I think I have realized that I have an unique way of dealing with grief and I am not sure it is “right,” but in this journey there really seems to be no “right” or “wrong,” there is just what is. In the past my “griefs” have always had to do with transitions, usually specifically moves. I remember grieving the end of high school when all my best friends and I scattered to different colleges. That grief felt like fear, fear of the unknown as I left home. I remember graduating college and grieving the end of that period of my life. I cried as I cleaned out my college apartment and said good-bye to college life. And then each military move brought some level of grief - I have many memories of a moving van pulling away from a now-empty house and trying to be excited about the new home we would set up or new adventures we would have, but usually accompanied by memories of just sobbing as I stood in an empty house hugging dear friends, hoping time would slow down. When we left Florida, I cried all the way to the Alabama state line. When we left DC, a snowstorm (and a lost cat that had to be retrieved) delayed our move a day, leaving me happy to have “one more day” with friends but knowing I was just delaying the inevitable good bye (or “see you later” as we would comfort ourselves with!).
But regardless of the grief memory, the coping strategy was usually the same for me - avoid thinking about what I lost, focus on what is ahead, and give it all enough time to not feel so raw and painful. So after leaving Florida, I focused on settling into DC. But the pain of that transition left such an imprint on my soul that just seeing a picture of the gorgeous gulf coast shore left me aching inside. I kept pictures of Florida hidden from my view. A mention of a friend from there sent me choking back tears. So I distanced myself a bit. I just avoided all thought and picture and idea of Florida until I felt settled in DC. Then sometime around six months after the move, I could begin to look back at our time in Florida with a fondness that rivaled the pain. And by a year out, I could look through pictures of my little children splashing in the waves with their friends and genuinely smile because my mama friends and I spent hours each week sitting on those sands, talking about life and children and homeschooling and hard stuff, while our children built sand castles and envisioned sea life aquariums and dodged jellyfish in the warm gulf waters of our backyard. I treasure those moments! The process was the same for leaving DC, etc... Initially upon arriving in Texas, the picture of a cherry blossom or a TV show that took place in downtown DC would easily send me into waves of grief, missing my “home” there and our many brave field trips navigating DC traffic with other mamas and their kids so we could see Smithsonians and monuments and sites full of history, beauty, significance, and fun. And, again, about six months in, I felt more settled in Texas and could begin the process of looking back at our DC memories again. The places and the people and the circumstances have changed, but my coping strategy has obviously been to put the loss (and any and all reference to anything associated with the loss) out of mind, focus on my new situation, and after six months realize the pain would not be raw anymore. By a year out I would be able to revisit my memories with a tender and sweet remembrance that was no longer blinded by pain.
When I lost Ryan, however, I knew my old coping mechanisms were just not going to work. This was too big. I could not possibly transition from a life with Ryan to a life without him by simply ignoring any and all memories of our life together and focusing on my new reality. This is because there was nothing positive about my new reality. With each new move I was grasping at the making of new friends, the settling into new routines, and the exploring of new areas to distract myself from my grief until I could feel comfortable and secure enough with my new life to revisit memories of my old life. When Ryan died there was no “new life” that could rival my “old life.” So I just waded through the grief, reaching the six month mark and realizing I could still breathe and I was making new routines. Reaching a year and realizing I may actually want to move forward, since the alternative was to stay stuck in grief, and then working to figure out how to do that. By eighteen months, I realized I had indeed successfully put together a new and functioning little life with my kids and I, here in California, with roots and new friends and school and somewhat happy routines. And now, as I approach two years (next month) I realized I am looking back at my life with Ryan with fond memories that are beginning to rival my pain... I did not think that was even possible. After two years, I can look at a family picture and genuinely smile. I can tell a story about something Ryan did or said and genuinely laugh. The pain and the sorrow are still there (they always will be) but the “rawness” has largely softened. It happened gradually, without me realizing it.
There are still certain things that will occasionally trigger a raw wave of grief - these are usually in the form of unanticipated surprises at an unexpected time - but my every day memories and thoughts of Ryan bring me joy mostly equal to my sorrow in a way I never realized would happen. Or could happen. In fact I think trying to talk about Ryan during the last two years has felt forced and difficult, but like something I just had to do. It made me uncomfortable in that I either had to choke back tears or that I really was not truly being authentic. I think I simply was not ready. I was in that “first six months after a move” kind of space where I did not and could not think about our previous home because it was too painful. But I think I felt like I had to keep trying because I did not think I would ever get to the place where I felt transitioned into a new life without him. And yet here I am. I almost feel sad to be in this spot because it means I have indeed transitioned into a life without Ryan. And it is not a life I ever wanted. But because it was forced on me, here I am. I am in a new place.
And I think it has been a few surprising “firsts” that made me realize the transition. After Ryan’s death, there were a few things I said to myself that I would never do or visit again. Most of them small and silly things, but significant to me. One example was to make homemade pizza. Ryan used to make homemade pizza and he would tweak the recipe each time, trying to get the perfect crust. And his pizzas were always delicious. I remember unpacking the pizza pans after our move here, thinking that I would never see those used again. But somehow last month I had a craving for homemade pizza and Charlie, still being on his “chef” kick, was willing to help me make the dough. So we made homemade pizza! And it was a lot like Ryan’s and we ate it, remembering Ryan, and it was a good evening. A year ago I would have cried salty tears into the dough if you had asked me to take out Ryan’s pizza pans and make his pizza recipe. But I have transitioned into the kind of person who can make and eat Ryan’s recipes with equal amounts of joy and sorrow.
The other thing I have noticed that makes me think I have transitioned is my feelings toward military life. I am done with it. Just done. After Ryan’s death, I was so glad we lived near a base here in California because my entire adult life had pretty much been living on or near a military installation. The rhythms and routines on base are familiar to me - and to my kids. We shop at the exchange and the commissary, where we see service members in uniform. We know the language of a conversation about what it means to stay in a TLF during a PCS or a TDY. We identify as a military family. And I was comforted by that in the early months after Ryan’s death. I know my kids were too. And I am, and will forever be, so thankful for the military family that has been there for us during these times, from my amazing CAO to the support on base to all my military friends who check on us from across the miles. I am full of gratitude and love for each of you all. But I am ready to say we are not a military family anymore. We were, and I treasure those memories in the deepest ways. But I have transitioned out of that role now. I noticed it in little things, like choosing to shop off base or not feeling an interest in engaging in base events (the community and church events seem to be where I gravitate now). Again, I have slowly felt that for awhile and am just realizing it. Today confirmed it. Today I went to the base library for the first time - we use our community library and just have never had a reason to go inside the base library. Today being May 4th (Star Wars day), the library on base had a children’s event that my sister invited me to (she is a civilian who works on base). My kids were interested to go see anything Star Wars, so we went and they, being avid bookworms, of course found a few books they wanted to check out. I went to the counter while my kids were looking at books and I inquired about what information was needed to check out books. And I was reminded that military library accounts are always under the active duty members’ name. So I filled out the library form as best I could but of course had to leave the fields for “squadron organization” and “duty phone” blank. When I turned in the form, the librarian kindly said I could check out books today but I would need to come back to give her my husband’s squadron number and duty phone. I sighed. And I told her I could not do that because my husband is deceased and I asked what the policy is for dependents without a sponsor. I had not had to have that conversation in a very long time. The poor lady immediately was very uncomfortable, mumbled something about being so sorry, and then would not make eye contact with me. She said of course they would make me an account without that information. I smiled at her and said thank you and then there was a long awkward pause as she struggled to figure out how to input me in her computer when the system is clearly not set up for my situation. I don’t fit in the system. She was uncomfortable and I felt bad that I caused her uncomfortableness. And I realized I am done. Just done. I am done with being a piece that does not fit in the system any longer. And I am okay with that. I did eventually get my account set up, my children checked out their books, I wished the frazzled librarian a good day, and she looked relieved that I was not upset or impatient. And I was not upset or impatient at all, I mostly felt awful for having caused this lady’s obvious uncomfortableness at my situation and I just do not want to be the military widow any longer. It was this kind of situation that made me realize I do not “belong” on base anymore because I do not want that identity anymore. No, no one on base is telling me I do not belong - if anything, they all go out of their way to accommodate for me. But I think it is kind of like walking around my old high school or college campus - I have memories there and I am always welcomed back as an alumni, but I don’t “belong” or am not active there anymore. I think I feel that way about military life now too. I do not mind the occasional memory or event, but my life has moved forward and is different now. I want to form my own new identity now. I kind of surprised myself to realize how true that is. When people ask if we are a military family, I answer with, “we were.” And that feels right now. And now I get to define what kind of “family” we are or what kind of person I am. My situation does not define me. That is huge for me to embrace.
But regardless of the grief memory, the coping strategy was usually the same for me - avoid thinking about what I lost, focus on what is ahead, and give it all enough time to not feel so raw and painful. So after leaving Florida, I focused on settling into DC. But the pain of that transition left such an imprint on my soul that just seeing a picture of the gorgeous gulf coast shore left me aching inside. I kept pictures of Florida hidden from my view. A mention of a friend from there sent me choking back tears. So I distanced myself a bit. I just avoided all thought and picture and idea of Florida until I felt settled in DC. Then sometime around six months after the move, I could begin to look back at our time in Florida with a fondness that rivaled the pain. And by a year out, I could look through pictures of my little children splashing in the waves with their friends and genuinely smile because my mama friends and I spent hours each week sitting on those sands, talking about life and children and homeschooling and hard stuff, while our children built sand castles and envisioned sea life aquariums and dodged jellyfish in the warm gulf waters of our backyard. I treasure those moments! The process was the same for leaving DC, etc... Initially upon arriving in Texas, the picture of a cherry blossom or a TV show that took place in downtown DC would easily send me into waves of grief, missing my “home” there and our many brave field trips navigating DC traffic with other mamas and their kids so we could see Smithsonians and monuments and sites full of history, beauty, significance, and fun. And, again, about six months in, I felt more settled in Texas and could begin the process of looking back at our DC memories again. The places and the people and the circumstances have changed, but my coping strategy has obviously been to put the loss (and any and all reference to anything associated with the loss) out of mind, focus on my new situation, and after six months realize the pain would not be raw anymore. By a year out I would be able to revisit my memories with a tender and sweet remembrance that was no longer blinded by pain.
When I lost Ryan, however, I knew my old coping mechanisms were just not going to work. This was too big. I could not possibly transition from a life with Ryan to a life without him by simply ignoring any and all memories of our life together and focusing on my new reality. This is because there was nothing positive about my new reality. With each new move I was grasping at the making of new friends, the settling into new routines, and the exploring of new areas to distract myself from my grief until I could feel comfortable and secure enough with my new life to revisit memories of my old life. When Ryan died there was no “new life” that could rival my “old life.” So I just waded through the grief, reaching the six month mark and realizing I could still breathe and I was making new routines. Reaching a year and realizing I may actually want to move forward, since the alternative was to stay stuck in grief, and then working to figure out how to do that. By eighteen months, I realized I had indeed successfully put together a new and functioning little life with my kids and I, here in California, with roots and new friends and school and somewhat happy routines. And now, as I approach two years (next month) I realized I am looking back at my life with Ryan with fond memories that are beginning to rival my pain... I did not think that was even possible. After two years, I can look at a family picture and genuinely smile. I can tell a story about something Ryan did or said and genuinely laugh. The pain and the sorrow are still there (they always will be) but the “rawness” has largely softened. It happened gradually, without me realizing it.
There are still certain things that will occasionally trigger a raw wave of grief - these are usually in the form of unanticipated surprises at an unexpected time - but my every day memories and thoughts of Ryan bring me joy mostly equal to my sorrow in a way I never realized would happen. Or could happen. In fact I think trying to talk about Ryan during the last two years has felt forced and difficult, but like something I just had to do. It made me uncomfortable in that I either had to choke back tears or that I really was not truly being authentic. I think I simply was not ready. I was in that “first six months after a move” kind of space where I did not and could not think about our previous home because it was too painful. But I think I felt like I had to keep trying because I did not think I would ever get to the place where I felt transitioned into a new life without him. And yet here I am. I almost feel sad to be in this spot because it means I have indeed transitioned into a life without Ryan. And it is not a life I ever wanted. But because it was forced on me, here I am. I am in a new place.
And I think it has been a few surprising “firsts” that made me realize the transition. After Ryan’s death, there were a few things I said to myself that I would never do or visit again. Most of them small and silly things, but significant to me. One example was to make homemade pizza. Ryan used to make homemade pizza and he would tweak the recipe each time, trying to get the perfect crust. And his pizzas were always delicious. I remember unpacking the pizza pans after our move here, thinking that I would never see those used again. But somehow last month I had a craving for homemade pizza and Charlie, still being on his “chef” kick, was willing to help me make the dough. So we made homemade pizza! And it was a lot like Ryan’s and we ate it, remembering Ryan, and it was a good evening. A year ago I would have cried salty tears into the dough if you had asked me to take out Ryan’s pizza pans and make his pizza recipe. But I have transitioned into the kind of person who can make and eat Ryan’s recipes with equal amounts of joy and sorrow.
The other thing I have noticed that makes me think I have transitioned is my feelings toward military life. I am done with it. Just done. After Ryan’s death, I was so glad we lived near a base here in California because my entire adult life had pretty much been living on or near a military installation. The rhythms and routines on base are familiar to me - and to my kids. We shop at the exchange and the commissary, where we see service members in uniform. We know the language of a conversation about what it means to stay in a TLF during a PCS or a TDY. We identify as a military family. And I was comforted by that in the early months after Ryan’s death. I know my kids were too. And I am, and will forever be, so thankful for the military family that has been there for us during these times, from my amazing CAO to the support on base to all my military friends who check on us from across the miles. I am full of gratitude and love for each of you all. But I am ready to say we are not a military family anymore. We were, and I treasure those memories in the deepest ways. But I have transitioned out of that role now. I noticed it in little things, like choosing to shop off base or not feeling an interest in engaging in base events (the community and church events seem to be where I gravitate now). Again, I have slowly felt that for awhile and am just realizing it. Today confirmed it. Today I went to the base library for the first time - we use our community library and just have never had a reason to go inside the base library. Today being May 4th (Star Wars day), the library on base had a children’s event that my sister invited me to (she is a civilian who works on base). My kids were interested to go see anything Star Wars, so we went and they, being avid bookworms, of course found a few books they wanted to check out. I went to the counter while my kids were looking at books and I inquired about what information was needed to check out books. And I was reminded that military library accounts are always under the active duty members’ name. So I filled out the library form as best I could but of course had to leave the fields for “squadron organization” and “duty phone” blank. When I turned in the form, the librarian kindly said I could check out books today but I would need to come back to give her my husband’s squadron number and duty phone. I sighed. And I told her I could not do that because my husband is deceased and I asked what the policy is for dependents without a sponsor. I had not had to have that conversation in a very long time. The poor lady immediately was very uncomfortable, mumbled something about being so sorry, and then would not make eye contact with me. She said of course they would make me an account without that information. I smiled at her and said thank you and then there was a long awkward pause as she struggled to figure out how to input me in her computer when the system is clearly not set up for my situation. I don’t fit in the system. She was uncomfortable and I felt bad that I caused her uncomfortableness. And I realized I am done. Just done. I am done with being a piece that does not fit in the system any longer. And I am okay with that. I did eventually get my account set up, my children checked out their books, I wished the frazzled librarian a good day, and she looked relieved that I was not upset or impatient. And I was not upset or impatient at all, I mostly felt awful for having caused this lady’s obvious uncomfortableness at my situation and I just do not want to be the military widow any longer. It was this kind of situation that made me realize I do not “belong” on base anymore because I do not want that identity anymore. No, no one on base is telling me I do not belong - if anything, they all go out of their way to accommodate for me. But I think it is kind of like walking around my old high school or college campus - I have memories there and I am always welcomed back as an alumni, but I don’t “belong” or am not active there anymore. I think I feel that way about military life now too. I do not mind the occasional memory or event, but my life has moved forward and is different now. I want to form my own new identity now. I kind of surprised myself to realize how true that is. When people ask if we are a military family, I answer with, “we were.” And that feels right now. And now I get to define what kind of “family” we are or what kind of person I am. My situation does not define me. That is huge for me to embrace.
The final bit of change I have felt recently, that goes with the idea of forming my own identity, is the feeling of hope that had not been present before. I have spent almost two years going through the motions of life because I have had no choice. And I have had joyful moments mixed with sorrow, but all of it with a kind of numbness of knowing that “someday” things would be okay and non-numb again. Maybe it is kind of like when I would move to a new duty station and make just the beginnings of a connection with another mom or I would see my kids begin to settle into making friendships - those actions gave me hope that we were making a new home in our new place. And the hope encouraged me forward to pursue the new friendship or activity or to want to build new connections. For the first time, I feel that kind of hope. I am looking at my future with a few ideas and dreams in mind, instead of just a deer-in-headlights stare at what will happen next. In just three years my daughter will be off to college, my son in high school, and I have a desire in my heart to plan what my next season of life will look like. It is almost a little exciting to think about and that glimpse of hope is driving me forward in action to do new things. Ryan had said in his final letter to me that he hoped that after the stages of grief that I would live for myself. My reaction to that at first was anger - how could I ever live for myself when half of me was ripped away and gone and the other half engulfed in sorrow?? There was no “self” capable of living. Well, Ryan obviously did not understand that stages of grief do not pass away as the sorrow of his death is forever carried with me, but he did understand that I would one day be comforted by him cheering me on. I can almost picture him proud of me as I make decisions about my future and actively “do” things to live my life. God is so good to comfort me in all this too, often with little glimpses of Ryan smiling at me or shaking his head at me in quiet laughter when I so obviously mess up. I do not mean that in a literal way, but just that I have thoughts of Ryan guiding me and cheering me on that I think is God touching my heart in a way that comforts.
And so as I go into May, which includes what would have been our 17th anniversary, Ryan’s 41st birthday, Memorial Day, and then the anniversary of his death in June, I am not consumed with sorrow. I am not the person I was a year ago and I surely am not the person I was two years ago. There have been transitions, some abrupt and devastating, some slow and sweet, but here I am, still breathing, still learning, still grieving, still journeying, and also still transitioning, but with a hope that I pray sticks around and continues to grow.
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| flower fields near my house |
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| cherry blossoms in my yard |
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| cherry blossoms in my yard |
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| homemade pizzas 🍕 |
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