What Does Grief Look Like Now?

Hi, hello. How are you, dear friends?

Things are just fine here. Quiet. (A good thing.) We’ve managed to scrape through another Buffalo winter, so that's something.

Ingrid is sporting a new ‘do with self-styled bangs (yes, I finally hid all of the scissors), and I’ve discovered the simple pleasure of ordering cheap trinkets from Wish.com (coping at its finest).

As far as my health, I'm feeling mostly good, physically. Also:

• Had a clear MRI in December.
• I see my oncologist every other month.
• Getting a monthly Zoladex injection. In. ma. belly! 
• Doing the Tamoxifen thang. 

It’s taken some tweaking, but I think I’ve finally arrived at a healthy combination of meds, counseling, and a go-with-the-flow attitude that has led me to where I am now: mostly peaceful/groovy/happy, with periodic smackdowns with grief (who is a muscly and mean jerk, and I am neither of those things, so you can guess who usually wins).

So, 10 Months Out. What Does Grief Look Like Now?

Grief looks like going days at a time without so much as a single tear. And then one day: all the tears.

Grief looks like guilt. Guilt for accepting a boy’s number at a bar. Guilt for not being sad all the time. Guilt for cooking all the foods Paul hated and watching all the girly shows he couldn’t stomach, and being super happy about it.

Grief looks like spending Valentine’s Day eating questionable amounts of cheese while weepily watching Little Women.

Grief looks like family fun days at Bounce Magic or the Science Museum. It looks like everyday family stuff: forgetting to pay bills, complaining about winter, discovering new nail polish “art” on the wall.

Grief looks like exhaustion. Mixed with joy. Mixed with hope. Tastefully seasoned with a spoonful of "frig the world, I do what I want." 

Grief looks like inventing new family holiday traditions. Inventing a whole new life, actually. One that makes sense for Ingrid and me.

Grief looks like a lot of coffee. And a fair amount of gin.

When I'm not trying to wrestle grief to the ground, I enjoy watching Ingrid write her name in squiggly handwriting or answering her profound questions on life (“Mom, when they bury you, do you get dirt up your nostrils?”)

She talks about death possibly more than most 4-year-olds. Good or bad thing? I don’t know.

I watch her grow, and my heart is exploding, and sometimes I feel so badly that Paul didn’t get to see this. He was taken too soon, and sometimes this makes my grief look like anger. Or more like...this overwhelming heartache, a sort of sickly-sour-guilty feeling that I’m here, watching the sun set over the ocean, and he isn’t.

And, no. I don’t live by the ocean. Ingrid, my sister, and I took a trip to Florida in February, and it was DA BOMB.

Love, Liz

Month 2 Of Widowhood

July has been a month of "firsts." (A pattern I imagine will continue for the remainder of 2018. Or forever. Hard to pinpoint.)

Two weeks ago, I packed up the car and drove Ingrid and myself down to visit my sister-in-law in Philadelphia, which doesn't seem like a big deal (because it isn't) but to me it actually was. I'm stupidly proud that I did this. Clocking in at around seven hours, it was the longest solo road trip I've taken with Ingrid.

I know, I know. People do these kinds of things all the time. But I don't. So I'm rather pleased that I did and also that I managed to squeeze in generous portions of ice cream, pizza, and a Philly cheesesteak into one day.

Happy 4th of July!!!

Ready to explore the Please Touch Museum

Philadelphia's Magic Gardens

I also attended my first wedding without a date this month and it was awesome. Not the going-without-a-date part, but the wedding was beautiful and it was nice to not feel sad for a whole evening. Parts of that day did make me miss Paul, but being surrounded by such joy with people that I love: it's what life is all about.

I've been friends with these ladies for over 25 years. Just lucky that way.

Last week I packed up the car again for a week-long camping trip with my siblings. I've never done anything remotely like this before and I didn't know how it would go, but like no one got poison ivy or eaten by a bear so I'm calling it a mild success. Paul would have been so proud.

I'm so sorry for this, but you know I have to say it: Ithaca. Is. GORGES. 

It's strange to make plans and go on trips without Paul. I want to keep moving forward, to keep living, to show Ingrid every damn beautiful thing on Earth. And I will, only sometimes doing the things that Paul loved to do makes me ache for something I can never get back. Whether it's hiking up a ravine or exploring a new city or dancing to Whitney Houston at my oldest friend's wedding—I just miss sharing those things with the person I loved most in the world.

I don't want you guys to get sick of me talking about Paul and how much I miss him and how sad I am. But I'm pretty sure I get a free pass to be melancholic for, what, a year at least? Or more probably for life. There's no manual for this stuff.

Anyway, I'll keep on keeping on because it's the very least I owe to Ingrid, who whispered to me in bed last night: "Mom, I want to be just like you." (Yes, she's usurped Paul's side of the bed and I am totally fine with it.) So the only option here is to keep showing my little dove how to be strong and brave and resilient and bold. Which, truthfully, isn't much of a challenge since she's already pretty extraordinary on her own.

xoxo,

Liz

Gonna Put The World Away For A Minute

Not to brag—but when I married Paul, I kinda hit the jackpot, family-wise. I gained seven delightful siblings (and their equally wonderful spouses and kids). And Paul's parents are also more than alright. ;)

My mother- and father-in-law are so lovely and so generous, in fact, that they organized a Coleman vacation in Florida this month. Most of us live in places with monstrous winters (Buffalo, Philly, Wisconsin...), so wearing a bathing suit in February felt like an absolute TRIUMPH.

Paul's family is scattered across the map. It's a big deal when they get together. I love being a part of that. I love that Ingrid will grow up being a part of that. Family is, like, where it's at. 

Rockin' the pineapple with plaid. Paul—you're a legend.

"Smile for the camera, Ingrid!"

"What mastectomy?" Inordinately pleased to have found a bathing suit that works.