Widows Support, Coaching for Widows

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

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It is Anneke’s ‘Sweet Sixteen’ today.

On the one hand, I can’t really believe this day has arrived and her father is still gone. Like somehow, at some point he should have walked in the front door and with little fanfare saying “I’m back.” It has been 8 plus years. She has been without him longer than she had him. I should know better by now.

On the other hand, her best friend threw her a surprise birthday last night and it is clear my daughter knows she is loved. Truly loved. Her friends came through in an enormous way and all the way home Anneke smiled and shook her head in disbelief. “Awesome,” she kept saying, “Awesome, just awesome.” Her memory of Sweet Sixteen will be joyous. I am grateful.

As usual, each holiday and special occasion is a mixed bag. We celebrate the moment, and understand who is still missing. But we really do celebrate. Last night was a festive occasion for Anneke and she was all about love and appreciation and happiness. No doubt today she will think about who is missing but it will not dominate.

My gift to her was a car key. Tomorrow she gets her drivers permit. We have done some parking lot practicing to prepare her for the road. I miss her father when I am in the passenger seat. I was not cut out to teach driving. I pray the whole time my right foot is jammed into the floor…“Dear God. Hear my prayer…”

And yet, I must admit, there is a little part of me that is quite happy to teach her driving. We have had some laughs, a few anxious words and I have told Anneke she must stop saying “I know Mom” when I repeat an instruction for the zillionth time. We have had memorable moments that I would not have had if Mike had been here. Like when she mistook the gas for the brake…. (We were in a very big parking lot and I promise you it will not happen again…)

Life goes on. I appreciate every moment and every contribution from friends and family. I appreciated what our children do for each other and how they understand each other. They fill in the blanks, doing what their parents cannot, just because parents are parents.

Our children are in good hands.

Mie Elmhirst, The Widows Coach

Help for Widows

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

Dear Wonderful Widows.

Grieving is a self-centered act. It must be. It requires paying attention to ones own broken heart, taking the time needed to adjust to a very different existence, and learning to live in a changed world. Grieving requires self-care.

This is especially true for widows with children. We eventually find that the only way our children will be OK is if we are OK.
And the only way we will be OK is if we are willing to tend to ourselves.

I had it reversed. I was desperate for Anneke to be OK. In my mind, if she was OK, I was OK.

For those of us who are natural caregivers and who spent years caring for our husbands and our kids first, the transition to caring for ourselves can be rocky and unfamiliar.

Early on, thinking of myself was difficult. When I paid attention to my own heart, I saw how really broken it was. It seemed easier and more natural to focus on my daughter.

I came to see that unless I cared for myself, my efforts at caring for others went bad. I became resentful. I was not used to being resentful and I didn’t like it. I felt bad about it and tried to be different. “Please God make me good,” I asked.

But the harder I tried to be generous and kind and sweet, the more pissed off I became.

I had a friend who needed help when her dog became very sick and subsequently died. I thought I was happy to help. And at first, I really was. But my giving quickly deteriorated into “It’s a DOG for crying out loud…what about me?”

Because I wasn’t caring for myself, I couldn’t be there for her. I just couldn’t. My resentment grew, my shame at my resentment grew, and I soon had nothing left to give, nothing at all.

I learned (and occasionally I still have to re-learn this…) that resentment is ALWAYS a sign that I have unmet needs. My need might be a relationship need, a quiet-time need, a downtime need, a social need, a financial need, sometimes even a need for nourishment. When I try to be there for Anneke, (transporting, conversation, shopping etc) and have not taken care of my most basic need of good solid nutrition, I become crabby. It is that simple.

So, at the ripe old age of 55, I am still learning about self-care. But there is an unexpected pay off. As I demonstrate self-care, my daughter learns to care for her needs. And as she is beginning the process of leaving home, I feel comforted in knowing she will have the tools needed to make it out there in the world.

Are you taking good care of yourself?

Mie Elmhirst. The Widows Coach

Help for Widows

Call 508-540-4421 or email Mie Elmhirst at mie@widowsbtreathe.com for a sample coaching session.

Sometime after Mike’s funeral, someone put a book into my hand. The book was Ruthless Trust by Brennan Manning.

Although I did not get past chapter one, (I was unable to concentrate long enough to read much at all and I am pretty sure I have a different spiritual leaning than the author), the title spoke to me. It still speaks to me, almost nine years later when life happens differently than I think it should.

I carried this book with me for a good six months way back then because I needed the reminder of the title.

I needed to be reminded to trust. To trust ruthlessly.

Webster defines ruthless as ‘without compassion.’

Trust without compassion. Trust without thought. Trust on autopilot. Trust, no matter what. Trust, no matter how you feel. Trust, whether you are crying or not. Trust absolutely.

What is it that I had to trust? I had to trust that I would eventually feel better. I had to trust that I would be OK financially. I had to trust that I would learn how to be a good single parent. I had to trust that I would heal, that Anneke would heal and that one day, far into the future perhaps, I would wake up again, happy to be alive.

Ruthless Trust meant that I had to trust, even though I felt worse than I had ever felt before. It was not easy to trust but the reward was hope. And I sure needed hope.

A few weeks ago, when I was flat on my back with a disc injury I was very, very scared. I was afraid that I would be there forever, on my back, and really afraid that I would be unable to be the kind of parent who shops for groceries, transports to voice lessons, cooks meals, or vacuums. Ruthless trust again became meaningful.

Trusting absolutely is helping me get back on my feet, literally. Trusting absolutely allows me to breathe deeply and experiment, slowly and gingerly with physical therapy and walking. This morning I walked a mile. I was amazed and very happy.

I swear that making a clear decision to trust ruthlessly changes my body chemistry. When I decide to trust I seem to quiet down enough so that healing can happen. I become less afraid. And that is a good thing.

In Gratitude, Mie Elmhirst   The Widows Coach

Help for Widows

Call 508-540-4421 for a sample coaching session

Every day I get up at 5 AM, put on my bathrobe and head to the kitchen where I make my first cup of good, strong, coffee. Cup in hand, I return to my bed, slide between the covers and sip, doing my best to make my coffee last as long as possible. I love this time of day. It feels decadent to do nothing but ponder the hours ahead. Now that it is spring, my windows are open and I hear the sounds of the season, mostly cardinals, the occasional very bossy crow, and every 15 minutes or so a foghorn warning the fishing boats of the rocks of Vineyard Sound. And these days my cat Sophie joins me.

Sophie came to us shortly after Mike died. In a moment of weakness, I said ‘yes’ to Anneke’s pleas for a kitten, forgetting that she was only seven years old and that the cat duties were certain to fall to me, a new widow who already had a list of responsibilities seemingly beyond her capabilities. (Truthfully, everything was too big to handle back then and I know you know what I mean.)

Sophie turned out to be a cat who loathed being picked up or petted on anyone’s schedule other than her own. She seemed to resist all my attempts to love her and instead sought out only Anneke for refuge. I know it was silly but I took her self-care as a personal rejection and suffered hurt feelings. Didn’t she know I needed comfort? That I was grief stricken? Eventually I acknowledged that Anneke needed her more, (after all Anneke was the one who wanted her in the first place) and when I needed pet-attention I went to our dog Deboney. I decided that maybe I didn’t like Sophie all that much anyway.

Deboney died this past winter. She was a good and loving dog. I miss her.

But just as all of my relationships changed when Mike died, (friends, priest, in-laws, neighbors, sister, brothers, father, step-daughter, daughter…) my relationship with Sophie changed after Debs died. It is always this way, a complete rearrangement of relationships after loss. I hear this often from clients who experience these relationship changes as compounding their loss.

Surprisingly, Sophie has recently decided, only since Debs died, that I may now pet her. Or, more truthfully, she has decided that I must pet her. Her petting requirements coincide with my morning coffee. As I ascend the stairs to snuggle back into bed each morning, Sophie runs ahead of me in anticipation. She does not just lie down next to me making herself available for petting. Oh no, no. Sophie insists on my full attention, plopping herself onto my belly. Yesterday she was so pushy that she bumped my coffee spilling it on the sheets and me. I had to wash a full load of laundry before 6 AM just because of her Highness.

Mike did not like cats, and that is putting it mildly. I don’t know why he felt this way, (maybe a traumatic encounter at an early age!) but he did not hide his antipathy one little bit. Young Anneke intuitively knew better than to even suggest a feline friend.

So it is rather ironic that our cat Sophie now assumes the spot Mike had, snuggling up to me at 5 AM. Maybe she knows something that I don’t know. Maybe Sophie knows that I need to give and receive lots of love. These days I like Sophie a lot, spilled coffee and all.

How have your relationships changed?

Blessings, Mie Elmhirst The Widows Coach

Visit www.widowsbreathe.com for a sample coaching session.

Or call 508-540-4421 8-5 EST

Help for Widows

When I was widowed, I didn’t just grieve. I became grief.

Before Mike died, I was wife, mother, physical therapist, housekeeper, homemaker, driver, lover, seamstress, cook, friend, medical appointment maker, nurturer, bread baker, and much, much more.

But after Mike died I, became grief.

Everything that I was and everything that I loved became a subtext to grief. Widowhood was the veil through which I interacted with my existence.

As the weeks and months progressed and I began to understand all that I lost, I identified even more with grief and widowhood and less and less with the present moment. Music lessons, home cooked meals, friendships, books; all of it slowly slipped away to be replaced with only the basics that were needed for survival.

Grief seemed as if it would become a permanent resident – locked in my body, an entity forever joined to me. Always present, it was my calling card. Like trumpets heralding the arrival of the queen, grief announced mine. My daughter’s recorder concert, visits with relatives, friendships, shopping, resting, taking a shower, work, nothing was untouched. Fewer and fewer people approached me to chat as I surrounded myself with my pain-barrier. It was a thick fog that challenged people to enter and few did. It was isolating and yet I found comfort in not having to explain anything to anyone.

There seemed no end to this marriage with pain that had replaced my marriage to Mike. If anyone dared suggest that I might be in trouble I let them know that this was my business not theirs and surely they did not understand.

This pain was mine and I was not going to let it go without a struggle.

***********

When I was a new mother, my round, rosy-cheeked baby girl had a beautiful head of red curls that dangled around her cherubic face.  Everyone commented on her beauty. Shopping for groceries meant that I was interrupted at least 3 times as men and women alike asked if they could touch Anneke’s curls, or if they could coo at her. These interactions always generated an easy, joyful smile. I came to expect this and I loved it. Because of her, I got to talk with many wonderful people. She was my emissary.

Two years after Mike died, I woke up one day after a particularly emotional dream. I dreamed that someone was stealing something of great value from me. I did not know what this thing was but I was terrified to let it go. As I lay in bed I suddenly realized that ‘widow’ had become my protection.  Just as my baby girl had connected me with the world years before, my widow-grief had come to protect and insulate me from that same world.

As long as I had pain, with a capital P, (and who could blame me, after all I had lost my one-and-only), I did not need to deeply engage with life, friends, family. Wasn’t I entitled to a safe, risk-less life?

Eventually for most widows, some sooner and some later, the price for this protection/insulation is too great. The cost for safety becomes life itself.

Instead of protecting me, ‘widow’ was sucking the life-force out of me. I was loosing pieces of my life, not because I had lost Mike, but because I clung to grief. My over identification with widow needed to end.

We who grieve have options.
We can trap pain, as I did for a long while, own it and become it.

But trapped pain eventually manifests as physical and/or psychological illness. For me it was depression.

Or we can feel it. We can welcome its arrival, allow it to flow in and through us, and then welcome its departure. We can open up so that it can leave us when it is time for us to let it go.

We can learn to be unafraid. We can learn that there is a beginning, and then an ending to sadness.

When I was able to take a broader view, with a wide angled lens, and see that always, after the most difficult day, when I was forced to my knees, begging God for understanding or at least some relief, there came a reprieve. Always, there came a reprieve. The most difficult days always ended. As did the good days.

There is a natural flow to widowhood and grief.

If you are stuck and serious about moving ahead, please call for a sample coaching session.

There is Help for Widows.

For more information on Coaching for widows, Help for Widows, email Mie Elmhirst at mie@widowsbreathe.com, click on contact and request a sample coaching session, or call 508-540-4421.

Mie Elmhirst, PCC, CPCC The Widow’s Coach