Not Today, Cancer

This Is What True Self-Care Looks Like

Things I didn't expect to make me sad:

The opening musical sequence of Moana (the three of us LIVED for that movie last summer)
Rick and Morty (in what universe does Rick and Morty make someone sad??? I know. Just...that show made Paul laugh harder than almost anything. And I reaaallly miss that.)
Seeing Ingrid sit at Paul's usual spot at the kitchen table.
Google notifications suggesting I share photos with Paul.
And oh LAWD, this: remember Paul's "Ingrid Journal?" No? It's a notebook where Paul wrote letters to Ingrid over the last year. I've been keeping my distance from it. Simply a matter of self-preservation. (I know it's going to destroy me.) Until yesterday. Yesterday, I decided to move it into the closet and I thought, "I'll just read one. One won't hurt." And wouldn't you know, I opened to a page that started with:

"Hey Liz. I'm putting this one in here for you as a surprise."

I sat down to read it. Then I read it again. And again. It was so perfectly Paul. Sweet, but not syrupy. Peppered with his signature tongue-in-cheek humor.

It was painful to read. But so good to hear from him.

I also just re-read my last blog post, and it made me uneasy. Because I was all "Look at me coping so magnificently! I'm traveling and doing things and I'm totally kicking butt at being a widow." And I wonder—am I making grief look too easy?

Because, um, it's not. It's wretched. I'm not sad all day, every day. But I'm definitely sad every single day for at least part of the day. I cry every day. Sometimes for an hour. Sometimes for two minutes. But. Every. Dang. Day.

I find that one way I've been dealing with things is by not dealing with them. In an attempt to not feel my feelings, I've been throwing myself into a number of projects around the house. Translation: my home is beginning to resemble a DIY Pinterest board, and I need help.

When you're rearranging furniture in 90-degree weather and you can't distinguish your perspiration from the tears rolling down your cheeks—something's gotta give.

Which brings me to the subject of self-care.

If you're active on any social media platform, you've no doubt encountered this ubiquitous term encouraging you to eat designer cupcakes in a lavender-scented bubble bath while listening to Enya.

While self-care can mean different things to different people, I, for one, am not a fan of the popularized "treat yo'self" version. The version that tells us all our troubles will melt like lemon drops if we just put ourselves first and get a pedicure instead of, oh I don't know—actually dealing with things in a real and appropriate way.

Not that I don't love myself a wee shopping spree in the sales rack of Anthropologie. Or indulging in one of Wegman's Ultimate Chocolate Cakes just for kicks.

I love shopping. I seriously love Wegman's Ultimate Chocolate Cake.

But I don't think it's wise to equate those things with "taking care of myself."

Self-care isn't a day at the spa

DEPRESSION: you can’t just drink tea and do a face mask and expect me to disappear

ME: *painting nails* haha what ?? cant hear you over all the Self Care

D: seek professional help

M: *puts lemon slice in my water* lmao bet
— ditch pony (@molly7anne) June 10, 2018

Self-care, like so many things, has been commodified into something we can conveniently buy at the mall. If you want to be healthy and whole you need to purchase this face mask or that bestselling novel or this detox tea.

Ultimately, though, those things just serve as distractions from our lives. And remind me: why do we want to be distracted from our lives? Wouldn't our time be better spent trying to fix our lives instead of taking periodic "breaks" from them?

Hashtaggable and pretty, this self-care craze usually aligns with the idea that to be healthy and whole, we need to be actively "doing" all the time. Reading on the beach. Going to the salon. Lighting candles.

Raise your hand if "doing more stuff" sounds like the opposite of how you want to achieve a peaceful state of mind? I can't be the only one.

True self-care doesn't have to be about "doing." It can be about not doing. It can be about lowering our expectations instead of always seeking perfection. It can be as simple as demanding less of ourselves.

We practice true self-care when we learn ways to enjoy the incongruous imperfections of our lives, instead of hiding from them nose-deep in bath suds.

True self-care isn't cutesy. It's not even easy, sometimes. It's about doing things you might not enjoy doing—like creating a budget, seeing a dentist, or cutting out dairy.

As for myself, it's making an appointment with a grief counselor.

Not an event I'll be Instagramming any time soon. But one that will do more for my mental health than splurging on overpriced skincare products.

Stay awesome,
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

Life's Not A Paragraph, And Death I Think Is No Parenthesis

You know when you've put something off because it's unpleasant, and then it becomes harder and harder to bring yourself to do it, and then it snowballs into such an overwhelming task that you throw your hands up like "to heck with this!" and proceed to re-watch The Great British Baking Show every night instead of writing?

It's been four weeks since Paul died. And while I'm not ready to write about his death just yet, I can say that it was mostly peaceful, and we were with him the moment he drew his last breath.

Saturday would have been our sixth wedding anniversary. Six good years, but not enough of them.

People keep asking how I'm doing and my response is usually something along the lines of "I'm okay. That is—at this exact moment in time, I'm okay. Ask me again in five minutes and I'll possibly be bawling into a bag of Doritos."

I guess that's grief? This is all new terrain. I've never grieved over anyone's death before. I've been sad about death, yes. I've cried at funerals, sure. But this palpable sorrow that washes over me without warning? Uncharted waters, folks.

The sadness feels like repeatedly getting the wind knocked out of you. Normally it strikes at night, after Ingrid is asleep and the world and my mind are finally hushed. But there are also times when it hits unexpectedly, fast and hard.

Last week, for instance, I had an appointment with my oncologist. She's in a new clinic because, um, the oncology clinic I've been going to for the past year and a half went bankrupt. (You can't make this stuff up, people.) Anyway, I was a new patient at this facility, so I had to fill out new patient paperwork.

I sat down with my clipboard and there it was. A blank box next to the label I still haven't quite come to terms with: WIDOW. Right alongside "single" and "married" it stood, aloof and biting. My eyes misted over as I left blank the lines I would normally fill in with Paul's contact info.

I was startled by how much this bothered me. And a little bit embarrassed. Such a small thing, in the grand scheme of things. But here we are.

Ingrid, by the way, is doing wonderfully. At three, death is still too abstract a concept for her to grasp, and maybe that makes things easier. She'll drop it into conversation intermittently and casually, like she's discussing the plot of Frozen or her favorite cake flavor.

The other day, while waiting at the DMV, Ingrid struck up a conversation with the couple next to us. Thrilled to have an audience, she chirped happily about her cousins and her cat and her toys, and then she hit them with this doozy of a remark:

"My Dad is dead. He was sick. We buried him. My favorite color is pink, but my mom likes green."

So you see, she knows he's dead, but she doesn't understand what that really means.

I desperately want Ingrid to have some memories of Paul, but I don't know if she will. As a member of Paul's Hospice team pointed out, most of us don't have many clear memories of our lives at three years old. What we can remember, though, is the unmistakable feeling of being loved.

That, my friends, she has in abundance.

Light Strikes A Deal With Each Coming Night

I'm pretty careful about what I listen to these days because I'm a great jumble of unchecked emotions and just about anything can (and will) set off waterworks. And when I say "anything" I mean that in the most literal sense. Like yesterday I cried watching a dad tow his kids behind his bike down the street. And then I laughed because that is 100% insane.

Anyway, Spotify thinks it's a fun time to throw in the occasional tune that will oh—just completely destroy me. This is my attempt at paying it forward. Enjoy the cathartic cry.

Each Coming Night by Iron & Wine

Will you say when I'm gone away:

"My lover came to me and we'd lay
In rooms unfamiliar but until now"

Will you say to them when I'm gone away:
"I loved your son for his sturdy arms
We both learned to cradle then live without"

Will you say when I'm gone away:
"Your father's body was judgement day
We both dove and rose to the riverside"

Will you say to me when I'm gone:
"Your face has faded but lingers on
Because light strikes a deal with each coming night"

I'll Follow You Into The Dark

"Most things will be okay eventually, but not everything will be. Sometimes you'll put up a good fight and lose. Sometimes you'll hold on really hard and realize there is no choice but to let go.

Acceptance is a small, quiet room."

- Cheryl Strayed, Author of Wild

At this point, many of you have already heard the latest on Paul through Facebook. For everyone else, here's the scoop:

In my last post, I mentioned we were spending Easter with Paul's family in Wisconsin. But as our two-week visit approached its end, it became more and more evident that Paul wouldn't be making our return flight to Buffalo.

So the three of us are staying at Paul’s childhood home in Oshkosh, Wisconsin where he has entered Hospice care.

We have long considered making Oshkosh Paul's final resting place on this Earth. After observing his almost immediate "release" when the decision was final, I can say with a fair degree of certainty that we chose correctly.

At various points in the last month, every one of Paul’s seven siblings traveled home to spend some precious time with their brother and each other. In true Coleman form, we enjoyed boisterous meals rounded out with a minimum of three to four protein choices. Ingrid bonded with her cousins. My sisters-in-law made sure there was never a shortage of Paul’s favorite cookies (oatmeal raisin, for some reason).

There were things back in Buffalo, though, that needed attention. So I boarded my return flight solo, the empty seats on either side of me stinging reminders of the rotten week ahead.

Originally, the plan was to hit up Orlando after our Wisconsin trip. But instead of scoring autographs from Elsa and Anna, I would be spending the week selecting tasteful memorial cards and scouting out prime burial plots.

Which—have you ever done that? Shopped for burial plots, I mean. It’s weird, right?! I’d compare it to house-hunting with your real estate agent, only slightly less cheery.

“Well, The Good Shepherd Hill has the most scenic treeline, which will be lovely in the summer months. But then you can purchase a package deal if you go with the plots around Ascension Bell. Depends what you’re looking for.”

So. WEIRD.

I fully expected to be wiped out after my cemetery tour. I had anticipated feeling a little drained after drumming up an obituary draft with our funeral director.

What I was less prepared to hit me so hard was the realization that the three of us would never be together in our little home again. Relics from Paul’s last few months in our house were like little knives to my heart every time I discovered them. Things like pill bottles tucked behind picture frames and vials of holy water resting on his bedside table.

It was gutting to see the recliner he’ll never sit in again, the bed he’ll never sleep in again, the flannels he’ll never wear again. Maybe that's dramatic, but as someone who weeps while putting baby clothes in storage, well, you can see how troubling this is for me.

But I survived. I accomplished what I needed to accomplish. Now I'm back in Wisconsin, and we are exactly where we’re supposed to be.

Paul’s days oscillate from “semi-tolerable” to “well, this is the pits.” Some days he can stomach a 20-minute jaunt around the neighborhood in his wheelchair. Some days he can’t get out of bed.

Tearful moments are often followed by welcome stretches of peace. I can only attribute these tranquil periods to the many prayers and well wishes being said on our behalf. That or my meds are triggering some choppy mood swings. Hard to say. Let's go with the former.

Thank you for being with our family in our sorrow. Your continued prayers and kindnesses mean more than I can express adequately here.

Stumbling, But Still Kickin’

A few weeks ago, Paul wiped out on our front walkway.

We had just gotten home after spending 8+ hours in the hospital. I was holding Ingrid who was asleep in my arms, and I didn’t react fast enough to grab him before he fell. Which is weird because every time I replay this scene in my head, Paul is falling in excruciatingly slow motion.

He didn’t even slip on ice or uneven pavement or one of the three small steps that lead up to our house. He is just that weak. Weak to the point where he can hardly walk without assistance anymore.

He just fell backward, like a thin broomstick unable to hold itself upright without a prop. When I heard his head thwack the sidewalk, I winced and (gently) tossed a now-awake Ingrid onto the lawn to rush to his side.

Thankfully, there was a gentleman walking past our house at that exact moment. He secured his dog to a nearby lamppost and helped me hoist Paul to his feet.

Angels among us.

By now, the scrapes on his scalp have healed, but my nerves have yet to recover. I’ve taken to shadowing Paul around the house like a neurotic mother hen, clucking about handrails and muttering in an endless loop, “Be careful, be careful, please dear God be careful. Use your cane, don’t fall, here let me help you.”

“Liz, this is the bathroom.”

“And?”

“And...privacy?”

“Sheesh. Ok. Fine. BUT BE CAREFUL.”

via GIPHY

Last Thursday, we flew to Wisconsin to stay with Paul’s family for two weeks. It’s a good place for us to be right now—but it’s also a hard place to be because it’s terrible watching his family confront the reality that their sweet brother and son is slipping further away from them.

I’m pretty depleted emotionally these days, so you’ll forgive me for being somewhat unresponsive. Also, the laptop bit the dust so I’m typing this on an iPad, which is not ideal.

Love to each and every one of you. 💜

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.