Stop and Gaze

I signed up for a workshop that focuses on writing your grief. There are daily prompts to guide the day’s writing, and sometimes it is easy to put my thoughts together. Sometimes it is not.

One of the exercises I literally rolled my eyes at when I first read it. We were to open a newspaper (who has any of those anymore?) and randomly pick words to put together in a poem of sorts. The story behind why was beautiful, but the practice itself seemed, for lack of a better word, dumb to me. Until I did it. I grabbed a copy of a fitness magazine off my bedroom floor and decided to see what jumped out at me.

The exercise ended up being enjoyable, who knew? So I’ve decided to share my “found poem” here and I highly recommend you try this, even just for the entertainment of sharing with friends. The poems don’t have to be deep, they can even be funny. Just give it a try and see what you come up with.

Take care of your body and brain
Meditative bliss still eluding you?
The process takes two hours
Why not devote some effort?
The big guns obviously aren’t for everyone

Barely visible
Erased
Breathing problems
10 seconds
Tools to soothe
Move forward

What’s making you feel happy and grateful?
Sounds a little like medicine
Being bold
A new way
Joyful
Feeds your soul

It isn’t real
The perfect evening
Mornings are hard
Recover and get stronger
Fierce
More deeply

Plenty of time
Cutting back
Keep calm
An adventure
Spiritually awake
Stop and gaze

Magic

This Date Is Difficult

I’ll always wonder who you might have been.

I’m not the first nor will I be the last person to share that quote and sentiment, but it’s one that reverberated throughout my head and my heart space today.  January 13 carries a dual burden in the “Krissie’s Rolodex of Difficult Dates.”  It’s somewhat amazing one person can remember so many terrible incidents.  Trust me, I remember the good dates as well, but the hard ones, the really gut-wrenching, soul-shattering hard ones, are a bit clustered together and so they pop up quite easily.

January 13, 2018 was the day I was supposed to be giving birth, going by the last menstrual period of the cycle I got pregnant for the first time.  Dan and I had been married for only six months when we started trying.  Being 34, I was a bit worried that my age would be a hurdle.  On our third month of trying, I excitedly showed Dan the positive pregnancy test and we did as normal young adults do and began planning it all our in our heads.  We planned who we would tell first and when, we talked of names and if either of us cared what we might be having.  At six weeks, in a very traumatizing ultrasound appointment, I experienced true, raw grief for the first time in my life.  There was no heartbeat, no baby.  We’d come back a week later to confirm, and then schedule the first of many surgeries to remove and then fix what removing that failed pregnancy did.  If I had known I had a structural problem ahead of time, I’d have a two year old toddler with me right now.  The gravity of the reality that never came to be hits me like truckload of pianos every now and then.  Grief has visited me, quite often, ever since.

I sometimes wonder about my never-to-be two year old, especially around times of pregnancy announcements, gender reveals, baby showers, and birth posts.  Would I have wanted any of those things had it not gone so wrong?  Were they a boy or a girl?  Would they want to be a boy or a girl?  What would their name have been?  Would their eyes be as deep brown as Dan’s or a little lighter like mine?  Whose nose would they have?  Would they want to play soccer like Mom and Dad?  Would they understand when I explained to them their Dad got really sick and was sorry he couldn’t see them grow up?  Would I be enough to fill both of those roles?

Some might tell me the miscarriage was a dodged bullet, because certainly going through Dan’s terminal cancer while also caring for a baby would have been impossible.  It might have seemed that way, but I would have done it.  I would go back and alter whatever past event I could to have Dan be the father he wanted to be, even if it was just for a painfully short time.  And that drive is what led us to trying again, in spite of his cancer’s resistance to chemo, in spite of all the signs that he was already heading towards the end.  We pushed on because all of our dreams were crumbling in front of us, and it was one dream we didn’t want to give up on.

I loved Dan with every ounce of my being, so much that I stuck countless needles into my stomach and butt to try to make him a father before cancer took him from this earth.  I hate needles.  I mean, pass out on the floor HATE needles.  I remember the smile on his face the day we transferred our embryo, our 6BB.  That smile was worth every stinging syringe I stuck in my belly, every inch of bloat and discomfort, every “deep breath, okay you can do this” pep talk I had with myself as I plunged what looked like the world’s longest strip of steel in the side of my ass-cheek.  All of that was worth seeing his smile when I told him I loved him and that I was heading back to transfer.

I will always wonder who 6BB might have been.  Dan wouldn’t have made it to the birth, he was already too weak to be at the transfer.  January 13, 2019.  We threw our last seconds of the game, hail-mary pass into the air.  But nine days later, we’d find out it didn’t work.  Hours after that call, Dan would pass to whatever is on the other side of living, and leave me with the ruins of the life we tried to have.  How different grieving this past year would have been with a pregnancy and baby.  How many places I would not have seen, nor people I may have met, had that last ditch effort worked.  Some might call that a blessing.  But for me, it’s not so easy.  In the deepest parts of my soul, I’d exchange every beautiful sunset, every breath-taking mountainscape, every moment of wonder at the world’s canvas, every incredible human I’ve had the pleasure of sharing space with for Dan and either of our potential children to be here.

I’m left now with the biggest decisions of my life to make, and no life partner to make them with.  I have to weigh how much I want to see things through, versus how much I may need to run in the opposite direction to find my way through life.  I have to ask myself, at my very core, can I take the heartache alone?  Can I handle the disappointment by myself?  Or do I walk away from all of it, and let it rest with Dan and the wonderful, amazing memories of him?

Where do you go from here?

January 13, you’re a bastard of a date now.  I’ll always wonder who you might have been.

Here We Go

Writing the first post of a blog always seems daunting to me and often (as is the case with restarting my blog) arrests any start I intend to make.  I procrastinate and put it off for some time when I will feel more “inspired.”  And then the questions roll in.  How am I going to grab the reader’s attention?  Do I give a lengthy backstory on what brought me here?  Should I just spit facts and details to flesh out who I am, or think I am, at this point in time?  Or do I just throw the reader in the middle of things?

How many books and stories and movies have we encountered where that is exactly where we start the journey.  Smack dab in the thick of it.  We have no idea yet what brought this character to their current predicament or where they are going next.  We get sucked into the moment and, piece by piece, the story fleshes itself out.  We are given tidbits and insights along the way, much like you would when meeting a fellow traveler on a lengthy trip.  Initially you are complete strangers, and maybe by the end you have shared intimate details you wouldn’t dream of dispensing to your closest friends.

A lot of things have brought me to resurrect blogging.  In the past, I was pretty peripheral and terrible about it.  The fluffiness of my running/fitness blog isn’t something I mention to many people, and yet there is still a small attachment to it.  As is evident by my refusal to ditch the handle “phillynerdgirl” in spite of coming up with it more than 7 years ago.  I’m a sentimental person, and the juvenile-seeming handle is not spared from that.  It really has nothing to do with the content of this blog while at the same time having everything to do with it.  I am a girl, I am a nerd, and the major city that has my heart is Philadelphia, PA.  An area that significantly shaped who I am right now, and brought about the most incredible and awful chapter of my life thus far.  A chapter that is rapidly closing and the next one is just beginning.

In 17 days, I will honor the anniversary of my husband Dan’s death.  I never imagined in all my 36 years I would carry the title “widow” well before becoming an elderly person, and yet here I am.  Wrapping my brain around it gives no relief to the reality of what happened.  It will never make sense.  I could write at length about what brought me to this widow life, and over time I will.  But for now, dear reader, you are stepping in at the point where I am making moves to redfine who “Krissie” is going to be going forward, and I hope you will stay for a while.  Welcome to the other side of things.

Argentine Patagonia