Fear through the eyes of a young widow

Hello friends. Thank you all for the support of my “How to Help A Griever” blog post. It may have been somewhat controversial; that was not the intention. It was a glimpse into, or perhaps a reminder of, the support needed as a griever. I truly do appreciate all of the support I’ve received over the past eight months; I know I’m not the last person to grieve the traumatic loss, and I hope that my posts continue to help people on both sides of loss. On another note, I am really bad at keeping up with this blog, mainly because of the 40K other things that take precedence in my life right now. So I should probably stop promising content and not delivering (I’m the worst!) If you follow me on social media, you’ve probably seen some of the hints I’ve dropped regarding the personal struggles I’ve had lately. In conversation, I refer to this as “widowed mom of a toddler burnout.” The past two years have taken a toll; for the most part, I’ve moved through the anger, pain, sadness, and disbelief with tasks and to-dos. While I still have a laundry list of obligations and responsibilities, all of those underlying feelings still linger and they add up. One emotion that consistently pops up, is fear. I talk about fear of the unknown in the Widow We Do Now podcast episode, and I’ve mentioned it quite a few times in my blog, but never really explained or elaborated. So, here I am. Ready to let you in on how fear plays a very prominent role in the tribulations of young widowhood, at least as I’ve experienced it.

Almost eight months in and I still don’t understand what I’m doing here.

Two years ago, we had just moved into what should have been our forever home, on the cusp of welcoming our baby boy into this world. The future was laid out for us. Being together for nine years, we had grown through many phases with each other, and this was the “build our family” era. We were climbing in our careers; Charlie finally got his big yard to run around in, and I got my front porch. Our biggest concern was why the washing machine in our newly inspected house wasn’t working correctly. 

Today, I sit in my 1,000-square-foot, 2-bedroom apartment, with my toddler sleeping next to me, wondering how this all happened. How did this happen to us? Where do I go from here? There is so much to sort through; so many questions that require answers I do not have. When you feel like your world was ripped away, how can it be restored? I hate not having the answers.  I hate not knowing what our life will look like in five years or even five months. But does anyone know?

I’m not the same person I was eight months ago. I’m not the same person I was two years ago.  At the root, I’m still Christina. I still hate needles and love murder mysteries. I still enjoy going on “Christina walks,” watching sports and dancing like no one’s watching. But my perceptions, my priorities, my goals, my concerns, and my insecurities have changed. Some of this comes with being a parent; a lot of this comes from my experience with finding out about Matt’s cancer and losing him. As I grapple with this, I simultaneously grapple with the fear.

Fear because Cancer and Cancer memories

Chalk it up to some PTSD, but being a cancer widow sucks. Being any widow sucks. Watching your strong, confident spouse rapidly change and slip away from something out of your control just really, really sucks. And now, I consistently freak out about every little ache, pain, or feeling that’s “slightly off.” I was told by a colleague of mine to remember that “rare is rare for a reason.” But when you’ve experienced the rare; you’ve experienced the “shouldn’t have been you,” NOTHING seems rare. 

I’ve always had a bit of hypochondria, but this experience has exacerbated it. And now, it’s not just myself I have to worry about. It’s Bryson. Nothing bad can happen to me. I am his only living parent! These are things that go through my head constantly, as I watch him sleep at night, in those rare moments of peace. I hate that. I know these are therapy-level things to work through, but they exist nonetheless. They don’t prevent me from moving through my day, or take over my entire being, but it’s there. I flash back a lot. Oddly, when Matt first passed away, I didn’t think about the past year too often. My mind went back; much farther back…before we knew anything about Cholangiocarcinoma, liver enzymes, FOLFOX, GEM-CIS, immunotherapy, TIL therapy, clinical trials, and really, cancer. Lately, I’ve frequently flashed back this past year. From the breakdowns to the breathless moments; I try to block it out, but it’s almost impossible. I know that accepting the good with the bad is part of this experience, but let me tell you, it is awful. It is not how I want to remember Matt; it’s not how Matt wants to be remembered. But it happened, and it happened to coincide with Bryson’s first year. It hurts to look at pictures of Bryson’s first year because so many photos gilded the pain that personified that year. 

Fear about making the “right decisions” as a single parent

To be quite frank, ten years ago, I didn’t think I’d ever want children. Now, I am left to raise my son by myself.  I am 100% grateful for Bryson; he is my world. But, I don’t know what I’m doing. I want Bryson to have the same opportunities and the same experiences as all his kid counterparts. I know it will be different for him; I know that one day, I’ll have to explain all of this crap to him and pray that it doesn’t do long-term damage. I know that his dad will live with him through our stories and our memories, not his own. That is hard to digest. 

On top of that, I constantly question what my next move is in this chess game. I gave myself a year of renting an apartment without any major changes to figure out where I go from here. And it’s not an easy decision. Right now, we live states away from both sets of grandparents and the majority of our family. I’m lucky to have my brother-in-law and sister-in-law relatively close and a set of friends I consider family in Baltimore, but everyone has their own lives with personal responsibilities and must keep moving forward with those responsibilities at the forefront. We are not, and should not, be the priority in that sense. I wouldn’t want it any other way. But that leaves me the sole caretaker of a little man who deserves so much of what, I’m worried, I won’t be able to deliver. What happens if I’m sick? Or have to stay late at work? How do I balance giving him the opportunity to do fun activities while balancing my own work/adult responsibilities? How do I heal and move forward without the time to do it? Being two parents is not an easy task, friends.

So I have choices to make over the next few months and those choices are not easy. Though I know nothing is permanent, it doesn’t make the stress any less. It’s sad and it’s scary to watch your life vision fall through your fingers. Then again, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s to embrace moments. The future on earth is not promised to anyone.

Fear about love

Ugh. A topic I’ve somewhat avoided in most of my blogs since Matt died because it’s honestly so….weird. On one side, I don’t want to be alone for the rest of my (hopefully lengthy) life. Matt didn’t want me to be alone. It was the only thing he made me promise to do  if “things didn’t go as we hoped they would.” I detested when he brought up the subject, and it’s not any easier to talk about now. On the other side, I don’t even know where to begin with this. How can you start dating people when you still love someone else? Will I find someone who understands that a part of my heart will always be with Matt? Can someone actually fathom the baggage I carry with me and accept that?  Logically, I don’t even have the time to shower (some days). How will I ever find the time to actually date someone? 

When I found Matt, it fit perfectly. Everything. Even the crazy. The crazy made it shine.  I hadn’t felt like that about someone in a really long time, and we grew and developed that love over time into so much more. Does that happen to people again? I worry I’ll panic; I’ll settle; I’ll introduce men into Bryson’s life that aren’t right. All of these things make me scared and squeamish. But I guess they will also make me selective, and intuitive, and, the believer in me knows Matt has my back and won’t let me settle for some dope.

This topic deserves its own post. I’d love to hear from fellow widows and widowers about their experience with post-loss love. I know some who have found another soulmate and moved forward quickly, while others have chosen not to. And a heck of a lot of us in that murky, we just don’t know what to do, place.   

Fear of Disconnection

As the days add on, I worry about losing parts of Matt. Forgetting his touch, his habits, his facial expressions, and his demeanor when he’s upset about the baseboards being dusty or excited when he wins PTO bingo. I worry about some of my memories fading away. I worry that other people will lose these memories even faster and Matt will no longer be a presence for them. I made a promise to Matt after he died that I would never let the sun go down on him. I intend to fulfill that. I can’t let him down.

I know that these pieces of Matt will only fade if I let them. The writing, the pictures, the videos, and the consistent sharing of Matt’s stories, keep him with me and are essential to Bryson connecting with his dad; he will perpetually be my reminder of the love we shared. But it doesn’t take the fear away. I haven’t felt his touch in 8 months. We haven’t had a mutual kiss without sadness behind it in much longer than that. Those days will continue to add up. A point will come in my life where I will have spent more time away from Matt than with him. There may come a point in my life where I’m with someone else longer than I was with Matt. This is my reality, and it’s freaking terrifying.

Fear of perception

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. To be completely honest, my concern over public perception has really been so minute, which is a STARK change from younger Christina. I guess that’s a growth moment. But I do sometimes think about how my actions and the decisions I make will shape my perception. Will people think I’ve moved on if I move my ring to my other hand? Do people think I’m over it because I’m laughing and hanging out with friends? Will people be angry when I start dating again? Will people judge me on where I choose to live or what I do with Bryson? Gosh…as I write this, I ask myself, why do I care so much?

I digress.

I will leave you with this. Above all, I have learned that FEAR is OK. Being fearful doesn’t make you less strong; it is not a sign of weakness. In fact, I think that much of my strength comes from my fear. I don’t run away from my fear, I deal with it. It’s the pushing through despite the fear; it’s the ability to acknowledge these feelings, be able to share it and figure out how to make sense of the nonsense. This is not normal. What we have experienced as a family is out of the ordinary, in a terrible way. But I have an obligation to my son, myself, and Matt not to give up or give in to my fears, but to use them to grow.

Until next time,

Xtina