Still.

The past three nights have been rough. I am experiencing rapid heartbeats again which prevented me from getting a good night sleep. Why do I have these panic attacks just when I am trying to sleep?

I thought I have dealt with my grief the right way. For the past months, I had allowed myself to wallow in my misery. When Ken died, all I did was talk and write about him. It kept him alive - the memories, the laughs, the good times, and even the bad times. I have photos of Ken around the house, in my tablet, as my screensaver. I turned on my computer and say hi to him. I asked him to help me get through the day. He may be gone, but he is in my sight at all times.

I would drive around the county tracing back the road where we have been while listening to his favorite songs. It was hard at first, but now I find it strangely comforting. I conjured him up, I think of what he might say if he was with me - although it cannot be as funny and spontaneous as Ken would have put it.

I also blogged about him incessantly and even though the pain didn’t totally retreat, somehow, it lost its hold on me … until evening comes.

Perhaps because I always end up playing the “what if” game in my mind each night. Once I let it in, it consumed me. I was not so much exhausted with the process of grief, but more about how busy my mind has become with everything but that. I would lay awake at night going over and over How, Why, or What if. I became obsessed, convinced that if I worked out How, I could have change the event and he would still be alive. I also think of all the times I did not tell him I loved him or hugged him, for it is never enough now that he is gone.

It’s almost three months since Ken died but I don’t miss him any less. I can still trace the crater where he once stood. Although slowly I have come to embrace the awful moments, the sad moments, the inevitable times when I remember he’s no longer at the end of the phone, or at the VFW playing cards, or driving somewhere around town.

I am hopeful though that sadness, like everything, is not permanent.

Jim and I will visit you on Memorial Day, Ken. Till then.

Empty Closet.

Cleaning out Ken’s closet presented a significant challenge. It's amazing how much clothes he accumulated over the years.

It became obvious to me that before I met him he liked seeing an overstuffed closet because it mean he can put off doing laundry one more day. Actually, Ken rarely shops, but when he does, he always end up buying more clothes than he can wear.

As I was taking each item out, I cried and was blind sighted by grief. It is because I find mementos of things we did together in the pockets of his shirt and jackets - ticket stubs, handwritten notes, receipts and toothpicks. Yes, lots of toothpicks. As I went through each item, certain memories came to mind. I savored these memories and allowed myself to drown in whatever feeling it manifests.

My tears turned into sobs and smiles into laughter. And it felt perfectly okay.

I knew I have to give away his clothes, shoes, and other personal item because seeing them in his closet was more than I could bear. They gave the impression that he would be back. But of course, he won't.

By the way, when I say “cleaning out the closet,” it is not just the bedroom. It included his work office, the garage, the basement, the shop and the pile of papers that have accumulated since he died.

I started boxing up his belongings. Every shirts, and pants, and vests and jackets. I packed every bit of his that remained.

Or so I thought.

When I looked at the basement closet I saw an organized chaos that comprise the packed spaced room. More work clothes, boots, more jackets. It was evident that he had not accessed the basement closet in years. And yet Ken had held on to these things because he was trying to hold on to pieces of his past, much like I was attempting to hold on to pieces of his.

I did not start small. I hauled everything all at once because this is something that must not be repeated. It is an action of permanence. Once these items are removed, they are removed completely. Whether I decide to have a garage sale, donate them to charity, or give them to a friend, they will immediately be put to use by those who need them.

But there were things I couldn't, and wouldn't, part with. The no-brainers were the books from his childhood with inscriptions from his parents. Personal correspondence stayed, and so did name badges for events he attended and old greeting cards. The army jacket, now hangs in my closet next to my own clothes. Very occasionally, I bury my nose in it.

I did not realize that sorting through tangible memories can be more difficult than grappling with the intangible ones. They can shape and reshape memories in my head.

I guess objects, in their very concreteness, tell a more relentlessly truthful story.

Almost "There".

Those of you who had been following my blog would have noticed that I began to write a little bit every week after Ken died. That's because I want to record my current state of emotions. I am not embarrassed to openly express my feelings because they are real and writing about them is something that provided me with an excellent emotional outlet. I wrote some, cried some, reread and cried some more each time I returned to write another post.

You may ask if that's how I am healing my grief. Well, I would be quick to point out that I am doing much more than write. I am taking long walks, driving around the countryside, taking care of things at home and surrounding myself with loving friends and family. You name it, I used every tool available. I also kept on reviewing pictures, slide shows, mementos, letters and cards that will elicit pain because having these feelings helped draw out the anguish in my heart which will ultimately contribute to healing my grief. I do not strive to "get over it" or " move on" from Ken's death. Instead, I woke up each morning confident that Kenny is walking with me into each new adventure I face.

It took some time for me to get here, but I have learned how to walk with my grief. Perhaps because I felt the love and support of many as I moved forward into new days and weeks.

I would like to mention those who have helped me a great deal through this process.

First and foremost are Mick and Patrick. Their support has always been so quiet, unassuming and steady, and I know they would hate me to shout from the rooftop about it. But I have always felt their encouragement, their unconditional acceptance of my choices and the comfort of their presence. While they are sharing the same grief, they continually offer their love and understanding which has meant more to me than I can express.

To Tom, Mike, Randy, Greg and Lisa: While I don’t see you as often as I would like, I want you to know that I thank all of you for embracing me into the family. Please let me know if there is any way I can bring kindness and light into your own life the way you did for me.

I thank those who reached out, who periodically checked on me, dropped by, or sent me wonderful messages. Special shout-out to my family who were with me every step of the way - and still are. I pray for the blessings for what all of you have done and continue to do.

And last but not the least, to Jim. You are a miracle. I don't know any other way to explain how much help you have been lately. You probably helped more than you think you did.

Sleepless in Wells.

I have trouble sleeping last night, as most other nights, in the past three months. So I figured I might as well put my insomnia to good use by blogging about it.

For most people, sleep is not an issue. You turn off the lights, you go to sleep, what’s the big deal?

Then picture this:

It’s almost midnight. I have watched all the shows I have recorded in my DVR, and I’ve finally gotten all settled into bed. My body felt tired but my brain is still thinking leftover thoughts from the day I’ve just had.

Hours go by.

The clock ticked, and I am no closer to falling asleep at 3 a.m. than I was at 10 p.m. Morning comes early and I find myself groggy, grumpy, and more depressed than I was the day before. It's good that I don't have a work to go to or I would not be able to concentrate on my task.

I have had more nights like this than I would like to admit.

Most times I told myself that this is just a result of being knocked off the loop. I still felt the piercing, painful sense of loss and longing. I thought that feeling this way for a few weeks, a few months, or even longer is normal since I am still able to carry out most activities and obligations of daily living. I am sure I am not a typical depressed person who’s thoughts are uniformly gloomy. I do experienced sadness in waves, often a response to some reminder of Ken but they are also interspersed with positive thoughts and memories. I am certain that my life will get back to normal and that I will once again feel like my old self.

But it is still a pain in the butt to have routinely restless nights, to find it hard to fall asleep or stay asleep, to toss and turn and watch the clock, to feel too tired to get up but not tired enough to fall asleep.

Also because my eyes look tired all the time. Oh well...

Thank you, Kenny.

There is discipline in A Soldier you can see it when he walks,
There is honor in A Soldier you hear it when he talks.
There is courage in A Soldier you can see it in his eyes,
There is loyalty in A Soldier that he will not compromise.
There is something in A Soldier that makes him stand apart,
There is strength in A Soldier that beats from his heart.

A Soldier isn't a title any man can be hired to do,
A Soldier is the soul of that man buried deep inside of you.
A Soldier's job isn't finished after an 8 hour day or a 40 hour week,
A Soldier is always A Soldier even while he sleeps.
A Soldier serves his country first and his life is left behind,
A Soldier has to sacrifice what comes first in a civilian's mind.

If you are civilian - I am saying this to you.....
next time you see A Soldier remember what they do.
A Soldier is the reason our land is 'Home of the free',
A Soldier is the one that is brave protecting you and me.
If you are A Soldier - I am saying this to you.....
Thank God for EVERY SOLDIER Thank God for what YOU do!

~ by Angela Goodwin ~

One Down, More To Go.

Ken has lived in this same house for over thirty years - this house where so many memories linger.

It is so hard to be in the same house without him. This is his house, and it felt like he should be here, just around the corner in the kitchen or in the TV room. Every space is filled with his life – his medicines and classic car magazines, his tools and his cards.

His belonging surrounds me.

From his shaving kit in the bathroom, his hearing aids on the night stand, to his keys by the door. Everywhere I turn there is a reminder of Ken.

Although some of these items can be comforting, many, are just small and painful reminders of his absence in the house. There is a part of me, which want to leave the house the way it is, a perfect time capsule.

How could I possibly change this house where Ken has lived half of his life? I want so much to hold on to everything forever.

But I know I can’t. There it is. It sucks. So what do I do?

Sadly, the reality is that there are some items that need to get taken care of sooner rather than later and sometimes big decisions need to be made. Add to that, there is no getting around it. Logic tells me that I need to sell some of his belongings and I know I can part with them without feeling guilty.

The other day, I sold his truck.

The trip from the house to the buyer was incredibly difficult, because let’s face it - I am letting go of something that Ken is so proud to have. Driving behind the truck on our way to the buyer was quite emotional because it triggered memories of our many trips around the countryside. But as tears started to well up my eyes, I realized that I may have given up the truck but I am keeping the most precious item – the wonderful memories of our life together that I can revisit over and over again.

With that in my mind, I felt better and was able to go through the sell without breaking down.

Next stop, the daunting task of clearing his shop, his closet and selling more motor vehicles.

God help me.

Grief 101.

If death is inevitable, irreversible and universal, then why was I not equipped with the first-hand knowledge of how to deal with it?

I was not taught in school the subject titled GRIEF. I did not have the subject of grief sandwiched between Math and English. When death invaded my family circle, no one sat down with me to explain how the family dynamics would change. None. It is simply amazing that something as much a part of life as birth we avoid discussing at all cost. No wonder I am so unprepared for the emotions and changes grief brought into my life.

Allow me to walk you through my grief.

When I am paralyzed with grief, it affected me emotionally. I became numb and everything seemed to move in slow motion. I am not sure of what is going on around me as my emotions are unpredictable. I am confused, irritable, depressed, have bouts of weeping, afraid and angry. I felt helpless, lonely, sad, guilty and I could not concentrate as I am preoccupied with thoughts of Ken.

Then the physical. Grief throws a punch in my gut. It seemed like chemical changes were taking place in my body while I am under duress. I have stomach aches, headaches, tight neck and shoulder muscle, difficulty sleeping, racing heartbeat, lack of appetite, nervousness, difficulty breathing, chest pains, and fatigue.

I also struggle spiritually with grief. As a logical creature that love control, I am always trying to connect the dot to make sense of something. But when I am being forced to accept the death of my husband, there really is no connecting of the dots. I have to accept that I can not be God and that I too will die some day. But even that in mind, I still become irritable, withdrawn, felt abandoned, distant and isolated.

Death affected me emotionally, physically and spiritually. It is monumental. Grief feels like an emotional bottomless pit.

I need rest.

Some people say that keeping one self busy may help. But I don't feel like going back to work right now as I feel emotionally and physically exhausted. I need more time to calm my mind. It is simply too difficult for me to think about the next hour much less the next day or month.

Hey, don't worry. Things will get better. I will survive.