6 months and waiting

                                                             

As I sit here tonight on the six month anniversary of Elliott’s death I wonder once again 

“how the hell did I get here?"

I have reached a milestone that only lives in a wife's worst nightmare, a day I have been dreading— 6 months of walking this earth without the man who made my world spin, my life worth living, my heart full of unconditional love, and my soul full of light. 

I never would have thought six months ago that I could even breath one minute without Elliott in my life. Although I’m here and I ‘m doing it, I’m “surviving” this, I don’t feel like giving myself any kudos or pats on the back. Iv’e made it six months, can I make it six more, another year, 10 years, 20 years? Sure, but do I want to make it one more day without El in my life? NO not really. 

I don’t really know what my life is without him. It sure as hell doesn’t feel like a life any more. It feels more like waiting than living. I continually have the sense that I’m just waiting, waiting, waiting, as if I’m in this holding pattern, on pause ... For what? I’m not really sure. I know Elliott is not coming home, there will be no joyous reunion—no unexplainable miracle for me. Maybe I’m just waiting to talk to him, to communicate with him, feel his presence in a way that is undeniable— to find my way to him. Or maybe I’m just waiting for the end, for my time to go home. Nevertheless I’m waiting, waiting to catch my breath, waiting to process, waiting to reach the darkest depths of my grief.

I’m in a weird time warp where it feels as though It’s been an eternity since I kissed Elliott’s lips and heard him whisper “I love you.” Yet simultaneously six months feels like it has only been six days. I literally feel like everything just happened days ago, it is incomprehensible to me that I am now on the back side of approaching the year mark. I remember in the first few weeks and months hearing about widows and widowers at this point and thinking “ wow, that’s so long, I don’t want to get there.” I really hoped that I would follow close behind El and get in some freak accident or die of a broken heart. I read an article about “The Widow Effect” when a spouse dies and the surviving spouse falls ill and dies shortly after due to stress, a rare complication, or heart issues, and I so badly wished to be a part of that statistic. But, unfortunately it effects older widows and widowers more profoundly. I actually just heard of my mom’s friends nephew who lost his wife three months ago and just died of a heart attack leaving three young boys behind. It breaks my heart for those babies, I don’t have any children, why not me? I don’t necessarily want to die,I’m not suicidal ( of course I’ve thought of it, most widows would at least toy with the notion) I just want to be where Elliott is. I don’t want to make anything out of the cards I’ve been dealt. I want to fold. I’m sick of the widow game. I’m ready for my husband to come home. I’m ready for the joke to be up— for the nightmare to end.

I know better though, I still have a lot of life ahead of me. I feel so unbearably young, at the same time though, I feel like a broken old woman. I’ve had far too much life experience for my twenty-seven years. Despite that, I know I’m going to gain a lot more. Whether I like it or not I still have more to do in this world, I still have more to experience and to learn. I just wish I could figure out what those things are. I’m still just spinning in circles, trapped in a vortex. I don’t know which way or direction to just step off and walk in.

Dear El,

I love you more than anything. I’m trying really really hard to be a living example of your love. I trying to walk this treacherous path but, I still need you mor than ever babe. Please be with me. I love you.

Love Always,

Your Wife Lacey ♥

grief is a thief

Grief has totally stolen my ability to make decisions.

Elliott and I had been planning to get a new pup for the last couple of years. We really wanted a large breed dog and we had done all kinds of research to figure out what breed would be right for us. Since El was killed I knew I would eventually get another dog , but I just didn’t know when the timing would be right. 

To make a long story short my sister convinced me to go take a look at a litter of pups and thats when things got complicated...

After visiting with the pups, when I got home the anxiety kicked in and my brain began to spin... 

“I really want one of these dogs, but can I handle it ?” 

“Elliott would love this dog.”

“I can totally handle it, wait no I can’t handle it.” 

“Yes I can , no I can’t, yes I can, no I can’t...” 

The thoughts run ramped I can’t make a logical decision on what to do. My brain keeps spinning... 

“ I can take good care of this dog, no I can’t I’m a mess I have nothing to offer.” 

“I can give this puppy a good home, who am I kidding my home is broken.”

“This puppy will bring a tiny bit of joy, but what if I screw the dog up?”

“What if I’m too sad? “

“I’m getting the dog, I’m not getting the dog.”

“It’s a good decision, no it’s a bad decision, wait who cares if it’s a bad decision I’m a crazy widow I’m expected to make bad decisions.” 

“I’m getting the dog, I’m not getting the dog.”

Grief has taken all my confidence not just in my physical appearance, but the confidence I had in myself— in my judgement, my reasoning and my capabilities. I used to be self assured, independent and assertive. I now question everything. I am good with animals, I already have dogs, El and I were going to get a dog anyway, Yet I feel like I’ll fail at raising a puppy. It not just the decision on whether to get a dog or not. I struggle with the most minute choices. I could stand in the isle at the store and just stare at the shelves for hours trying to decide between two totally insignificant items. I tried picking out a stupid curtain rod and and left empty handed because it was too overwhelming to make a choice. I could literally leave a store with tears welling up in my eyes because I get so much anxiety over the dumbest decisions.

The world isn’t safe anymore. Nothing is the same, nothing is how I thought it was. I can’t trust the world, I can’t trust Life... So why the fuck would I be able to trust myself.

I could trust El. He was my safety, he was my rock. I could count on him. Everything is different now.

... After all the mental anguish I got the puppy. I brought him home to my parents house and  the first night I really felt numb. It scared me because here is this adorable bundle of pure puppy love, and I wasn't completely enamored. I went to sleep hopeful anyway. The next morning I woke up and thought I made a terrible decision. I freaked out and thought “I need to take him back, he deserves better than me.” I spent a few more hours in mental anguish over what I had gotten myself into. But, by the afternoon, a calmness washed over me. I stopped beating myself up and I made a commitment to give this dog the best I could along with my other pups. Elliott would love him— and I’m totally in love with him too...

a new name

El and I

So, I’ve decided to rename my blog. But, I’m going to keep the web address the same because I’m not computer savvy enough to change it without messing things up. When I first started this whole blogging journey a few months ago, it was all so overwhelming. I had wanted to start writing very soon after El was killed, but it took me about two months to find the energy to figure out what exactly a blog even was. 

One of the decisions I struggled with was what to call my blog. Its such a personal choice, and you want it to reflect who you are and what your writing about. I wracked my brain and came up with several names, but none of them quite fit. I settled with the name “Widow Taboo” because I needed something and It described how I was feeling. 

I felt and still feel like everything about being a young widow is taboo. Death is a profoundly taboo subject in-itself, that most people prefer to gloss over —as a widow you now walk hand-in-hand with death, sometimes you wish for death, and your in love with someone who has experienced death. The general public isn’t comfortable with a young twenty-something woman being labeled a widow. People don’t know how to react to the immense grief and despair we feel. Loosing a spouse at a young age thrusts you into a minority that most people have no clue how to react to. Every single decision we make from finances to relationships has a social consequence and will come with judgement from those who do not understand. OK, I could ramble on about this forever but even though I definitely feel like a taboo, I just didn’t like it as a name for my blog any longer.

I’ve been thinking long and hard about what name would really fit me and I haven't been able to come up with anything creative or clever that I just love. Maybe it’s the widow brain preventing me from thinking straight... so this evening the name El and I popped in my head and I think it feels right.

This blog isn’t just about me, it’s about Elliott too. It’s about our Life and our love and how death has infiltrated all aspects of our world. So I like the new name because it is about El and I, short simple and to the point. Plus I just like seeing his name when I log on to blogger. Hopefully I won’t think of a new name tomorrow and want to change it again... I am one of those kind of girls who has to constantly rearrange the furniture...

just another day

... Just another day without El

Though today is thanksgiving I am not really acknowledging it. I have a hard time admitting being thankful for anything lately. Even so, I can't deny that there are things I am thankful for, the most being Elliott. But, I don't need a holiday to state that. I am thankful for Elliott's love and his presence in my life each and every second of everyday. I'm thankful to be loved unconditionally my the most amazing and handsome man I've ever met in my life...

I refuse to claim this day as my first holiday without El. I figure that if I'm not celebrating then it doesn't count. You can call it "widow logic."

So, I haven't experienced that I want to rip your head off for no good reason except for the fact that "I'm a widow and your not" feeling until today...

Travel in general is hard, travel alone is a little tough, but traveling all by your lonesome as a widow just down right sucks. Well, let me rephrase that, because I love to travel it's the flight and the the airport that make it hard for me. The airplane and airport is like a cespool of seemingly happy couples of all ages and fresh young families embarking on holiday getaways. It's a blatant reminder of what I no longer posess— a future with my husband that includes children, anniversaries, travel plans, wrinkles, retirement... I could go on and on.

So back to my I feel like ripping your head off moment. I boarded my flight early this morning. The flight was oversold so there was a sea of people trying to get situated in their way too small airplane seats. I get to my row only to discover that a man is sitting in my seat and he swears it's his. That's ok because I didn't really want the middle seat any way. So the flight attendant verifies that I'm correct, but I tell him its fine I'll sit somewhere else. Score, he finds me an isle seat and I get all comfy and settled in. Just when I think the flight might be ok after all a woman appears out of nowhere and asks me to move so she can sit with her husband. She tells me if I move out of the exit row ( which has way more leg room) that oh, I can recline, like I give a crap about reclining. I felt like she was just so condescending to me. I understand wanting to sit with your husband I probably would have asked the same if Elliott was alive, but he's dead— and at that moment I really didn't need a reminder that I was the single girl who should give up her seat to the snobby married lady. Of course I pleasantly gave it up and moved, but not without my blood boiling. I realize that this is irrational to have been so angry but I've been through a lot and I deserve to have my little moment of irrationality.

There was a time when I really enjoyed going to the airport and boarding a plane. I mean it's never a blast or anything but traveling with El was always so nice. Somehow it always made me feel like an adult to be with my hubby boarding a plane and being excited to get away from home for a while. It was so nice to be able to just cuddle up and lean into him when I was squished into the sardine box they call seats. Now I always leave the plane cramped and stiff from trying so hard to stay in my own personal space or from leaning away from people who don't get the concept of personal space. El was always such the gentleman too, carrying the heaviest bags. He would always tell me it looked bad if the girl was carrying all the stuff. Good thing I bought new luggage with four nice wheels so I can manage by myself.

There are just so many reminders everywhere I go. I'm sitting in the Seattle airport right now on a six hour layover. Living in Alaska we almost always have to come through the Seattle airport so it's inevitable to not run into a bunch of stuff that reminds me of the trips when El and I passed through here. I remember every shop and book store we browsed to help pass the time. I remember where we sat in the food court, what he ate, what I ate, the coffee we ordered, everything. It hurts to be here, to be anywhere without him. It doesn't help that there's a song playing right now with lyrics like "i miss you and I want you and I need you but I can't have you." How ironic.

To pass some time I got a manicure, I know it's crazy to get a manicure at the airport but I have a lot of time to kill. Anyway I still refuse to take off my wedding ring. When the manicurist saw it she said "oh are you in engaged?" "No I'm a widow I just don't want to take my ring off." It was the first time someone asked about my ring since El was killed. It was a little surreal, at my age I look more like a newlywed than a widow,oh how I wish that were the case. But I'm a widow and I had a beautiful marriage and an absolutely out of this world amazing husband. That's what that ring represents and I can't bear to take it off.

I hate cleaning

I have realized along with my new found hatred for cooking, I hate cleaning too...

In preparation for leaving my home yet again and Flying to California I am trying to tidy up a bit. I haven’t cleaned the floors in my room since Elliott was killed. Who am I kidding I have barely cleaned the house at all. The dust bunnies or as we would say in the Marines Corps— “ghost turds” were horrendous. It made me feel even more like a widow, a black widow spider who has weaved an intricate web of dust debris from corner to corner to cocoon herself within the chaos she calls a bedroom.

After a little bit of vacuuming and shifting of accumulated random items I have neglected to put in their proper place, I am completely exhausted. I mean I am physically and mentally just spent. I have barely exerted myself and all I want to do is curl up on the couch and zone out again.

There is still so much to do, mop the floors, pack my bags, finish the laundry, tidy the kitchen ... and thats just the surface stuff. Eventually I will have to get to the deep cleaning and organizing that I fear I will never have the energy desire or drive to do.

I really used to enjoy cleaning and organizing. I learned the most about cleaning when I was in the Marines. Every friday we would have a field day where you would clean every inch of your barracks room and we would do the same kind of thing at work in our shop and the aircraft hanger. Of course there was always an inspection to follow, so if you didn’t want to loose any weekend time you were going to work your ass off. I remember one time my Sergeant Major sent out an email to the whole squadron stating they should all take a look at my room as an example of how to clean for a field day. I was really proud of that.

 Elliott was damn good at cleaning too. He helped out a lot in the house, but his specialty was keeping the vehicles, electronics and garage sparkling— he was a pro at doing the dishes too. My favorite time to clean the house was when Elliott was at work. As a firefighter he worked twenty-four hour shifts. I would stay up late at night and put some music on. Then I would just tackle whatever needed to be done. Elliott would usually call me several times while on shift, just to check in and see what I was doing. I would never tell him I was mopping the floors or deep cleaning the kitchen. I think I just really liked to surprise him by coming home to a sparkling clean house. 

In the morning when he got home, he would come back to the room where I was still cozy in bed. Ooohhhhh (sigh) how I miss that so much, the sound of him unlocking the door and his footsteps down the hall— waking up to his voice ... On the days that I had cleaned he always noticed. He always made sure to tell me “ the floors look really nice babe,” or “thanks for cleaning the kitchen babe,” or  “organizing the mail and filing the paperwork...” It didn’t matter what I had done, he would notice and he would make sure to let me know he appreciated the effort I put into our home.

Now, there is no praise for the effort I put in, no words of appreciation from the man of my dreams. It’s just me and the dogs and I’m sure the dogs don’t really care about the floors. I have to clean so that I don’t become a crazy widow living in a filthy environment like on the show “Hoarders.”  Before there was joy in keeping the house nice for my little family. I was a wife and I enjoyed some of the responsibility that came with the title. As a widow there is no joy in cleaning, except maybe the brief distraction it provides. Mostly it’s just tedious, exhausting, and another reminder I am alone... 

treading water

...Sitting here on the couch not knowing what to do. The tears begin to fall...

 I ask my self “how did I get here?” I mean I used to be the one who had it all together. Just a few short months ago I was a wife and homemaker a student and avid crafter. I was a good friend and sister and daughter. I was the one giving support and encouraging words to friends and family in need. I was happy and in love. I was blessed to be married to the man of my dreams, a man who loved me deeply and passionately. I was in ignorant bliss— ignorant to the pain of life and the reality of the world.

How could my life change so fundamentally to the core, in just seconds,  without my permission? How could I be so out of control of my life and my future.

Today I am a widow, a sad and lonely soul— Lost and searching for my other half. I am floating in a vast sea of grief and I am searching for the lighthouse to show me the way to shore, but it is no where in site. The waves are violent and cold. Sometimes they sting when they crash against my body. Other times the waves are so chilling I just go numb. I want to let go. I’m tired, I’m ready to stop treading water. I’m ready to drown but for some reason I’m staying afloat and it feels like torture to keep my head above water.

I know there are some things left worth fighting for, I just have a hard time admitting it.  Are those things enough? 

What would Elliott be doing right now? Would he be treading water too? Would he be hanging on, if I received the bullet? I want to honor him so badly, I want to do what he would do, he was the best person I have ever known. I want to be like him.

OH ELLIOTT... BABE I NEED YOU SO MUCH PLEASE LET ME FEEL YOUR LOVE

death knocks again

Death knocks on the door again ... no we won’t open it, not this time. The world feels like it’s spinning out of control. 

Last week my family lost yet another beautiful young soul. Within three and a half months of another two of us in the family have had to claim the title of widow and widower. Those are words that at our young age just should not exist in our vocabulary. Yet in an instant a split second in time we have become experts on the term. 

Now death threatens again, just one week later. My uncle, my moms only brother was found last night on the side of the road. Bloody and bashed with trauma to the head... he’s in the hospital now having emergency brain surgery. 

I have not been angry with God up until this point. I am still not angry with God. But, I feel like I’m being pushed to the edge of a cliff. I feel like the universe is playing a trick on me to see how far I can be pushed until I fall over. 

 I have gone numb again. My brain knows I should be worried and I should be a basket case, and I should be pacing the the hall until I get good news... Until I get the news that the surgery went well and he’s recovering just fine. But no I sit on the couch numb and void of emotion. It makes me feel like a robot or a zombie with no soul. 

waiting

Today marks four months that I’ve been alive without my beautiful husband. How have I walked this earth for four months without him by my side? How have I taken each and every breath I’ve taken to sustain life without him on this earth? Each and every second that passes seems unbearable so how is it that the seconds have turned to minutes, minutes gave way to hours and then turned into days, and now days have become months ... 

I feel like it has only been a just few weeks since he was so violently ripped from this world. I feel like I was widowed just yesterday. Have I really been able to claim the title for four months now?

I wonder, when will it really sink in. I know that he is dead, I know that I won’t hear the door click unlocked in the morning when he returns home from a long shift at the firehouse. I know that I’ll never hear him say “ I love you babe” , or feel his strong arms hold me close to him as I fall asleep at night. I know all of the things I miss and grieve for... I just can’t yet fully comprehend it. I cannot fully comprehend the finality of it all. Is this really my life now? 

Every day this feeling just looms over me ... I feel as if I am waiting, just waiting and waiting. What am I waiting for? I have no clue. It is not a conscience decision to wait made within my brain. It must be a sub-conscience feeling manifested in my heart and soul. You see deep down my heart and soul is waiting for El to come home, or to communicate with me, or to just let me feel his love once again. My heart and soul believes that our love is stronger than death. So I wait and I wait and I wait ...

washed away

He’s not here , I’d hoped to find him, feel him at least just a little bit. Find some peace a brief moment of acceptance but it’s not here. I’m searching for something that cannot be found. I thought that maybe if I could get away from home, from all the distractions I could maybe just maybe feel a tiny bit closer to him— instead all I have found are metaphors. Metaphors that keep reminding me just how far apart we really are.

Just as quickly as the surf can wash away writing in the sand, my life was washed away in an instant. I carved Elliott’s name on the beach just above the tide line. I wanted to take a picture as a physical representation that he was on my mind (as always, every second of the day). Just as I had finished crossing the last “T” and dotting the “I” with a heart the tide came in and washed it away before I even had a chance to turn on the camera. I thought “of course, how ironic.” The water erased Elliott from the sand before I was ready—just as the bullet erased him from my life. How can a matter of seconds— a succession of events line up so perfectly that It can fundamentally change my world forever? There are so many questions and no answers. 

I thought I would hike down a trail to a beach near the condo I’m staying at. Maybe I could find him there... The trail was steep and long. On the way down my foot slipped and I fell down and busted my knee. As I sat there staring at the blood I felt numb for a few seconds. Then the sting from the scrapes quickly reminded me that unfortunately I am still alive, still a widow. I thought dammit if only I could have slid a little farther I may have went over the edge and bumped my head on a tree or something. I could have gone home, home to where my husband is. But no, instead I was halfway down a trail to a beach with a bloody knee and a broken heart. I decided to keep going, and eventually made it to the beach. I did a little bit of reading and a lot of crying. The way back up was harder than I expected my knee was killing me and the trail was so steep. I thought this is just like my freaking life. I have to climb this huge hill all beat up and scared, the hill of widowhood, grief, anger, confusion ... Halfway up I stopped, huffing and puffing, short of breath I yelled at Elliott  “WHERE ARE YOU, I NEED YOU NOW, I CAN’T  DO THIS WITHOUT YOU.” I need him more than ever to help me tackle what the world has thrown my way, to help me navigate the giant hills ahead. But he doesn’t answer when I call out to him. I am alone and I’m going to be climbing for a long time, with no end in sight.

I don’t feel that being the one who gets to live is a gift, it feels more like a curse, a life sentence to grief, sadness and loneliness. It feels like torture to be the one left behind, the one who can’t see the other side, the one who can’t hear the other, the one who misses the other with every fiber of their body and soul. I want to live for the both of us but how do you live for two when half of you is missing ? I love you El even if I get mad because I can’t hear you, I know your probably frustrated too. I just want to feel you babe. Please let me feel you soon.

" just throw me a bone"

... AAAARRRRRGGGGHHHH.  I love my dogs. I love my dogs. I love my dogs. But sometimes I feel like they are trying to sabotage what little sanity I have left. I just caught Holly peeing on our new rug. A rug El and I bought a few weeks before he was killed. I had a hunch that she was starting to use it as a potty pad now that it is getting cold outside. But now I'm positive. I yelled and chased her to the kennel, I scared her, now I feel bad. Both her and Bison bark at everything, and he is lifting his leg to claim whatever he feels like in the house. I just can't deal with the doggy issues right now. I'm sure they are suffering, I know they miss Elliott too.

 Elliott got of the Marine Corps  6 months before I did . We got Holly right around that time, El and her would just lay on the couch all day and cuddle while I was at work at the squadron. They created a special bond. I remember being at work and just wanting to go home so bad to El and our new puppy.

Flash forward to our civilian lives we got Bison as a rescue that my mom brought up from California. I was jealous because El got all the puppy love. Both our dogs would always choose to cuddle with him over me.  He used to tell me it was because I would "mess with them too much". I can't just let them sleep I want to pet them, hold their paws, hug them, tug on their furry little ears. Elliott was always so calm and relaxed, he would just let them do their thing. Hence, they always chose him to curl up with when ever he was home. Secretly I loved that they loved him, I would have chose him too If I wear them. 

 I'm sure they sense the shift of energy in the house, the sadness, grief, anxiety , and confusion. They have never been perfect, but they are ours. They have always had their issues ( small dog syndrome ), but without El here it seems to be intensified. How can I manage everything by myself. Can't the pups just see how broken I am. Can't they just say "let's be good for our mom, she's really sad." I don't want to get mad at them I love them, Elliott loved them. They are important members of our family. 

I remember Elliott and I would lay in bed at night and talk about the day when one of our pups might pass away. It would almost bring us to tears. He would say " I want Holly and Bison to live forever." I just can't believe that it's Elliott who is gone. We never really contemplated him or I going before one of the puppies. But he did, he was killed and he's gone, and I miss him, and the pups miss him. I know we are all trying to work it out. I just wish the dogs could work with me, not against me. I know I need to implement some more training, but " who the HELL has time for that" when your trying to figure out what It means to loose the love of your life, to have half your soul missing, to be a young widow. Elliott can't you just pull some strings up there and "throw me a bone", talk to the pups, tell them to behave.  

 ... I know you would if you could. I love you. I need you.

stuck on stupid

I had planned on a long post today, I even journaled about what I was going to write. There are quite a few topics bouncing around in my head. I sat here and edited pictures to add and started typing a few different times. The words just wouldn't flow. I just don't have the energy to write about the things I want to. I just hate that. I hate that I have ideas I want to share and things I want to say but I just can't. It's like I get stuck, I feel stupid and confused. I guess it's the " widow brain ". I have the thoughts, but I can't express them in a way that would make sense.  There is nothing that makes sense to me anymore. I want to write but all I can do is Stare at the wall.