as they came to pick her up for a date, is gone.

But her need for him continues. In fact, her need for him is greater now, perhaps, than when she was seven.

For teens, the missing of a parent seems in some ways to get harder. As the years pass, the events in their lives increase in significance and his absence becomes more profound.  But even as this is true, the world around these teens assumes they miss him less, that they are done with their grief.

My daughter, as many teens do, has a smile on her face most of the time. She would be described by anyone as happy, upbeat and positive.

But at night, when alone in front of the fireplace, she grieves. And there is nothing I can do. My job as a parent is NOT to hug those tears away, not to shove tissues in her face, not to make her feel better as I so want to do.

My job is to be with her if she wants me. To cry with her if I have to, but mostly to witness her. To witness and respect her need to grieve, even eight years later. And to let her know that this is just the process, that this will not be the last time she cries, that it will happen again, and that between tears she can and will live a full, remarkable life. My job is to teach her to not fear but rather accept her continued sadness.

I try hard not to be afraid of my daughter’s pain. Like all widowed parents, I don’t want her to have any. None. But he died, and she does have pain. My consolation is in knowing that at her tender age, she is learning a lesson that took me 47 years to learn; that no matter how hard she cries, she will laugh again.

Mie Elmhirst. The widow’s coach. Coaching, Support and Help for Widows.

Please visit www.widowsbreathe.com or click on ‘contact’ for more information about one-on-one coaching or call 508-540-4421.

I had a lovely holiday this year. Nothing really big happened. Anneke and I baked bread, we told each other silly stories about what presents the other was getting, we made soup, went to a movie, hugged a lot and we celebrated our family. Our very small family. We were enough. I had enormous gratitude as I remembered where we were eight and nine years ago, when we were trying to keep our heads above water as we watched our husband/father die, and then as we struggled to learn how to live without him.

But of course, in the midst of all this peace and gratitude, I found myself thinking some disquieting and uninvited thoughts. Similar thoughts have come and gone during the past eight years and to be honest they have finally begun to irritate me.

These unwelcome thoughts are similar to what a 6-year old might think when, after her mother has said ‘no’ to more cookies, she sneaks back to the cookie tin to get yet another and then worries, “Does Mom know?  Does she see me? What does she think?”

As smart and as worldly as I would like to believe I am, when I step out of my self-made box and do something out of character, or spontaneous, or maybe a bit daring, my thinking becomes that of a six year old. But instead of worrying about my mother, my thoughts are about Mike.

“Does he see me? Does he know about ______? What does he think about _____? Or, I hope he is not mad about _____.”

“______” could be anything. It could be about how I discipline our daughter, how I rearrange furniture, how much money I spend on a pair lowish rise jeans, or about the fact that I finally threw away that stupid, stupid can of sausages labeled Porcupine Peckers. (I kid you not, my dear sweet brilliant husband thought it was funny! Had to be a boy thing…)

Of course, if I were to be honest, what I really want to know is what he thinks about how I have ‘done’ widow, and especially my love life.

• What does he think about the fact that I joined match.com?
• What does he think about the various men (especially that motorcycle dude) who asked me out and the fact that I said ‘yes’ to a few of them?
• That I had love again and gave it up?
• And what does he think about the fact that I have a bigger libido now than when we were married? Does he feel gypped?

WHAT DOES HE THINK?????

Why oh why do I still care about his opinion?  (As if he has one…) He is not even here any more, right? Am I afraid at any moment he will yell down at me “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing, woman???”

Sometimes I think I care because I have this tiny but powerful belief tucked way back in my brain that says that we, Mike and I, were in it together, and now that he is gone it is my responsibility to carry on for the BOTH of us. Most of the time I don’t believe this, but sometimes I do. Most of the time I know that it is my job to live my life rather than the life he did not get to have.

The question “what does Mike think” is tiring because there is no answer that could satisfy. There are only guesses. I can only guess and hope that he is happy with me and with the life I have created. If he is in fact there…

But there is another question. A much more important question. It is this.

If Mike could want something for me, if Mike does want something for me, what is it?

I know the answer to this because I knew my husband’s heart.

Mike would want me to be joyously happy.
He would want me to understand and forgive the mistakes I made before and after he died. And the mistakes I keep on making. My growing pains mistakes.
He would want me to give myself credit for trying to do the right thing. Rather than want credit from him.
Mike would want me, if I had to pay too much money for low-rise jeans, to have fun with them.
He would want me, if I had to date a biker, to have a heck of a time.
Mike would want me to stop worrying about what he thinks.

Above all, Mike would want for me what I want. Mike would want me to deal with my grief, to honor my burning need to grow, to experience and to love. He would want me to celebrate myself every time I get on the stage to speak, and to celebrate every article I write. He might be proud; but more than that, he would want me to be proud. Proud not only of how our daughter has grown up, but of how I have grown up. For I have grown up.

We have a second chance, those of us who are widowed.  A second chance to grow and develop those parts of ourselves that did not grow and develop in our marriages. It will be scary, and we may wonder what he thinks. But in the end, what really matters is what we think.

Please visit www.widowsbreathe.com or click on ‘contact’ for more information about one-on-one coaching or call 508-540-4421.

Mie Elmhirst, Help for Widows

The Widow’s Coach, The Grief Coach

What was really wonderful about your husband?  What were those qualities that brought out the best in you? What was it about him that attracted you in the first place? What was it about your union that really worked? What was it that made you say, way back when, “This is the man for me”?

It took me a while to remember what it had been like in the early stages of my relationship with my husband. This is because cancer showed up two months before we were married and most of the 10 years of our marriage were snatched up by surgeries, chemotherapies, and other treatments so bizarre and painful that the fact that he agreed to them speaks to his great love of life.

(Interestingly, his buoyant personality did not change as he navigated these various treatments. He remained always positive and hopeful.  My personality, however, was not so lovely. I became ultra-serious, and mildly-to-not-so-mildly, neurotic. I was scared to death and compensated by trying to make life perfect. But, this is a topic for later.)

With the help of photos and my daughter’s elephant-like memory I have been able to recall those early years. I was surprised to remember that he actually had hair! And I remember when we climbed mountains we could go for hours not speaking, enjoying the smells of the damp earth and wet leaves, the sound of the wind whistling in the trees, and the breathtaking views. I remember how we loved the fact that the two of us were together, alone in the woods, in the quiet, doing what we loved the most.

I remember, 8  years later, how he smelled. I remember the way that he put those little stays that I thought were so weird in the collars of his dress shirts, and how he got on his knees every night to thank  God for the day. And I remember waving him off to work in the morning thinking what a handsome man he really was.

Yes, I can remember some really good stuff.

Spend some time remembering for yourself. It is important to do this.

Here are the next questions. Not so much fun, but equally important to answer.

What was difficult about your relationship? What were the challenges? What drove you crazy?  What was not so wonderful about your marriage? What was it that made you look at other marriages and wonder if they had the same issue(s)?

My biggest challenge was myself. When Mike got sick, I took on the role of emotional caregiver. He did not ask me to do this. How I had been raised, our societal values, my lack of self-esteem and my fear of losing him conspired  together to thrust me into this role. As emotional caregiver I put his needs above mine for the whole of our marriage. I did this so successfully that it seemed at times, that he forgot I had any needs at all. I am not blaming, I am simply stating what was.

So, just in case you think that I have sanctified my late husband – think again.  Mike was no angel. For one thing, he had a way of poking fun that made me crazy. And he could not understand my sensitivity. This was a frequent topic of heated conversation. Yes, we had our challenges, both because of who he was, and because of who I was.

Why is it necessary for a widow to look back, especially if it is painful to do so? Am I suggesting this simply for the sake of airing dirty laundry? Why must we who are left behind acknowledge anything that wasn’t positive?

There are many reasons – but the most important are the following:

We must understand our challenges, our tendencies, so that when we are again in relationship we will be ready respond to our new situations rather than react to them because of old unhealed wounds. If we don’t acknowledge the truth about the past we will be owned by it. And therefore, bound to repeat it.

And, if there is pain that we don’t acknowledge, it affect us. Just because it is not addressed doesn’t mean it isn’t there, festering.

I am pretty sure that I have found my new special someone. As I type those words I feel excited, and scared and happy. But most of all I feel very secure in the fact that I have done the work. This new relationship is not just a fix it. I am not in it in order to chase away loneliness. It is not a Band-Aid for pain. It is healthy and it the product of a good amount of self-exploration and acknowledgment of what I had and did that worked and what I had and did that did not work.

I have had to learn to ask for help. I have had to learn to speak up. I now can say things like “no, that won’t work for me”, or “when you said such-and-such I felt badly”. Or,  “will you take Anneke and I out for dinner Friday? It has been a really hard week.”

To move forward we need to stay in reality. To look at the whole picture, rather than just the convenient, easy, fun part. If we are grounded in the whole truth, we are then available to share our lives with a special someone, if that is what we want.

Closure happens when we are at peace with our memories, the good memories and the not-so-good memories. Closure is when we are willing to acknowledge the whole picture; that he was a very real human being, a mixed bag, and that he was capable of making us happier than we thought we had a right to be, and he was also capable of disappointing and hurting us. Just as we were capable of disappointing and hurting him. Closure happens after we have done the work, and usually when we are not looking. It is that very quiet moment when we are finally at peace with what was and are capable of looking ahead with a sense of anticipation.

We are then free to love once again.

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

Mie Elmhirst, The Widow’s Coach

Early widowhood was really the first time in my life that I gave myself permission to just let it all hang out, to stop worrying about what everyone else thought.

I gave myself permission for two reasons; the first was that even if I hadn’t given myself permission I would have blubbered all over the place anyway, so why not just make it OK.

The second reason was that I knew deep inside, if I tried to hold in my tears to prevent either others or myself from feeling bad, the opposite would happen. I would feel worse. Healing cannot be sped up but it most assuredly can be slowed. And this was one experience I did not want to slow.

So, I cried and I cried and I cried. I thought I would never stop. I cried at the grocery store, the lumber store, and the dog groomer, with my neighbors, my daughters principal, and the dishwasher fix-it man. I cried everywhere and with anyone. There were many days when I applied and re-applied my make up at least five times before lunch. Eventually, I just gave up and looked bad.
Who cared?

My coach assured me that every tear I shed was one less tear I would need to shed in the future so I welcomed them all.  My tears gave my daughter Anneke permission to do the same. She was seven years old, so her grieving was done in short, 2-3 minute segments, but grieve she did. The second reason was that I knew deep inside, if I tried to hold in my tears to prevent either others or myself from feeling bad, the opposite would happen. I would feel worse. Healing cannot be sped up but it most assuredly can be slowed. And this was one experience I did not want to slow.

One day, her best friend Timmy followed her into the house right after I had had my 10:00 AM melt down. He looked at me, horrified, as I lay flopped on the couch, in my nightgown, eyes read and swollen, copious amounts of snot coming out of my nose; at least 20 used Kleenex at my feet. Yes, grief is messy. Messy in every way.

Anneke, having seen much worse from me, said to her young friend, “Oh, don’t worry, that’s just my mom crying about my Dad. Wanna make a tent under the table?”

I mean really. What’s not to love? Anneke did her grieving in the early evenings, in my arms, when she was secure in the fact that I could be present to her tears, not lost in mine.

I was sure, in the very beginning, that someone/something must have invented the 10:00 PM – 2:00 AM hours as a special torture for new widows. I was my most hopeless late at night and I prayed for early mornings and a coffee machine that worked. Caffeine, (only one cup but I drank it in minutes like a full-blown addict) helped me forget the terrors of the night before and look on the new day with less fear, forgetting momentarily that 10:00 PM would come again, as it did every night. The daytime hours were not easy either but Anneke, my work, meditation (and Oprah!) gave me enough structure to make it through one day at a time until eventually I could see the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel and realize that joy was again going to be a daily companion.

If you are a new widow, keep in mind that it ALL PASSES. Eventually you will feel better.

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

Mie Elmhirst, The Widow’s 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