Widows Support, Coaching for Widows

Me and AAA #1

Two weeks ago I left the door of my car ajar overnight and killed the battery. I have done this before so I am familiar with the routine. I almost know the AAA number by heart.

“The car is in my driveway, a green, 1995 Volvo 850, license number CIPH90, AAA membership number XYZ.”

But this time, in talking with the dispatcher, for some reason I told him that I had a BMW.

I don’t know why I did this. It just rolled off my tongue. “It’s a BMW.”

The call went quite smoothly but when the nice young man asked me what model BMW it was, I was stumped. Because, of course, I don’t have a BMW.

After stuttering a bit I confessed that it was in fact a 14 year-old Volvo.

“Excuse me Ma’m? You don’t have a BMW?”

“No,” I said, “I don’t”.

“But Ma’m, you just told me that you had a BMW.”

“I know what I told you, but I don’t have one.” Really, I was as puzzled about this as he was.

He began to laugh. “Well Ma’m, maybe you want one?”

“Yes, I suppose I do, yes, that would be nice.” I said. “Well, maybe when I’m old.”

“Yes ma’m,” he said “when you are old you will get your BMW.”

Me and AAA #2

Last weekend I had a flat tire. Well I didn’t exactly have it, like one would have a baby, but I did cause it when I sideswiped a curb and opened a piece of the tire that would have made the Michelin Man squeal with delight. It was not repairable. The sound of air escaping was audible even with the windows closed and it was accompanied by the sinking of my heart.

The worst part was – well there were actually two bad parts – the first was that my 87 year-old father was with me, a man who still drives and has not caused damage to his car or anyone else’s in over 60 years. I have to say that he was kind about my little mistake, saying very little other than “the tire is fine!”  even though it was as flat as a pancake. A case of seeing what you want to see. As luck would have it, we had just come from Trader Joes so we had a veritable picnic while we waited for AAA.

The other worst part was that when I was on the phone with the AAA operator, I explained to her that I had my quite frail, elderly father with me and he was a bit feeble and would they take that into consideration when putting me in the queue of motorists waiting for help?

Actually, I whispered it into the phone because if my father, who thankfully is a bit deaf, had heard, he would have hit the roof. One of the things he is not is feeble and the other thing he is not is frail. Not knowing this, the dispatch lady was gracious, and said yes, not to worry, she would have someone out very soon to help me and my elderly father.

I looked over at my father, munching happily on Trader Joe’s corn chips. He looked chipper and young and it was clear that he would not pass for 87, or 85, or even 75. Concerned that I would be caught in my exaggeration, I confessed to him what I had done and told him that it would help with my credibility if, when AAA arrived, he would maybe hang his head down to one side, and perhaps would he drool just a bit?

He looked at me with alarm, eyes open wide, and then looked at his lap and sadly shook his head. When it occurred to me that the drool was not going to happen I asked him if he would at least stay in the car while they changed the tire? Again, with a look akin to disgust, he shook his head. But I was pretty sure that he agreed.

Then we waited. And waited and waited. And almost polished off the whole bag of chips. Finally the truck showed up and I got out of the car to supervise, and to explain that yes – the spare was also flat, and I was so glad that he had an air compressor on board. Well, he said, no, he had no compressor but there was a gas station nearby, maybe ½ mile away, not so far for me to walk…

“But my father…” I stammered, determined that his presence would help me plead my helpless case…”he’s old.”

Of course, at that moment my father decided he had had enough and got out of the car with more agility than a gymnast.  I groaned as he engaged the young man in lively conversation.

AAA is a compassionate organization and my tire-changing savior willingly called another truck outfitted with a compressor even though it was clear that my father was no nursing home candidate. The compressor arrived within 5 minutes and in ten minutes we were again on our way, me a bit humbler and my father eager for the cup of coffee I had promised.

Monday morning, I walked into Firestone.

“You or Anneke?” Dave-the-Firestone-guy asked.  “Let me guess, Anneke????” (My 16 year old.)

“Well”, I explained, “it was me, but actually, I think it was her because 2 weeks ago, she brushed up against the curb with a loud bang so when I did it Saturday, well it was like she loosened the pickle jar cover and I just snapped it open!”

He gave me the same look my father gave me, a look that said “you gotta be kidding me”, and he told me that when he saw Anneke the next time he would be sure to tell her that she had nothing to do with it. Just in case I did not come clean myself.

Fine. So I went home and confessed to Anneke that I wanted to blame her but that Dave-the-Firestone-guy wouldn’t let me.

She smiled that same smile she smiles all of the time when she learns again, that even without a father, she is looked after. This time by Dave-the-Firestone-guy.

All in Fun, Mie Elmhirst

Help for Widows. The Widows Coach

I expected to have this ‘grieving thing’ wrapped up within a year. The way I saw it, I was 47 and probably had less years ahead of me than behind. I was willing to grieve (isn’t that funny? like I had a choice…) but I was counting on a sort of a statute of limitations, a timeline of grief that had a very distinct end point, after which I would feel free and wonderful and excited about my future.

I knew women who were still grieving two, three, and four years after their husband died. To be honest, I saw them as rather self-indulgent, maybe a little weak, and most likely, self-involved.

A friend warned me. “Be careful Mie.  We become what we judge.”

Within a short period of time, I came to see instead, that it was I who was ignorant, uninformed and more than a little arrogant.

Newly initiated into the world of grieving a partner, I had no idea, what was to come. But four years later, I was still working at sorting out my marriage, widowhood, and still trying to figure out who I was. And, I missed Mike. Not every moment, not every day, but yes, I still missed him.

When Mike first died I experienced a surprising mix of relief and shock.

The shock was, of course, that he was actually gone. After 10 years with cancer, maybe I should have expected this, but after so many years, one just assumes that it will go on forever.

But even more important is the fact that it is virtually impossible to prepare for what it feels like to have a loved one gone. It is impossible to prepare for how it feels to face an empty bed, phone calls that for a moment you think are his, the car in the driveway that has you believing he will momentarily walk in the door.

It is impossible to prepare for a feeling or an experience that one has never had. It simply can’t be done.

The relief I experienced (relief that because of shame and my own misunderstanding I shared with no one) was that I finally stopped being afraid that he would die. I did not have to be afraid of what it would feel like. I did not have to be afraid of waking up that first morning without him. It had already happened, I was feeling it, and the first morning had come and gone.

No longer did I count his breaths at one or two in the morning, paying attention to the rhythm, holding my own breath during a particularly long pause, and then exhaling in relief when it came, wondering if his next would be his last. For a short while after Mike died, my sleep was undisturbed.

But little by little, as shock and relief abated, grief methodically and deftly wrapped its tentacles around my neck and seven months later had me gasping for air. I had never known such fear, pain, loneliness and desperation. For a while I doubted my fitness as a mother. As old fears calmed, they were replaced by new equally virulent fears. Each day, just when I thought I could not feel any worse, I discovered new holes in my heart, new aches in my chest, and my head swirled.

Would I make it? Would Anneke survive? Would she thrive?

Would I be a good single parent?

Could I pay for her college?

Would I be able to make up for the loss of her father? Was I supposed to?

Would I ever be happy again? Would I ever again ‘be with’ a man? (My words for ‘getting naked’…)

So much for being done in a year.

It took 4-5 years for me to come to terms with the whole experience, and to become fully calmed. I was not in agony for all of that time. Far from it. Much of that time I was in school, traveling, and always caring for my daughter.

But I have come to see that there is a sort of a timeline when a woman has lost her husband. It is just not the timelime I had planned on. It is longer and bumpier.

I would also be remiss if I didn’t add that life now is also far better than I expected. It truly is. I wish, way back then, that I had known that this was coming. But then again, if I had known, knowing me, I wouldn’t have done the work.

I am grateful for my coach.

Warmly, Mie Elmhirst   Help for widows.

The widows coach.

Call 508-540-4421 for a sample coaching session. I will be happy to do this with you.

My clients (those who are widows) remind me often of what it was like, eight years ago, seven years ago, six years ago…

I get reminded about pain, yes, but more than that I am reminded as I watch them slowly recover, about getting better.

I am reminded what the passage of time plus a good deal of internal work can accomplish. And then I get to pass on the promise of growth.

Recovery from the trauma of widowhood is sometimes like having a monstrous headache for weeks and weeks (that did happened to me once), and eventually it calms down but so slowly that you don’t really notice that it is gone until one day you wake up and say “hey, no headache. When exactly was it that it stopped hurting?”

The pain of widowhood is of course a zillion times worse and cannot be compared to a headache, but the process is the same. Getting better happens when we are not looking.

Eventually we wake up one morning, put on our bathrobe and slippers, scuff on down to the coffee maker and then ‘come to’, realizing with a start, “Hey – I feel kinda good today!”

I remember the first time I felt ‘kinda good’. I was looking out of the kitchen window into the back yard holding my coffee, and I froze. The feeling of well-being was so startling and unfamiliar and delicious that I was afraid if I moved, or even breathed, that it would disappear. So I just stood there and felt good, sipping away. I must have stood there for 15 minutes.

Of course within a few hours it disappeared, and I was disappointed, but I took it as a sign. A hopeful sign. A sign that I would eventually feel better for longer and longer stretches of time.

You will too. You will have brief occasional moments of feeling good, and then more frequent moments and longer moments, and then a whole day, and then a week…

Recovery is not linear. We have set backs. But set backs do not mean that we are going backwards or getting worse. Setbacks are just part of the process.

A huge step forward is when we finally  transition from being ‘in it’ to self-observing. When we step outside of ourselves and out of our experience and instead, observe the process. We are able to see and to understand that we are transitioning and growing.  We no longer feel ‘consumed’ by the experience of profound loss. We can see progress, appreciate the work we have done, know that there is still more work to be done, and trust that our future will again include joy.

Warmly, Mie Elmhirst

Coaching for Widows

For a sample session, call 508-540-4421. I will be happy to do this for you.

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.