Category Archives: Grief

Baseball cap

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As I was digging through a box of Christmas decorations, I found it. It kind of blended in at first. The red hat against the red Rubbermaid box, next to the red garland and red and white stripped dish.

But it was too faded to be a decoration.

I pushed some stuff out of the way. As soon as my fingers touched it, I knew.

Mike’s “Nebraska Rifle” hat.

He bought that hat while visiting a friend from law school in the Cornhusker State. He wore the hell out of that hat, and 10 years later, it was faded and discolored and O-L-D looking. There was the stain on the back of the hat – from something getting spilled on it when it was left on the kitchen counter one time. There was a small tear on one side – from pulling it free from a barbed wire fence. The front of the hat showed signs of dried sweat – from wearing the hat to mow the yard. It’s a pretty nasty hat.

I sat in the basement, next to the Christmas box, holding the hat. He wore that hat a lot. All the time. He loved baseball caps, but this one… this one was one of his favorites. There were a lot of good times in this hat. Good times from way back.

I put the hat in the box and carried it upstairs.

“Ethan, guess what I found?” I called. “It’s one of Daddy’s favorite hats.”

“Can I have it?” he asked.

“Sure.”

Ethan wore the hat around for a while over Thanksgiving break. (He looked so adorable in it!). He has slept with the hat every night since I found it. Every night he cuddles with the old stinky baseball hat and an old shirt – a few of the only things I have of Mike’s.

I’m not sure how it ended up in the Christmas stuff. Maybe the movers found it in the basement of the old house and just stuck it in a box. Maybe Mike stuck it in there for who-knows-what-reason.

But it’s home now. Home with Ethan.

Grandparents card (alternatively titled “I have no use for assholes in my life”)

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How do I tell Ethan that his dad’s parents are assholes?

Ethan is seven years old, and completely naïve about the tension between the former in-laws and me. He doesn’t know that we’ve never liked each other. Doesn’t know that even his dad didn’t like them. Doesn’t know about the foul behavior at the funeral (WTH steals a crucifix from the coffin?!) or that there hasn’t been any meaningful outreach from them since January.

And most of the time it doesn’t matter. They were never a major part of his life. He saw them once, maybe twice, a year, and they never really engaged with him, just watched him play from across he room. They’ve never called to talk to him or came to a school function or sporting event.

But last Wednesday, Ethan’s school had a grandparents’ day. My mom went and had a lovely time playing games and enjoying snacks with her only grandson. Ethan made a very sweet card for her – and he also made one for Mike’s parents.

He brought it home and asked if we could send it to them.

Truth is, they moved and I don’t have their new address. Super truth: I could get the address if I really wanted to… IF I REALLY WANTED TO. But I don’t want to.

I grew up with one set of asshole grandparents, too. I saw them on occasion, and my parents never swayed me in one direction or another in terms of my feelings for them. I knew some of the horrible stories about their behavior during my mom’s childhood, but my parents were cordial to them.

(SIDE NOTE: My dad’s mom was an amazing grandma, and I miss her very much. My mom’s grandparents – my great grandparents – were incredible, too. From these three amazing people, I learned what “good” grandparents were, how loving they could be. What a real grandma and grandpa can and should be.)

When I was an adult I chose to cut off ties to my mom’s parents completely. There were two situations that made me realize that these were not people I wanted in my life:

  • My grandmother spread a horrible lie about Mike and his behavior at my cousin’s wedding. Not only was the situation untrue, but the person who was supposedly the victim of Mike’s outburst was not even at the wedding.
  • My grandmother confronted me at the funeral of my grand grandfather, wagging her finger in my face and screaming, “Who do you think you are?” simply because I went over-and-above to find his favorite flowers. (All of the yellow roses in the area were gone – sent to California for the Rose Bowl. I made a few calls, worked some of my professional contacts, and found yellow roses for the funeral arrangements.) This woman went on to accuse me of performing sexual favors to get an internship at one of the world’s top companies in my field.

That was it. When they sent holiday cards, I marked them “refused, return to sender.” They were not invited to my wedding, not informed when Ethan was born, not invited to any celebrations.

I realized in my twenties that genetics does not make someone worthy of the title “grandma” or “grandpa” (or any other familial title…). Someone genetically linked to you might be a good match for a kidney transplant, but that doesn’t make them a nice, loving person. And you DON’T have to surround yourself with assholes – genetically linked to you or not.

(SIDE NOTE: About three years ago, my parents patched up their relationship with my mom’s parents. I was as polite as necessary when forced to be around them, but I did not go out of my way. I did not attend the funeral of my mom’s mom a few years ago, who was the major source of the drama and conflict. And while I do not have a strong desire to have a close relationship with my mom’s dad, he will be spending Christmas at my house, as she requested. I still do not call him “grandpa” as that is a title he does not deserve – I only refer to him by his first name, even to his face. My kids call him “great grandpa” and when they are older, they can decide for themselves if they want a relationship with him.)

That’s kind of the approach I have with Mike’s family. I won’t proactively reach out – I have no reason to. Hell, I have NOTHING nice to say to them. They know where I am, how to get in touch with me and the kids. Ethan and Lauren will know the stories when they’re older. They can decide for themselves if they want to (try to) have a relationship with them.

Until then, I have a grandparents’ card on my kitchen island.

Holidays

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I’m really looking forward to the holidays this year.

I feel like that’s weird and that many widows dread the holidays, especially the first – I’ve seen it on an online forum for widows that I regularly visit, I’ve read it on other widows’ blogs, the peer grief group handed out a 12 page document on dealing with the holidays.

But I can’t wait.

Last year, the kids, my mom, the dog and I were in a tiny corporate-housing apartment. We had Thanksgiving dinner at Cracker Barrel. We didn’t have any of our baking stuff, so there were no homemade holiday cookies or breads. Our Christmas decorations were in storage so we had a cheap fake tree with cheap, meaningless ball ornaments.

It wasn’t the same. It didn’t feel like the holidays.

The year before, Mike was in bad shape. He didn’t have Thanksgiving dinner with us, and he and I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day fighting. He didn’t even help bring the kids’ presents down and put them under the tree. The tension was incredible and it wasn’t fun for anyone. THAT was a sucky holiday season.

Thinking back even further, and knowing that Mike’s alcoholism started LONG before I knew about it, most of our holidays as a family were not good. Not the way I wanted them to be. Not the memories I want for my kids.

I have AMAZING memories of holidays with my parents. The holidays were my favorite time of the year. Both my parents had rough childhoods, and they made sure that the holiday season was over-the-top for us. Feeling the love of family. Creating incredible memories. Telling stories of holidays past. And, of course, the presents – every one picked with love and care, specially selected for the recipient. There’s only one word for the seasons’ memories that I have: love.

I always wanted to instill these kind of happy memories in my kids, but Mike and his family never did much for the holidays. There were no stockings. No big dinners (unless you count the men-eat-first-thing). No stories about each and every ornament on the tree. Presents weren’t meaningful or personal. I know Mike liked the ideas of my family’s traditions, but he just didn’t GET them, didn’t understand how to LIVE them.

This is going to be different. I’m writing the story now. I get to dictate the memories my kids will have.

My mom has already taken over the dining room and kitchen for holiday baking. She’s planning dozens and dozens of cookie trays for family, friends and neighbors. She’s made a dozen kinds of sweet breads. The kids helped her decorate sugar cookies and press cookies over the weekend. Tiny pies and cookie bars have been made and frozen already. And peanut butter balls and more cookies are on the agenda for this week. It smells like the holidays everyday when I come home. It’s lovely.

We’ve planned the Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner menus. Thanksgiving will be small, just us. And since I don’t eat turkey, we’re not having a “traditional” menu, but it will be grand and festive nevertheless. And we’re inviting my mom’s dad to stay with us for Christmas, which will be nice.

My Christmas shopping is nearly finished. My mom and I are avid Black Friday shoppers, and we couldn’t go together last year. (My previous job was heavily focused on retail, and I had to work. I still hit the stores before going into the office at 5 a.m., but it wasn’t the same going alone, without my mom.) Lauren is going to “baby school” (daycare), and Ethan will be at the tae kwon do studio all day. I’m very excited about spending some one-on-one time with my mom – and finishing my shopping.

I’m planning on decorating over the Thanksgiving break. It’s a week earlier than I normally do, but I just can’t wait. I want my tree, my ornaments, the needlework canvases my grandma made – I want it to look like Christmas exploded in the house.

(SIDENOTE: I knew as soon as I saw my current house that it is the perfect holiday home. The HUGE windows, the two-story entryway. Before I even made an offer, I knew where I’d put the Christmas tree and I pictured evergreen garland on the upstairs railings. I.Can’t.Wait!)

Ethan has already commented that it will be the first holiday without his dad (which technically isn’t true since Mike was living with his parents last holiday, and he kept canceling plans to see the kids). So there will be some tough times, I’m sure.

But it’s time to start creating memories for these kiddos. Something good. Something positive. Something happy. Something they can take forward to their kids and their grandkids.

It’s time to celebrate.

Only parenting

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Mike and I were separated when he died, so mentally, I was prepared to be a single mom. I had been thinking about it for months before we the court order that removed him from my home.

I knew it would be difficult. I knew there would be challenges, but being the kind of overplanning-kind-of-person I am, I was ready to be a single mom.

Given his condition, I knew Mike wouldn’t have a dominant role for the first year or two, but he’d be “there” by phone or Skype or the occasional supervised visitation. But, hell, he was GOING to pull his shit together – he was going to get BETTER, or so I believed.

When he was better, he’d have weekends, holidays, summers with the kids. And then I’d have a free weekend, or a kid-less couple of weeks over the summer. I had plans with that “free” time.

Things don’t always go according to plan.

There’s a big difference between being a “single” mom and being an “only” parent. Differences I’m just starting to realize 10 months after Mike’s death.

Being an “only” is exhausting. There is no time away, no time to refresh, no downtime. You’re always “on” no matter how much you just want to be “off” for a while longer. There’s no end in sight, no waiting until the other parent’s weekend. I’m actually jealous of “single” parents.

Before Mike slipped into a bottle of vodka, we were a good team.

  • When I reached the end of my rope, he was still calm and rationale, and vice versa.
  • If he had a bad day at work and needed a break when he came home, I was there to take Ethan (Lauren was born AA – after alcoholism), entertain him, keep him away until Mike found his peace – and vice versa.
  • On weekends, one of us could always sleep in while the other handled breakfast and other morning rituals. For parents of kids who always wake up by 6 a.m., an extra hour or two of sleep can make or break the day.

We tagged-team parented a lot. It worked for us.

Since Mike’s death, I’ve learned to have more patience and that’s good. But patience only goes so far when there’s no parental backup – and I’m still nowhere near as patient as I should be.

I have a few friends who have volunteered to take the kids when I need a break. (One divorced mom friend even really “gets it.” She’s mentioned the “only” parent thing without me ever discussing it. I cried that someone acknowledged it!)

But I don’t like to ask for help. And if I did take my kids to a friend’s house or drop them off for a few hours, I’d probably be so worried about them, and feel so guilty that I NEEDED the break, that I wouldn’t be able to relax. (God, what if Ethan talks about how much beer his dad drank – which is a favorite topic of conversation right now? What if Lauren freaks out? Am I letting the kids down by needing an escape?)

Being an “only” parent isn’t where I thought I’d be, and I often wonder how I got here. But “only parent” is now our normal. I just need to get comfortable with it, figure it out, come to terms with it. I’m not complaining or asking for sympathy, just realizing there’s a big difference between the two distinctions. Being an “only” parent is what I am now.

My Dad

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I haven’t blogged about him much, but sometimes I feel more sad about losing my dad than I do about my husband’s death. I usually only cry about Mike’s death when I think about the impact on my kids. But with my dad… I cry at the thought of him and that he’s gone.

My dad holding Ethan for the first time. He called E his “little buckaroo.”

I was always very close to my dad. He was a terrific father, an incredible role model, a loving (but demanding) husband, and an unbelievable friend. He was so smart – he was full of facts on an incredible array of subjects. He was the funny one, the guy who would light up a room just by being there. His wit was quick and he had a great laugh. God, how I miss his laugh. (SIDENOTE: I make myself think about his laugh and the way he said, “Jackie’s home!” several times a week. I don’t ever want to forget the sounds.)

He had his flaws, but he was the most incredible man I’ve ever known. He loved Mike, taking my husband under his wing and acting like a father-figure to him. He adored Ethan, spending hours with my son teaching him about fishing and tractors. He loved my mom with an incredible passion.

But I was his favorite.

Many times, I would be the one to have the “tough” conversations with him. My mom would tell me about something that she couldn’t address with him (usually because she knew if she brought up certain topics – like his health, he would not be receptive, and they would argue). But I could talk to him about anything – and he would listen.

From the time I started college to the time of his death, we talked everyday. Sometimes we talked for hours about politics or family drama. Sometimes we talked for five minutes (“Hey, turn on this random TV show – you won’t believe it!”). Sometimes we talked five or six times a day. But we talked. Often. About everything and anything.

The last six or seven years of his life were difficult. A couple of heart attacks and two strokes made him move a little slower. He didn’t want to be as social as he once was. He didn’t leave the property as much. But he was still very much my dad.

My dad died suddenly, in his sleep, at a relative’s house. He and my mom were staying overnight with family, and at some point, a blood clot traveled from his leg to his lungs. He probably went very quickly, which is a relief.

I’m thankful that he got to “meet” Lauren. I’m thankful that the kids and I stayed with my parents for a week before he died and that we created some new memories while we were there. I’m thankful that he died peacefully. I’m thankful that he didn’t know about Mike’s drinking – it would have broken his heart.

But I hate that he’s gone.

My dad and Ethan picking wild berries on their last adventure together. My dad would die three days later.

EDITED: As expected, I cried through writing this entire post. I’ve gone through four tissues and I think my makeup is unsalvageable at this point (awesome since I don’t teach until 2 today…) I miss my dad…