Widows Support, Coaching 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

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.

OK, this may gross you out, but by now you know that I am all about the truth.

So, the truth is that I have rats. Or, more accurately, I had rats. Not those cute little rats that they sell at PETCO; my rats were honest-to-goodness, huge, long-tailed, beady-eyed rats, probably immigrants from the restaurant dumpsters downtown.

Rats #1 and #2 made themselves quite at home under my bird feeder, eating food that was meant for finches, sparrows, and morning doves and not, needless to say, rodents.

You may ask, how this could be connected to widowhood?

When I was married, I would not have given these rats a second thought. I would have reported the situation to Mike, and my thoughts about these scary, possibly disease-infected rodents would have ceased. Mike would have taken it from there and somehow the rats would have been history. Job well done.

I have come to believe that there are girl responsibilities and boy responsibilities, and rats most assuredly are boy responsibilities.

I began widowhood afraid. I was afraid that I would fail as a single parent, afraid that I would fail as a single homemaker and really afraid that I would fail as a single home maintainer. Plumbing, electricity and roofing never interested me and until widowhood, hardly mattered. But gradually, issues presented themselves, (leaks, no heat, water in the fireplace, flooded basement etc) and I took them on, successfully, one by one.

In fact, there were a few years after Mike died when I began to feel powerful in my approach to life.  From fearful widow, I grew into someone who could take care of pretty much anything. I asked many people for lots of advice, and then took that advice home and solved each issue exactly how I pleased, reveling in my newly earned decision-making freedom.

Now, almost nine years later, there is again a man in my life. His name is Patrick. I reported my rats to Patrick, and although his first response was “Cool…get a bb gun!” (Really ladies…are all men like this? Making sport of absolutely Everything??) Anyhow, he stepped in quite wonderfully and took care of rat #1. Which was not at all pleasant because rat #1 had died under the deck and was attracting all kinds of flies and the deck hadn’t been lifted up in over 15 years. Gross. Patrick, my hero.

(About Rat #2… He seems to have left for better fields, either because I cut off his food supply, or, being no dumb rat, he saw the writing on the wall. Either way, he is gone.)

My point is that as widows we are saddled with new responsibilities, some quite masculine in the traditional sense. The trick is to hold onto our female-ness, what is essentially us, our empathy and compassion, and our talents for relationship and community building and then to grow those parts of us that are strong and practical, those parts of us that we might not have needed to exercise when we were married.

I know more about furnaces, chimneys, wood stoves, water heaters and toilets than I ever planned on knowing. That is just the way of the widow. On the other hand, I also feel strong and capable with all this information.

And when, armed with all this knowledge and information, we eventually are ready for love, and love comes knocking, we must learn again to be inclusive and to again, let go.

Really, I could have taken care of rat #1 by myself…as gross as he or she  was. But it seems to me that there is something extremely warm and loving about asking for help. When I asked Patrick to help I really did feel my heart get bigger. As if I was opening up to love just a little more. And when Patrick took care of #1, he felt good about doing this for me.

Can it be that disposing of a rat is romantic? Is it possible that taking care of a backyard rodents can bring two people closer?  Apparently so. For some women, romance is a candle lit dinner, for me it was rat duty. Go figure. It has to do with give and take. The beauty of being able to include someone and then being willing to receive, even if we could have done it ourselves.

Blessings, Mie Elmhirst   Help for Widows.

The widows coach…

Call for a sample session, 508-540-4421

Last Saturday I woke up to a CNN report about  Camp Lejeune in North Carolina and about how the marines stationed there between the late 60’s and 1980 have an unusually high rate of breast cancer – exponentially higher than in the general population – most likely due to the contamination of the drinking water by trichloroethylene, more commonly known as TCE. (Solvents typically used for cleaning).

Mike was stationed there, and as many of you know, he died of breast cancer.

Most of these men have no history of breast cancer in their families. Breast cancer in men is usually diagnosed when they are in their 60s. The men from Camp Lejeune were in their 30s and 40s when diagnosed. The Marine Corps steadfastly denies a connection between these men and the dumping of TCEs. To do so would mean that they would need to provide health care. So the men who served their country faithfully are denied health care for themselves and their families. What a shame.

Anneke and I both went into a little tail-spin this past week. After being in conversation with the CNN reporter covering this story, (Are you SURE Mike had no family history? He was only 40 when diagnosed?) I slowly began to understand what I had denied for so long…that Mike would be alive today were it not for his early military experience.  Essentially, his military experience cut his life short, similar to the men who gave their lives in active duty over seas.

But in Mike’s case, and for these many other men and affected families, there is no acknowledgment of their sacrifice.

After a week of feeling particularly low, I am now better.

Anneke, however,  is not so fine and her wound has been pried a little wider open with this latest news. “It is like he was hit by a drunk driver Mom, but the drunk driver is the government and they are not saying they are sorry.”

No, Anneke, they are not. Not yet.

But there is a group of determined men who are leading the cause, anxious to be heard. And CNN has committed to seeing this story through.

In the meantime,  I will love Anneke and understand that although the world is not always a fair place, in my small way I do get to change the world.

I change the world  when I look at Anneke and acknowledge her beauty even though she has sweat pants on with three different shades of house paint and they are too short and her hair is one big tangle. (OK, I did tell her to change her pants before going away this weekend but I saw the error of my ways and next time I promise I will keep my mouth shut!)

I change the world when I am nice to the telemarketer (OK, I confess,  last night I just hung up).

I change the world when I bring soup to the the cranky lady across the street or when I listen for over 20 minutes while Anneke relates her latest fantastical dream. No kidding – she has the longest dreams I have ever heard.

We all change the world every time we take an action that is right and loving and good.

So. Rather than pretending to be Pollyanna, I do my best when I get scared or angry, to remind myself that I can change the world, that what I do does have meaning, and that the world can feel safe once again.

Blessings, Mie Elmhirst   The Widows Coach

Please call 508-540-4421 for a sample coaching session…

It was true. The skin on my face was dry and it seemed to have turned a permanent, dull shade of gray. Every morning I put on makeup, hoping that this would be the day that it would last beyond 7 AM. It never did. My eyes were dark and puffy. My eye lids hurt to touch.

I lost ten pounds that I could not afford to lose, and it seemed that most of those pounds were lost from my chest. My breasts. Over a period of what seemed like just a few months, they morphed from wider than long, to longer than wide. Why they shrunk at that particular time was a mystery to me but it certainly assured that I wasn’t getting naked with anyone anytime soon. My mouth developed a permanent downturn. I hardly bothered with my hair and it showed.

I looked like a 47 year-old version of the Little Match Girl. I was not what anyone would call attractive. If I happened to pass my living room mirror and also happened to glance at my reflection, always a mistake, I was each time shocked anew. Who was that woman and what in God’s name happened to her?

I felt sure with all the tears I shed, that eventually, maybe by the time I was 60, I would be shriveled up completely, prune-like, rocking in some rocking chair, probably in someone’s attic, wearing black lace-up boots, a black skirt, a black cape and bonnet. Probably knitting. And muttering to myself about the old days. The days when I felt like a woman. The days when Mike was alive.

Yep, they would say, The Widda Elmhirst, poor thing, she just went and dried up. Got old before her time.

The neighbors would bring their young children by on Halloween for a viewing, and the little ones would run, screaming, when I snarled…Leave me alone, ya brats!

It was difficult to believe, when I was in the throes of grief, that there would come a time when I would eventually feel good. It was impossible to believe that there would eventually come a time when I would feel really good. How could that happen if Mike were still gone?

I was pretty sure that real transformations were reserved for Oprah’s guests. I studied the Oprah show. Who were these people who faced adversity and survived? Were they more special than me? Better than me? Smarter than me? Prettier than me? Richer than me? All of the above?

Or, might I be one of them, coming through my own personal tragedy a better person?

Well, I have no idea if I am a better person. That is for others to judge. But I do feel good. My complexion is back to normal, I put the ten pounds back on, although they did not all go back where they came from. (Where is the justice in that?) My mouth is back to normal, usually turned up and the mirror is no longer my enemy. I am not in someone’s attic, being whispered about and little children are not afraid of me. Usually, that is.

Mie Elmhirst     The Widows Coach

If you are a widow, call for a free sample coaching session call 508-540-4421!

The first three Tuesdays of the month…6-7 PM EST

Widows Checking-In Tele-Group.

Support for change, communication, and FUN!

• How much: $150 per month.
• When: Tuesdays 6 -7 PM EST, The first 3 Tuesdays of each month, Oct-Dec 09.
• How: I will set up a free conference line. You will get the number when you register by emailing me at mie@widowsbreathe.com.
• Who: The first four people who contact me.

As a member of the group:

1. You will get to be with like-minded women who know, hope, or believe that widowhood is not only an ending. It might also be the beginning of something. Something really good.
2. You will learn from others.
3. You will come out of isolation.
4. You will learn and grow and gradually step even further out of your comfort zone than you already have, in service of your future.

This is how it will work.

Each group will have up to 4 women. We will meet 3 times a month as a group, for one hour on the phone. The call will consist of a check-in for each person, (how you are doing) and a plan/goal for the up-coming week. The content of these calls will depend on the participants. I will coach when needed, when participants are stuck, overloaded or overwhelmed. The commitment will be for 3 months.

All participants will be widows of under three years. (If I hear from enough widows of over three years, we will just form another group. Goodness knows, grieving issues don’t just evaporate after three years.)

Confidentiality is key. Participants will have the freedom to be honest knowing that their confidentiality will be respected. (And, BT Dubs, as my 16 years old would say, we will have fun.)

For more information, call 508-540-4421. I will be very happy chat with you.

Mie Elmhirst

Widows Breathe Coaching

My father is almost 87 years old. We have become close the last few years. I understand him in new ways. He lives about a mile away and I see him at least twice a week. Sometimes he makes me nuts, like when he tries to shovel the driveway before I get there or when he decides to do the laundry in the middle of the night. But mostly I just enjoy him even though he is now profoundly deaf and every conversation is 50 decibels higher than I would usually speak.

Me.   Hi Dad. How are you?

Dad.  WHAT?

Me.   HI DAD. HOW ARE YOU?

Dad.  SPEAK CLEARLY MIE. WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?

Me.   HI! DAD! HOW! ARE! YOU!

Dad.  Oh. Why didn’t you say so? I’m fine. Yes, I’m fine.

Conversations are limited these days, and unless his hearing aides have been put in properly, rather basic. We use email for complicated communications.

My father moved to my town after Mike died, ostensibly to take care of me. I am independent and I resist being taken care of and I pretty much knew that I would be the one taking care of him. However, his concern for me has been comforting. I know he is there, a five-minute drive away, and it is important for all of us to know we are loved.

And, I am afraid. I am afraid because I know that the day is coming, sometime within the next 10 years most likely, when I will need to say good-bye to him. Yesterday I held my breath as he climbed the ten or so stairs into his house, refusing to use the railing, just to prove to me that he is “fine”. He leans precariously to one side and it took tremendous discipline for me not to yell “I KNOW you are fine Dad, but just for me would you PLEASE hold onto the darn banister?”

I know, I know…live in the moment. I can just hear all of my chanting, new agey, very smart friends tsk-tsking me as I do everything but live in the moment.

I remember how long it took for me to heal after my mother died and then longer after Mike died. I feel really good these days, and although I can hear how selfish I sound, I just don’t want to grieve anybody ever again.

Maybe the answer is Fairy Dust. Yes, Fairy Dust. Take one sprinkle daily with food…and say good-bye to any feeling that you don’t want to feel!

Now really, I know that the reason I feel so good these days is that I was willing to feel so bad.

You just don’t get the good without feeling the bad. And how absolutely boring this world would be without challenges. It is too bad about that, but it is true.  As bad as we are willing to feel, that is as good as we get to feel when the time comes.

So I will appreciate each day I have with my father.

Especially knowing that our time is limited.

Mie Elmhirst   The Widows Coach

For a sample coaching session  call 508-540-4421 or click “contact’.

Surviving Early Widowhood

There is a lot of advice out there for new widows, some useful and some not. Much of it is common sense.

And some of it is counter intuitive.

The most helpful thing anyone said to me was from my coach, who said, “Stop trying to get better, and stop trying to be better.” Stop trying so darn hard.

I was a worker. I still am. At times in my life this really paid off. I worked hard at my education, and I worked hard at making a good safe home. As safe as a home can be when cancer has made an entrance. I worked hard at motherhood.

So I tried to work hard at recovering from the loss of my husband. I tried so hard. But the harder I tried, it seemed the “behinder I got”. It was exhausting.

I was instructed to do the one thing I wanted no part of – to simply be. To let grief have its way with me, to stop fighting, and to stop trying to be a good widow. My job was to “be with my grief” for as long as it needed me to be with it.

The phrase “what we resist persists” was true about me. The more I worked at feeling good the worse I felt. When I stopped working so hard, and was willing to be IN my grief, when I  stopped trying to chase it away, that was when I finally began to get a little relief.

What are you resisting? What do you just need to “be with”? Could you use support?

Blessings, Mie

The Widows Coach

For a sample coaching session call me at 508-540-4421.

Yep – there I was, at the steering thingy, or tiller, or rudder? Anyhow we were getting ready to park the boat. I mean moor it or anchor it or whatever it was that we were doing.

And, it finally happened. Our first fight. On the boat. Our first honest-to-goodness fight. He told me to do something, and I didn’t do it. Yikes.

After it was over, and we had both listened, (at least I think I listened), I said to him “Wasn’t that great? We had our first fight!”

He looked at me like I was from Neptune, rolled his eyes, shook his head.

My man has no idea what a real, fair, argument means to me, an argument where we don’t injure each other, an argument during which we get mad, state our case, talk and listen. As far as I am concerned, it is OK that he doesn’t know. But I know.

This is how it really went.

He was wrong and I was right. (Of course!)

OK, OK, maybe that doesn’t tell the whole story.

We were on the boat and…. for those of who whose husband had a boat, I am sure you already know the story… a man and his boat, and all…

Before we even went on this trip he promised “what ever goes wrong on the boat, I promise right now it is not your fault. No matter what I say when it happens.” Hmmmm.
So you know already he has a certain amount of self-awareness. And he understands that on his boat he is a changed man.

Anyhow something did happen, a mis-communication under during a state of duress, and he got mad…and we had our fight. (I swear you don’t really know a man until his boat breaks down in the middle of the Pacific.) (OK, maybe it was not the middle of the Pacific, maybe it was 30 minutes from shore, but for this landlubber it might as well have been half way to Japan.)

Now deep down, I am a make-love-not-war kind of person. I will do anything to keep the peace. Or at least that used to be me. I didn’t fight when I was married because Mike was trying to stay alive and to argue with him felt like hitting a man when he was down.

This time, however, he is not sick and I am willing. Willing to really get to know someone, even the not-so-fun stuff and I am willing to be seen. Even the icky parts.

So, sometimes, I wish I had done it differently in my marriage…I wish that I had dug in with Mike and fought just a little. I wish that I had been willing to risk more for the sake of intimacy. But I also understand why I didn’t.

I was at Quaker Meeting about six months ago and an elder spoke about her belief that our loved ones continue to mature after they die just like we do here on earth. I would like to think that this is true and that as I grow in understanding and compassion for Mike and I, and our marriage, so does he. I feel, somehow, that this might be true.

It has been almost 9 years and strange as it sounds even to me, I feel even closer to Mike now than I did right after he died, like he might be loving me and cheering me on as I learn the lessons I missed with him.

Mie Elmhirst

The Widows Coach

If you are a widow or widower please call 508-540-4421 for a sample (free) coaching session