One of the things that I've struggled with in a major, emotional way over the past three years or so has been how to check the boxes when I have paperwork to fill out. With Mark's stuff, it was easy: I just put that we're married, I live here, he lives there, and I'm his POA. There aren't many, if any, questions about what to do if you can't reach me. With kids, however, it's different.
I had Ryan's Kindergarten screening a week after Mark's passing (they require it in the state of Minnesota before kids begin Kindergarten), and for the first time, I got to (at least figuratively) check the "widow" checkbox. I didn't have to explain anything further, no questions, no long, drawn out explanation of the disease or the circumstances. No stares of shock and awe and disbelief. Just a simple, "I'm so sorry", and we moved on.
It was such a relief.
Having 4 kids in the school system and having to write out an explanation as to why they had a Dad, but they couldn't communicate with him, and if, by some stroke of insanity, he showed up and wanted to take them, he could not because he wasn't fit, and how it was because he had this form of dementia where his personality changed and it was awful, and just this whole explanation as to what was going on in our lives, and on and on and on and on...freaking exhausting. Now, do that 4 times every time the kids start school or join an activity or switch childcare or whatever else.
On that day, it was just this acknowledgement that I'm a widow, and that's it. No more, no less. No explanations. Just check that box, and have people understand that it's just me and them.
I've spent the last 3 years feeling like I'd best benefit from a widow support group, but feared they'd shame me the heck out of there. And, truth be told, because no one understood, truly, what was happening, they would have. But I needed that same emotional and physical support that widows did. I am so thankful my therapist recognized it as such and helped support me through the past four years of learning to live with the loss that had already occurred.
At the screening appointment, Ryan walked up and said, "My Daddy's dead" and then climbed into my lap and asked about the picture of the stop sign on a neaby closet door. When the lady who was asking about his physical health asked him how that made him feel, he said "sad" and then moved on. We're no longer walking around in this state of confusion. Our past and our future are significantly more clear right now: Ambiguity, at least in the form we've been experiencing for so long, is no longer a part of our lives.
For the first time in the past five years, I felt understood by checking that box. I don't feel different as a "widow" via FTD when I lost him years ago than I do as a widow in the eyes of everyone else now that his physical body is gone. Did I bawl my eyes out as I held him on March 22nd? Of course. Did I also completely lose it that Friday when I held his hand and looked at this man I had loved for so long in his casket? Absolutely. Am I sad and grieving our loss still? You bet! But it has been a long, long journey, friends: Many of you have lived it with me for the past five years. For once, the past five years of my life can be summed up with a freaking box to check. No explanation.
Ryan passed with flying colors, by the way. He's a smart little kid, no doubt, and it still astounds me that he's in the 90th and 95th percentiles for his age range for height and weight. I'm excited for his future. I'm also relieved to finally just be able to say that Daddy's in heaven with all those who went before him and whole in body and mind and soul.
I thought it'd be a harder, more profound moment, in which I'd fall into a puddle. Instead, at this point, I'm savoring the simplicity of it.
Never before have I been so grateful to NOT have to talk.
I had Ryan's Kindergarten screening a week after Mark's passing (they require it in the state of Minnesota before kids begin Kindergarten), and for the first time, I got to (at least figuratively) check the "widow" checkbox. I didn't have to explain anything further, no questions, no long, drawn out explanation of the disease or the circumstances. No stares of shock and awe and disbelief. Just a simple, "I'm so sorry", and we moved on.
It was such a relief.
Having 4 kids in the school system and having to write out an explanation as to why they had a Dad, but they couldn't communicate with him, and if, by some stroke of insanity, he showed up and wanted to take them, he could not because he wasn't fit, and how it was because he had this form of dementia where his personality changed and it was awful, and just this whole explanation as to what was going on in our lives, and on and on and on and on...freaking exhausting. Now, do that 4 times every time the kids start school or join an activity or switch childcare or whatever else.
On that day, it was just this acknowledgement that I'm a widow, and that's it. No more, no less. No explanations. Just check that box, and have people understand that it's just me and them.
I've spent the last 3 years feeling like I'd best benefit from a widow support group, but feared they'd shame me the heck out of there. And, truth be told, because no one understood, truly, what was happening, they would have. But I needed that same emotional and physical support that widows did. I am so thankful my therapist recognized it as such and helped support me through the past four years of learning to live with the loss that had already occurred.
At the screening appointment, Ryan walked up and said, "My Daddy's dead" and then climbed into my lap and asked about the picture of the stop sign on a neaby closet door. When the lady who was asking about his physical health asked him how that made him feel, he said "sad" and then moved on. We're no longer walking around in this state of confusion. Our past and our future are significantly more clear right now: Ambiguity, at least in the form we've been experiencing for so long, is no longer a part of our lives.
For the first time in the past five years, I felt understood by checking that box. I don't feel different as a "widow" via FTD when I lost him years ago than I do as a widow in the eyes of everyone else now that his physical body is gone. Did I bawl my eyes out as I held him on March 22nd? Of course. Did I also completely lose it that Friday when I held his hand and looked at this man I had loved for so long in his casket? Absolutely. Am I sad and grieving our loss still? You bet! But it has been a long, long journey, friends: Many of you have lived it with me for the past five years. For once, the past five years of my life can be summed up with a freaking box to check. No explanation.
Ryan passed with flying colors, by the way. He's a smart little kid, no doubt, and it still astounds me that he's in the 90th and 95th percentiles for his age range for height and weight. I'm excited for his future. I'm also relieved to finally just be able to say that Daddy's in heaven with all those who went before him and whole in body and mind and soul.
I thought it'd be a harder, more profound moment, in which I'd fall into a puddle. Instead, at this point, I'm savoring the simplicity of it.
Never before have I been so grateful to NOT have to talk.
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