A new Beginning

'On Tofino' is the place that I call home now. It’s a cozy dead end street in the suburbs of Kanata nestled up against the woodlands of the NCC. It’s the place where I’ve planted roots for the second time in my adult life. This place is more than just a neighbourhood; it’s my new life, a new beginning for my family. A life that I was petrified to face alone has turned out to be one full of surprises. I have made connections with special people along the way that have made my journey here more than bearable.

I remember the day that I accepted this fate.

It was October, Mark had been admitted into the hospital with a critical blood clot and no matter how deep we looked for hope that morning, we just knew. We spent the morning together crying in his hospital bed. We couldn’t bear to leave one another (or even look away from one another) now that we had opened this door to the possibility of the end. It was surreal, the emotions we both felt that day felt like waves crashing down on us. There was no sense to be made of it in the moment. We just felt our way through those few hours, crying, sleeping and then more crying. There wasn’t any need for words.

After Mark had fallen into a deeper sleep, most likely from exhaustion, I slipped out from underneath his arms. I had to escape the tiny room where my life had taken a turn for forever. I spent the next 2 hours wandering the streets of 12th and Granville. No umbrella, it was misting, raining just enough to put your hood up and hide beneath it.

As I walked, the hot tears streamed down my face, the rain felt good against my cheeks. I thought about what it all meant. The diagnosis, the transplant that was once a slim possibility was out of reach forever now. No chance for remission, no cure, no possibility of survival…Mark was going to die. He knew it that day and so did I. This was the only piece of information I could process as I walked and wandered aimlessly.

I couldn’t look ahead and see this (today), my future. It was too painful to even imagine, a life without Mark didn’t seem possible. I walked and walked and I knew I couldn’t go back and face him until I faced the fact that he was going to die. I couldn’t look him in the eye until I had come to some sort of internal agreement within to not feel sorry for myself and to do what I could to help him.

How do you help your husband die? How do you make it easier? How do you fix the unfixable?

I hurried back afraid that he had woken up to find me gone; the 15 floors up to the unit seemed to take forever. I was anxious to see him, but afraid that I wouldn’t be strong enough to keep it together. I wasn’t sure I had it in me to be what he needed as he struggled to face his mortality that day.

As I sat on the edge of the bed, not sure what to say, he looked at me thoughtfully. We were both lost for words. It was probably one of the only times ever that I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t find words to express what I was feeling; nothing seemed to be big enough.

Mark looked at me again and said, “ Les, you have to go back to Ottawa, all your family is there, you have to go. “ I couldn’t speak. I just looked at him and listened (and cried). He kept talking. “You should go back to Ottawa so Audrey and Noah can grow up with their cousins and their Aunts and Uncles. You should go back to Ottawa and build a new life after I’m gone. I don’t want you to be alone. Just promise me, you won’t be alone forever, you can’t be…”

As I write about that day it seems like it was a lifetime ago. The thing I remember the most is the courage he had that day. I was so bewildered with how he could face his mortality with such strength. He forced me to look ahead on what was one of the darkest days of my life. Maybe it was our own way of coping with the unbearable moments we were submerged in, looking ahead in an effort to soften the blow of the present. Maybe, but I pulled a strength from his courage. Mark gave me a reason that day to face my future and ultimately build my new life here ‘On Tofino’.

Year Three

Dear Mark,
On the eve of three years without you, I think about the love we shared together as a family. It is this love that I pull strength from each day. The hope and joy we knew helps me believe in the possibility of hope and joy again. You are never far from our hearts, we miss you and remember you every day.
Love Leslie

Standing

Grief is cruel.
It sneaks into your day when the mind is idle. Distracting oneself is easy when grief is fresh. Making an effort to keep busy is simple and deliberate in the beginning. Everyone expects this behaviour from someone who has suffered such a loss. That’s what new widows do best, they care for others, tend to tasks, distract, putter. We keep busy to give ourselves a fighting chance at survival.

It’s not denial so much as a safety mechanism. I’ve come to think of it as an essential part of what got me through the early days of losing Mark. The question I get asked over and over by others is how did you do it? How do you do it?? I usually answer I don’t know, because I don’t really know. You just do it, there’s no luxury of choice. Most often, after I have one of those conversations like I did just the other morning, I spend the next few hours remembering things that I can’t believe I did. And I was there! I wonder to myself…how did I ever get through that?

Now, its not so fresh. Thankfully. I don’t think anyone could operate if the pain of losing someone never changed. It doesn’t fade necessarily, but it evolves and becomes a part of you. It changes you forever and there’s no undoing. This can be a gift and a curse, as sadness is always a bi-product of this change.

So now that the immediate shock of widow-hood has worn off, so has an identity that was thrust upon me the moment I lost Mark. It has been one that has defined me for the last three years. I have hated it, and in the same moment ran towards it for shelter. Relying on it as a crutch for comfort and then resenting it because I’m so much more than that.

Being a widow has two edges to it. There are times when I feel grateful enough to wear it as a badge and I feel like a survivor. It’s sharp and defined. I feel appreciative for what life has given me. I don’t shrug off the significance of how this has changed me for a moment. I see and feel things with a clarity I never knew before. But then, there is a slippery edge. I feel like I’ve been standing on this slope and at times, grasping for ways to keep a float. The daily grind of responsibility, coupled with the sadness of losing your husband and the father of your children makes it easy to lose your footing and fall into the easier role of “widow”.

It can be easier to stand still and identify with this tragic event rather than grow. It dominates your thoughts and stamps a sadness within you that is hard to shed. As time goes by, you realize that it’s comforting to tell and retell your story. In the beginning it helps to process the events, but as time passes it can hinder your ability to push forward beyond the day that changed your life forever. You begin to forget what it was like to be a complete person. Life before widow seems like a distant memory. It’s easier to claim widow as your identity when the people around you feel sorry for you and empathize with your loss.

As I face my third year without Mark, I realize that “widow” will always be a piece of who I am…but I have come to discover that it’s not the only piece, nor is it the biggest. I can’t fight the calendar, this much I know. The milestones this month will bring tears and a desire to tell my story but my hope is that I’ll be able to find my footing when standing on the edge of the slope.