Birthday Reflections

The message below was posted by Adeline on April 21st on Facebook and she’d like to share it with those of you who are not on that platform.

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I turn 40 today. Any other year, it would be a time of celebration, of half-hearted angst, of acceptance of growing older. This year, it comes with the added realisation to be content to reach the milestone, as not everyone is privileged enough to get to grow old, as we do. This last year has undoubtedly been the hardest year of my life. The next is not expected to be much easier.

Thank you to those who will reach out. I recognise that it may seem a little daunting to reach out this year, these few months, or ever. Instead, I offer a few words (okay, a lot) from your friendly neighbourhood widow, and let you know how I'm doing.

A month ago, when my mother returned to Canada and I was left with the three kids for the first time, I spontaneously booked a 4 night stay at a fully-stocked vacation house over the Easter long weekend on a private island with no stores or restaurants about 2 hours from home. I wanted to know if I alone could take my kids, plan for them, pack them, load them into a car and drive with no second adult to appease, feed, entertain or mediate the backseat squabbling. I discovered that I could and we spent 5 days climbing driftwood, spotting deer, identifying sea life and watching sunsets.

It would have been more triumphant of a discovery, if I hadn't been hit somewhat unexpectedly with everything else that came along with this mini-getaway. It came with the realisation that I hadn't packed for Felix since Oscar was born, as Francis had done it the last 3 years. I was hit with a literal wall of bags and belongings as no one cleared the entryway as I unloaded the car with all of our gear and food for 5 days. I could hear Frank's advice for the kids coming out of my mouth, and the realisation that this was the exact type of trip he would have loved to take, and the very reason we had moved to Seattle. It made me think of the last road trip we took as a family, when we found out he likely had cancer, and then my mind automatically tried to find a happier memory in another road trip, even further back, to Easter 2019 as we traversed 5 countries and visited with old friends and family. And the duties of a solo parent became apparent as the older kids pushed their boundaries and comfort levels and I was the only parent available to shower them with unconditional love and praise. Indeed, it became evermore apparent on this trip that I was alone, alone in my responsibilities, in my thoughts, in my parenting, and in my doubts.

I realise now that I live in a dichotomy. A world where, on one hand, I have to keep moving, to get the kids to school, to get some work done, have food on the table, laundry, bills, and other items dealt with. I feel as though this is the side that most people see. Where it looks like I am organised enough to have the kids to school on time, pack healthy lunches, and on the ball enough that I don't appear to be falling apart at the seams. I feel that this is where I feel all the compliments on my strength, my superhero status, and my ability to hold it together, is directed to.

But the other part, the second part, where all the memes about widows, holds a grain of salt. Like the one which says that if widows were GPS-es, we'd constantly be on "recalculating". Or how 90% of widow thoughts are me wondering: "what is this life, and how did I get here?" I am foundering and distracted. I hold onto memories of happier times, and I mourn a future with the person with whom I was absolutely the closest, who has known me for my last 12 birthdays, and who always made it a priority to organise something for the last 11, usually surprises with hints using hockey jersey numbers, which I never got, to his amusement. I miss everything about him, and grieve the loss of his love, his complicity and his unwavering confidence in me.

This duality is apparent in the way people offer help. As a society, we are crappy at understanding and dealing with loss, and being a supporter in grief. Many of the offers of support is linked to providing food, to helping accomplish tasks, take care of kids, run errands. This is linked to the first half of the dichotomy, the restorative-orientation, as it's officially called as part of the Dual Process Model of grief. It's the moving part of my life. I can't say I'm moving anywhere, not forwards or backwards, but I'm moving and having dance parties with the kids, and it's helpful to loosen up a little, to test old skills like firing up the BBQ for the first time in years, with the help of a friend. This is where I thank those who have arranged for cleaning, for food, for taking my kids out when I am too busy to do so myself.

It is harder to be a supporter in the grief-orientation half of the model, mainly because I don't know how to ask for help. Sometimes I don't know what help I need. Or when I may need it. There are triggers in everyday life, some obvious, like a song, or a memory in the house, some not, like realising I would still give up my favourite vegetable, and Frank's most hated, if I could have him back. And in this duality, I thank those of you who have reached out, some times with jokes, sometimes with memories. Usually with the caveat that I don't have to answer (I rarely do, I barely have a minute to communicate these days) and I especially enjoyed the note that explicitly said that if it was too difficult to receive condolences, to delete said email. I hadn't thought about it in that way, but it's true, sometimes it's the flowers and the condolences and the "how are you"s that end up being triggering. But I often don't know until I'm confronted with them, so I continue to allow myself to try, and be confronted.

I thought I was "widow brain-ing" going back and forth between trying to accomplish things (I can put up our family 6 person tent with limited help from the 6 year old) and needing to mourn his loss by hearing his voice in the video messages he left for the kids and me. Apparently this oscillation is normal and part of this particular grief model. This would also explain why I look at our children, and on one hand, think that they are perfect little half-Francis' hanging around my house (especially mischievous Oscar, who I hope his mischievousness will become charming as time goes on) and then blame Francis for whatever misdeed has occurred when they've run my patience into the ground.

But I guess overall, my message is this. Please continue to reach out. Not just to me, as this message might also resonate with any other friends or acquaintances who are also dealing with grief. I don't need for it to be frequent, but I'm learning to live with a different version of the life I wanted to live. The one where my emergency contact needs to be someone else, someone else I have to tell in advance instead of making it automatically my person. It's a new reality where my thoughts of "oh, Francis would love this, I should tell him" is hit with a sobering dose of reality. It's a life where sometimes I stop mid-way of taking a photo of a kiddo and wonder with whom I am going to share this photo. It's where I want to tell our kids how proud their dad would be of them, and not overuse the emotion of the moment, even though he would have be so freaking proud.

Please continue to invite me to things, as I navigate the duality of trying new things and discovering new places and skills long forgotten, and grieve a loss. Please don't be worried about my emotions, or about triggering sad feelings, because trust me, I can do that on my own. I want to hear from you, I want to hear if something brought on a memory of Francis. Sometimes it feels like a heavy task, to the the main memory holder of Frank's last few years. I don't want to be the sad widow friend, and though I may not take you up on your social zoom or (hopefully in the not-so-distant future) in person weekend getaway right away, please be persistent, because I do want to, someday, and I will continue to want to. Please tell me your phone number and tell me that I can contact you if I have a need to talk to an adult about all my feelings at a time that is right for your timezone.

So on this milestone birthday, thank you for reaching out. Thank you for caring, thank you for learning how to support someone in their grief. I don't know if it's age, experience, the cancer or just plain lack-of-time-for-beating-around-the-bush, but I find that I am more forthright, more honest, more sure of what I need and want, for myself and the kids. Please don't be shy, and anxious about reaching out or inviting us to a get together or a future visit. Seeing happy families with dads doesn't make me sad, or jealous. Talking with friends who have successfully fought cancer doesn't bring anger or envy, but instead gives me hope. It all helps keep me moving, and allows me to grieve in my own time.

Thanks for reading, and as usual, hug your loved ones close.