A Real Man, A Gentleman, A Man's Man

In 1985 I watched the movie Murphy's Romance for the first time.  I enjoyed it, thought it was a cute, entertaining benign love story with a happy ending, albeit a little predictable.  The theme of success followed by a hard fought struggle continues in this film from Sally Field's previous 1979 movie, Norma Rae.   In Murphy's Romance the main character, Emma Moriarity captures the audience's sympathy as she tries to make a new life for herself and her 12-year-old son after divorcing her deadbeat husband.   Arriving in Eunice, Arizona with little money in her purse and a few belongings from her home in Modesto, California, Emma toils day and night to transform a rundown ranch house and barn into her dream ranch where she aspires to board and train horses.  She is denied a bank loan, recieves no business despite her efforts to advertise, and can barely put food on the table.  Finally, she meets an older widower who befriends her and gives her help by boarding his horse with her and bringing customers to her.  A rivalry ensues between Emma's ex-husband and the widower.  Eventually Emma and the widower win one another's hearts.

A few evenings ago, I viewed this film for the second time through a different lens.  No longer a young happily married woman, but now a mature widow, this film spoke to me very differently.  The protagonist, played by James Garner is the older childless widower.  I remember James Garner being from Norman, Oklahoma, not far from my late husband's parents' childhood homes--places I fondly remember visiting many years ago.  Garner's smooth Oklahoma accent has always been comforting to me and I took delight in listening to him again.  His character, Murphy Jones, is a well respected lifelong resident of the town of Eunice.  He owns the town drugstore, plays in a band, is a member of the Elks Lodge, and is an anomaly of sorts because of his liberal politics.  He is also well sought after by the older single women and widows not only because of his status, but because of his manliness, charisma, dapper appeal, and tragic history.  These women remember the tragedy of his wife's sudden unexpected death and the deep, dark grief that consumed Murphy for a few years.  As the film unfolds so does Murphy's character as a principled, no bullshit, opinionated yet polite, wise, honest gentleman who treats women with respect and puts deadbeats like Emma's ex-husband in their places. 

In Murphy I see myself, the widow.  I drew a lot of similarities between Murphy's experience as a widower and my own.  I was happily married, never had children, have liberal political beliefs, and am relatively well-known where I work as a teacher.  Like Murphy, I busy myself with several hobbies and interests, I have several friends of the opposite sex, I am "mature," and I experienced those same dark days that Murphy described during the surprise birthday party scene.  Like Murphy, I also know what I want in the opposite sex and what I don't want.  He said that happy marriages are rare.  He was right. 

The man Murphy also reminded me a lot of my late husband.  Generous, helpful, always on the side of the less fortunate, never one to put up with bullshit, rugged yet sensitive, wise and measured in thought and action, true to his word, well-mannered and respectful, a model of integrity, and a well-respected leader, Steve was a lot like Murphy.  Even though I am a much different person now than I was over three years ago when I was thrust into widowhood, Murphy's Romance reminded me of the qualities in a man that remain so important to me.  They are the qualities of a real man, a gentleman, a man's man.

The Don't Get Its

Well over three years on this journey I am still amazed at some comments I hear from friends and acquaintenances.  I'm not talking about the innocent references from my married friends concerning my single status, being "manless," or not having to "put up" with negotiating decisions on home improvement projects, finances, or vacations with a spouse.  I am not that thin-skinned.  Walk on eggshells around me?  No need for that.  I am proud of and comfortable with who I have become.  I am secure with who I am.  I see my independence as an asset.  Sure, I would have rather have not become widowed, but as a result of it I have changed for the better.

I was recently caught by surprise when a friend told me that I was very unpleasant to be around during the first couple of years of my widow journey.  I was told that I was angry then.  I was told that I wasn't any fun to be around.  Really?  No shit!  Since when are the newly widowed, who are shocked beyond the realm of reality, raw in the very depths of grief, experiencing the deepest, darkest hell of their lives, supposed to be perky, bubbly, and fun? My response was a very calm, "Yes, and rightfully so." In the world of widowhood we often say,  "DGI--don't get it," when we hear something like this.  What was said was true.  What I don't get is why this even had to be said.  Duh!  Of course I was angry.  Of course I wasn't a lot of fun.  Tell me something I don't know.  Perhaps this was said more for the benefit of the messenger.  Don't get me wrong.  Deep down I believe my friend was well-intentioned, but on the surface the comment was like nails on a chalkboard to my ears.  The conversation continued amicably as does the friendship.  I'm going to chalk this comment up to being human and a case of DGI.

Yes, my how I've changed.  Good thing this wasn't said three years ago!  This journey has made me more forgiving with those who matter in my life and less tolerant of those who don't.  And so my friends, you do not need to tip-toe around me.  If you do say something that you later feel awkward or embarassed about, just let me know.  I always appreciate your consideration for my feelings even though I am not as sensitive as you may think.

One Helluva Summer

Looking at the calendar, I am reminded there are less than two weeks of summer left.  As a teacher I always look forward to summer. It is the reward for a long, hard school year.  This summer has been different.  I had regarded it as a lot of empty stolen time chained to my spine surgery.  While others were relaxing and vacationing, I found myself thrust into all things connected to my spine-- the intense pain, the diagnosis to my health problem, the plan of action,  preparation to surgery, the surgery experience itself, the recovery period, and grieving the loss of long-distance running.

It wasn't until recently, I had to honestly say to myself that stuck in between the pages of the book of the spine surgery summer, are a lot of reminders that it wasn't all about my aching back.  There was the ACOE graduation in which I once again presented a deserving student with the Steven L. Butler Memorial Scholarship. The wedding of my youngest niece, Melissa and her beloved Steve was beautiful--a traditonal Catholic wedding in Sonoma, California complete with a priest from Scotland and a gorgeous reception at the groom's parents' home, flanked by beautiful vineyards. I was also reminded of the gift of family and friendship with visits in the hospital and at home, help with meals, and help with household chores.  The opportunity to attend Camp Widow once again in San Diego provided me with a much needed change of scenery, inspiration, and the chance to meet new widows/ers and cultivate the friendships that were established a year ago.  New friendships outside my widow circle were also forged.  Being tied to home for most of the summer also gave me the chance to have more home improvements made.  I was able to oversee the installation of new windows, an irrigation system, tree work, a new deck railing to replace the year-old one damaged by my oak tree, and the redecorating of my family room.  My parents celebrated their 61st wedding anniversary.  I was able to attend a dinner concert with Asleep at the Wheel at Rancho Nicasio and a couple of day trips with friends to the wine country.  I caught up on reading and started new hobbies like bread baking and jewelry making.

With over three years of widowhood behind me, this summer provided some unexpected "firsts" for me that were frightening.  One in particular was experiencing a major health issue without a life partner.  Even though I had a great deal of support from family and friends, there remained that feeling of aloneness, vulnerability, and isolation without a soulmate to confide those thoughts and fears.  Now I can look back at those "firsts" and feel proud of my courage and grace during those challenging "firsts."  They were not easy, but I got through them unscathed.  I know there will be more "firsts" ahead of me and I am reminded of what my late husband always used to tell me when I was faced with challenging times, "You're tough......Go get 'em champ!"  The good times and the strength I have gained from the not-so-good times have made this one helluva summer.  And while my spine surgery is foremost in my thoughts, this summer was thankfully full with the stuff that makes for good memories and healthy self-discovery.

Abandoned

Abandoned

I stand here
In a frozen wasteland,
A tundra where
Icy winds cut
Against my
Exposed soul,
A soul that was once
Wrapped in the warmth
Of your love,
Your friendship.
Your presence,
Your comfort,
Your care,
Your good advice,
Your encouragement,
Your laughter,
Your acceptance of me,
Including my faults.
When the angel of death appeared to you
The layers of your cloak
Were ripped from me
Like a body stripped naked
Left in the middle of nowhere....
Abandoned.



In memory of Steven L. Butler whom I wed on September 13, 1980.  Our last wedding anniversary was in 2006.

Labor Day

Labor Day.
It's not just one day,
But three long days
That are supposed to be
The grand finale to the summer.

It's a weekend for families
To camp, picnic, or hold barbeques.
It's a weekend for families
To hike, swim, and fish
As they toast summer's end.

Labor Day,
Like all the other three-day holiday weekends
Is exclusive, tight, and bonding
For families and couples,
Sans the widowed.

Labor Day,
Like all other three-day holidays
For those with intact family
Is planned, fun, lively, and busy,
Not like the long dead-end weekend for the widow.

Labor Day,
For the widow is like all other three-day holidays,
Long vacant, isolated wastelands
Where one is not included
And where one does not fit in.....

Labor Day,
It's not just one day,
But a stinging reminder
Of how we are forever changed
And how we long to belong once again.

Rainbow Journey

Rainbow Journey



The rainbow....
Yeah, the rainbow is that magical thing,

The thing that we want to transcend
Because of all it promises to deliver

Once we get to the other side of it,
If and when we do.

I have never forgotten a single rainbow--
Those spied as a kid at home or even in the old sod of Erin.

Rainbows give us hope and promise--
Something to cling to like a teddy bear at night

That says, "Everything is going to be alright."
They are like that hot cup of cocoa on a cold winter morning,

Or like the hug you so desperately need in your deepest abyss of grief.
Rainbows are what keep us afloat in the seas of uncertainty.

Rainbows are the bridge between strife and life
At its worst and its best.

A life unfulfilled and stuck
Looks to the rainbow for a shred of possibility

That maybe there is a brighter future,
A promise of something better.....

The path to a rainbow is part faith, part innocence, and part adventure
To get to the other side of that beautiful array of color,

You must open your heart and believe and never give up
Even though the terrain to the other side is steep and rugged.

The journey to the other side of the rainbow is long and hard.
The pot of gold is there waiting for you.

Twenty-Six Feathers

Twenty-Six Feathers


The phoenix rose up above me
Jerking herself in sudden flight.

I asked her, "What are you doing?
Where are you going?"

She said. "I am on a journey.
I have a lot to do."

I asked, "Where are you going?
What do you have to do?"

She was impatient and only said,
"I have things to do.  You will see..."

I felt abandoned.
No answers.  No help.

I always knew the Phoenix promised
A new life grown from the ashes of old.....

Every day I searched the ashes and rubble
For signs of life, signs of hope, signs of renewal.....

Suddenly a few feathers began to drop from the sky.
Those feathers were family and friends present in my deepest canyons of grief!

Time went on and I didn't find any feathers dropping my way,
Sure that my chance encounter with this mystical bird was a hoax or a hallucination.

New personal committments and a lot of hard work kept my mind off
Of any hope or expectations from the bird of fire.

Over time and through perserverance, many finish lines were crossed
Alone, yes alone with no expectations. 

So often I would reflect, looking into the mirror,
Asking all of those questions and wonder,

What is the point?  What is next?
Then a single feather droppped down upon my face.

It told me to look down, to look around.
I counted the feathers around my feet.

There were twenty-six feathers.
Each represented a person, an accomplishment, a victory.

She did not abandon me.
Her long flight had a purpose.

The bird said,
"Those were not my feathers, but yours.

Twenty-six feathers,
Each one for every one who loves you.

And one for every time you believed in yourself,
For courage, for strength, and for what you gave,

I gave back to you
For every year you had with your beloved."

Twenty-six feathers burn eternally
As a sign that I am renewed, alive, and live on.....

Kindred Spirits and Unspoken Words

I walked into the room.  Several tables were draped with crisp linen, with colorful summertime bouquets and lit candles atop.  A large framed photo of a strong, strapping man along with several other smaller photos, his FAA inspector badge, his pilot log books, old newspaper clippings, models of airplanes, and a guestbook lined a long table.  The big flat-screen television flashed photos that summed up a life that had ended unexpectedly.  The widow turned my way, her eyes fixed upon mine.  Her grief was new and raw.  It was as if the rest of the world had temporarily stood still and frozen.  We walked up to one another, our eyes and our embrace communicated more than any words could possibly say.  I whispered, "I am so sorry."  She said, "You know."  "Yes," I replied, "I get it."  Nothing more needed to be said, at least through spoken words. 

Widows have a special connection.  Some may say we are on the same page.  Others will say we "get it."  Those of us who are farther along in our grief journey understand the shock, disbelief, confusion, and pain all too well.  We understand because we have lived it.  We continue to live it.  It is real to us.  Those who have not lost a life partner cannot possibly fathom what it is like.  They do not "get it."  They can't.  They haven't lived it. They haven't experienced it.  The newly widowed are treading water in a vast ocean of uncertainty, fear, vulnerability, and gut-wrenching grief.  They need someone who has been there to extend a hand that conveys understanding, comfort, and hope that will help pull them out of  the depths of dispair, or at least help them remain afloat.  And yes, those who haven't walked in our shoes can certainly be a source of love and support.  But it is only those of us in exclusive membership of this loathsome club who can stand as living proof that survival is possible and real.

Almost two days later after the celebration of her late husband's life, I keep thinking about my colleague so freshly new to widowhood.  I feel so much sadness for her.  I know the days, months, and years ahead will be hard for her.  I know she will miss the man she loved.  I know the hard work that stands before her, the hard work of grief and redefining herself in this new chapter of her life.

Daily Quote

If you thought of it, it has happened.  If you haven't thought of it, it has happened.

Trading Death Stories

In my previous life, pre-widowhood that is, I recall people talking about lost loved ones.  Since childhood, my parents and friends would share stories about their parents and other relatives who had passed on.  I remember these being opportunities to share with a trusted loved one, the emotionally laced memories of the dead.  When my brother Tom died unexpectedly at the age of 31 in 1982, the reality and impact of a loss of a close family member hit home with me for the first time.  It was a devastating loss for his wife, his children (one of whom was born the day after his death), his parents, his grandparents, extended family, friends, and me.  It sent the family reeling into a sea of grief for a very long time.  When I think back, I think it is safe to say it was most likely the most horrible experience for my sister-in-law and her three very young children.  At the age of 23 and newly married, I was so clueless about widowhood at the time.  All I could think in my young adult mind was losing a beloved brother who was to others a wonderful husband, father, son, and friend.  I didn't get the gravity of the whole widow component and honestly felt very clumsy around the whole subject and my sister-in-law--now with a great deal of embarassment, shame, and regret.  Looking back as a widow, I wish I could have and would have done more.  However I know that it was impossible because of my own life experience at the time or lack thereof.

In the past few years several of my friends have shared with me about the deaths of their parents, some laid to rest years ago and some very recently.  I listen but am thankfully clueless as I am fortunate to still have my parents in my life as I write this.  It is uncertain whether or not I will ever know what it is to lose a parent, but the odds are I will some day.  I haved experienced the deaths of my late husband's parents which had a very profound impact on our life as a married couple.  My male and female friends have shared stories about their deceased parents with a great deal of emotion that is only given permission to make its appearance out of trust.  Some have reflected upon the grueling long illnesses suffered by their parents.  Some have shared experiences about their dead parents appearing to them in dreams to offer assurance of comfort.  They have shared stories that are very emotional and detailed, including specifics around the illness that lead to death, the care they gave to the dying,  the death itself, the aftermath, its impact on family dynamics, finances, etc.  In particular I want to recognize my male friends for their stength in grief because in our culture males are not supposed to cry or show sadness.  My grieving male friends are not afraid to share these deeply personal reflections, nor are they afraid to cry in my presence.  In my book, male or female, strength is shown through courage to express thoughts, feelings, and emotions freely with those you trust. 

Widowed for over three years, I can listen to other widows/ers and say, "I get it."  I can listen with a heart and an ear of experience.  Our exact circumstances may not be the same.  We may differ on cause of spouse's death, gender, sexual orientation, age, having children or not, culture, socio-economic status, extended family dynamics, religion, and much more.....  Being a widow also makes me much more in tune with those who have had losses other than that of a life partner.  I think the key here is to not only listen with an ear, but also with a heart.  None of us asked to lose a loved one.  None of us was handed an instruction book.  The common denominator in losing a loved one is that we did not have a choice in this major life-changing experience.  The best we can hope for is to have someone else who is traveling this loss journey to listen and maybe trade a story with us.  For me, the most comfort I have found on this grief journey is knowing that there are others who have experienced similar losses.  Because of that, I know I am not alone and I can traverse the vast deserts and the steep mountains of the journey I never signed up for.

Daily Quote

"I awoke this morning with devout thanksgiving for my friends, the old and the new."  ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Daily Quote

"We have nothing to fear but fear itself."  Franklin Delano Roosevelt

Tattoo

Nearly three years ago, I got my first tattoo, to the presumed disgust of my late husband, Steve.  I think he would have been disgusted because in our 26 years of marriage he made it clear that he did not approve of "body art."  I can recall during that time, singing in his choir, agreeing with him, saying. "I would never get a tattoo.  They are so disgusting."  Hmmmmm.  Now I recall Steve saying, "Never say never.  Never is a long time."  That one saying of his resonates with me much louder than his disaproval over body art.  Funny how one big turn of events in one's life can change an opinion, a perspective, or a direction.  That first tattoo was carefully thought out, planned, and designed.  I even had a good friend accompany me during the process.  It is a Celtic cross, very similar to the one on Steve's gravestone---a perfect tribute to him, my marriage to him, and at the same time, a nod to our heritage.  I had it placed on my lower back,.  The whole process was a positive one.  I selected the same tattoo studio that my late brother had used.  It is a long-time establishment that is clean and highly rated.  My artist, Andy, from Philly, is fabulous.  He made me feel at ease that first time.  It was relatively painless.  His artwork blew me away!  Four more pieces followed after that by Andy, which is a testament to his artistry and to the studio's professionalism.

Recenty, in the last eight months, I began to experience a lot of lower back, hip, and leg pain--so much that I could not at times even walk up stairs or walk for any distance without pain. I could not engage in my passion--running, without experiencing intense back, glute, and leg pain.  I was afraid to go on any road bike rides with my local bike club out of fear of experiencing intense pain.  I was miserable at work, especially on field trips that involved walking or stairs.  I missed more work than I ever had because of the pain.  Finally, after six months of repeated visits to doctors, a masseuse, a physical therapist, and a sports chiropractor, it was finally determined through an MRI that I had a synovial cyst and a herniated disc between L4 and L5.  I was fortunate to have the chief of spinal surgery, the chief of anesthesia at Kaiser San Jose, and the best surgical team one could hope for! 

So how did the tattoo fare during the surgery?  My mother warned me that the tattoo would probably take a real beating and this was going to be Steve's way of getting back at me for the tattoo he would never have approved.  I just replied, "Oh well, it'll just be the 'Old Rugged Cross'"--also the name of an old  familiar Christian hymn Steve most likely sang as a kid.  Just a few minutes before I went into surgery, the spine surgeon spoke with me for some final discussion.  I told him about my tattoo and asked if he would be cutting into it.  He looked at it and said, "Yes.....That is really nice......Does it have any significance?"  I replied, "Yes.....my husband died three years ago and this is just like the cross on his gravestone.....it is in his honor....."  The surgeon's eyes filled with tears.  His voice was somber and sincere, "I am so sorry......Really.......I am so sorry........We will do our best......Really......."  And then there were some last minute exchanges that are usual prior to a surgery and we were off to the surgery room.  I still remember the surgeon being so comforting and reassuring just before the surgery as he was introducing the surgery team .  Before I knew it, I was looking up at him, asking him when the team was going to begin.  He replied, "Begin?  We are finished!"  Hooray!

Therein followed days and even weeks of how my tattoo fared the incisions from the surgery.  Of course, my main concern was the internal progress and ongoing healing from the surgery.  Little by little, family and friends looked at the tattoo and commented, "Hey, it doesn't look too bad!"  Even my father, an old salt from the Navy, but an anomaly who never let ink or needle touch his paddy skin, said that it looked good.  Now over four weeks out, my family and friends tell me that they cannot even tell there was surgery there.  My mother said that it looks like a plastic surgeon had a hand in this.  The tattoo looks untouched.  The nurse who took the stitches out said that "If you have a tattoo, the stitching and scar usually end up looking better than if you didn't have a tattoo---they tend to do a better job."   I think that little conversation between the surgeon and me had a lot of influence on the results.  He seemed to really respect and care for the meaning that cross holds for me.  The cross is not rugged.  It is smooth and strong.  It withstood the trauma with grace.  I would like to think that cross tattoo is symbolic of me.

Today's Quote

"In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me lay an invincible summer."  ~ Camus

Today's Quote

"Rivers know this:  there is no hurry.  We shall get there some day."  ~ Winnie the Pooh

Camp Widow 2010

Almost 200 widows and widowers attended Camp Widow, August 6th-8th in San Diego this year.  It was the second annual conference sponsored through the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation.  I feel very blessed.  Because of a recent surgery, it was questionable whether or not my surgeon would clear me to attend.  Thank goodness for skycaps, bell-hops, taxi drivers, and good-willed folks, I was able to have my physical restrictions addressed and take part once again.  Camp Widow is a gathering of widows/ers from their mid-20's to their 60's, partners of widows, speakers, and other supporters of widows.  It is a weekend of unity, empowerment, education, inspiration, reflection, friendship, fellowship, tears, hugs, laughter, and celebration--yes, celebration--celebration of our strength, independence, growth, and hope as we embark on and navigate through this new journey none of us chose.  Social gatherings, speakers, workshops, a semi-formal dinner/dance, and a 5K widows dash were the highlights of the weekend.

Camp Widow was kicked off with an inspirational keynote address given by Michele Neff-Hernandez, founder of SSLF.  She used the analogy of rock climbing to that of widowhood. She suggested that the early period of widowhood is much like being thrust to the bottom of a steep canyon flanked with rock walls.  Those at the bottom may gaze up to see others climbing above, reassuring us that these walls have been navigated by those before us, providing hope and inspiration that, yes, it can be done and we will get to the top in our own time based on our unique circumstances.  Every foothold, every crevice has been touched by those farther along in the journey.  And yes, we may at times slip and lose a foothold, forcing us to lose ground, forcing us starting over again from that place.  As we know, rock climbing takes discipline, concentration, perseverance, patience, encouragement, initiative, courage, and strength.  I believe every widow/er at Camp Widow possesses those qualities.  We are all progressing along that steep canyon wall.  We are all at different places on that wall.  Above us are those who support, encourage and inspire us.  Below are those who need our support, encouragement, and inspiration.  I am confident that we will all get to the top.  We are survivors.  We are strong.  We have one another.  Thank you to Michele and all the widows/ers.  In unity there is strength.


For more information on the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation, please visit:  http://www.sslf.org/

Thanks for stopping by....

Mary

Today's Quote

"Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass. . . it is about learning to dance in the rain."  ~ unknown

Welcome to my blog, Learning to Fly Again, A Widow's Journey

August 16, 2010

On May 27, 2007, at the age of 48, I joined a club in which no one wants membership--widowhood.  Eight days before I became a widow, my husband, Steve suffered a heart attack while training for a triathlon at a local reservoir.  Because a great deal of time lapsed before paramedics arrived to administer CPR, Steve suffered from brain damage.  His healthy, fit body succumbed to brain annoxia.  It was then that I was thrust into a new, unwelcome, strange, and frightening chapter of my life.  This blog is not about Steve.  It is about me.  Although I will often refer to or reflect on my 26 year marriage to Steve, it is about me and my journey as a widow who is redefining herself.  I invite you to visit my blog often, to learn about me and young widowhood, whether you are a friend, a relative, a widow, a widower, or a friend or relative of a widow.

Thanks for stopping by.

Mary