Fresh Widow

The Hardest Words I Ever Had to Say

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 17:45:00 +0000

How do I even start to cover my biggest topic — the one which has covered me for so long? The subject of dozens of blog posts already: the relationship my late husband and I shared with Death. Cancer was the horse it rode in on, but cancer was easy. You can fight fight fight! There is research! There are communities. It’s engrossing, engaging, and encouraging. I can’t tell you anything about that that you haven’t already heard.

What I can tell you is, the most important thing I ever told my husband. After, of course, I love you.

Gavin spent his four last days in hospice. He had been living with a terminal diagnosis nearly two years; he’d survived two brutal surgeries, including one which failed, and five (I have to write them down to be sure) drug therapies: injections, infusions, pills, pills, and more pills. The last two were the two latest possible, delivered in his last six months, at the cutting edge of treatments and not even on the market yet. (We were familiar with the code names for all the investigational drugs in all the pipelines). And he was getting an increasing number of what are humanely called “opportunistic infections” but would be called demons in earlier days: shingles. Candida. Pneumonia. An unspecified bacterial infection. An unknown fungal infection.

To paraphrase D00ce, that all sucked, and we had a kid in diapers at the time.

We never went to bed angry, but we had a lot of really bad days. Every day we said “I love you.” That was easy and it was important.

But the third day in hospice they told me: You have to tell him he can leave if he needs to.

Did I tell him? I don’t remember. I regarded it as a duty to tell the quiet parade of his closest and oldest friends visiting: Before you go in there, I'm going to ask you to do me a favor: please tell him you’ll take care of me and my daughter. Please tell him he can leave if he needs to.

Those were the hardest words I ever had to say. I said them over and over. It was almost as if I was hearing it, too… the repetition helped. We’d entered hospice saying “this is to rebuild your strength.” I hoped he’d recover enough that they’d let me take him home and I’d have lots of help and he could die, surrounded by his adoring family, in a bed in our living room. You know, a month or three later. After his birthday party, after fair goodbyes, after making peace and in a state of blissful acceptance.
Instead he died two days later, in a bed in that same hospice, surrounded by his adoring family and a few friends and a miniature schnauzer-dachsund mix.

“The end” had been so far away for so long…. We danced with it. I asked a close girlfriend if it seemed, when she visited during a very, very bad period, that we were ignoring death, like an elephant in the room. She said, No, it was more like a kitten in the room, and every now and then one of you would lean over and pet it to pay some attention. You couldn’t ignore it, but you didn’t seem afraid, and it wasn’t that large.

But we had ignored it at times: we'd done everything. We’d shaken our fingers at death, looked it in the eye and screamed, we’d tested it, we’d tried to push it around. We’d made allies against death, and we’d bargained. Bargaining is pointless when you have no idea that May 31st will be the day you have to say, “it’s okay to leave if you want to.”

We never said goodbye. That was hard. Not that I felt it until later… there was no question he was “gone”… but it’s a romance that’s unavoidable, and it stung only as I hit everyone else’s expectations of what “the end” might be like, repeatedly, in the months and years following. But small stings, nothing like those we endured when we were losing our fight against cancer.

When you’re still fighting, you want to know the names of that bacteria and that fungus. When the doctors tell you it doesn’t matter, you begin to hear it: this is the end.

Don’t get me wrong… this is not about Elizabeth Kubler Ross and the Five Stages of Dying (not "of Grief"… but that’s another post).

But I wish we’d accepted that death wasn’t a kitten any more. I wish we’d let hospice in sooner. We thought we would… when it was “time.” We had talked about hospice, earlier in his illness. We loved the idea of a “good death.” But doesn’t everyone just want to live just so, so much more? But the closer that “time” got, the deafer we became to its knocking. Who could live with that sound? We turned the Baby Einstein videos up louder. We stopped asking Dr. Google about symptoms. We got mad at the oncologist.

Now that I have met hundreds of people widowed after long illnesses, I see that the elements of my story are ridiculously common. Pretty much every single one except the exact details, the dates, the drug names. But the deep ones: the hard ones, the emotional scars and fights and invisible enemies. The damage done, not by not knowing (because there’s nothing we can do about that except yell at God and doctors), but by not talking and not accepting the oncoming end.

Cancer may be a battle, but life is not. Life is to be lived and for love, and that is hard to really embrace during wartime. By the time he died, it wasn’t cancer any more. It was pneumonia and our unnamed bacterial and fungal enemies, and organs breaking down, one by one. At any rate, our oncologist had signed off long before: that’s a sign.

That’s what I hear when I hear about fighting cancer on the internet. That’s what I flash back to when I know a cancer blogger gets an opportunistic infection. That’s what it was like, and I can remember the detail and the complexity, the numbness and intensity intermingled, when one of my closest friends tells me that her close friend’s family won’t talk about what’s next when her lungs are filling up with fluid. Not quite triggers… memories of deep and dark times, and I feel huge lightness after finally sharing my side of my part of the story.

That’s how much is still in my brain and body and heart seven years after diagnosis, five years after his death. And oh, how I wish I could change it for every single person reading this.

"Sh*t people say to widows:" Please participate!

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 19:39:00 +0000

UPDATED -- Deadline extended to Thursday 1/26!

We are making a group video called ""Sh*t people say to widows" based on the "meme." If you're not familiar with them, here's a list (Watch out…some of them are pretty offensive and some of them have commercials). If you wish to watch only one, this one is very good ("Shit white girls say to black girls"):

This is a group project and we have to work FAST. Please read all the way through. I would love to have all submissions by next Tuesday, 1/24!

Between the thousands of widowed folks who read this blog, are in WidowedVillage.org and my FB pages, we will have TONS of insensitive comments that people say to widows and widowers. Want a taste of the material we've lived through? Read this, this or view this adorable and nasty video. There are also two threads on my FB timeline, each with more than 100 comments. We haz steam!

Want to participate?

You can contribute a quote or a video.

-- To contribute a quote, just fill out the custom form I created.

-- To contribute a video……

Email me your SUPER-SHORT videos. They should be less than 5 seconds each! If you want to do more than one, that's awesome, but make each video separately.

Tips:
   •   JUST perform the quote… don't explain it, don't tell us background or who it was. JUST THE WORDS.
   •   Yes, you can film it on your phone.
   •   PLEASE film it in LANDSCAPE orientation (sideways). Try not to be so close that you can eat the camera, and I'd rather you weren't looking down at it (less flattering position anyway). If you think it might be too dark or there's too much background noise... do a test film first.
   •   You do NOT have to use HD video and if you have the option, turn OFF HD video.
   •   You can use any background including your regular old house BUT make sure there are no identifying details like family photos or street signs or anything.
   •   As for attitude: You want to be imitating someone. Pretend you are the clueless or rude person.
   •   You can wear a wig or schmatte on your head, or a costume, if you like, but that's not important. Doing this FAST is important!

If one of you would take a bunch of short videos of yourself eating a bag of chips while looking away from the camera, in different settings, that would be very, very awesome too. Somehow that flavor is part of the series. I nominate Robin Craig and a bag of Beanitos!

When you send your clip to me, tell me in the email if you wish us to use your name in the credits… or a pseudonym, or nothing. Make sure you use the email -- if you post it to YouTube I can't use it!

Email me if you have any questions. Comments are great, but please use the form or an email if you have a question about the project that needs to be resolved quickly -- I will get those sooner!

Deadline extended due to your awesome response!!

Don't forget -- Send your 5-second (or shorter) video clips to me by ~~Tuesday 1/24!!!!~~ Thursday 1/26!

Thank you and yaHOO!!!

ISO: A miraculous birth

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 05:22:00 +0000

Since this request crossed my “desk" just before Christmas, and I am a bit nativity-crazy anyway (the above image is of one of my molded guest soap sets, “No Room at the Inn”), and even though IVF is not really (quite) immaculate conception, I couldn’t resist this metaphor. Not that I am known for my restraint anyway.

But, here is the situation: A U.S. non profit organization is looking for a woman who conceived a child *after* her partner’s death. This would involve (one imagines) using banked sperm. They’ve asked me to ask my communities for help.

And this isn’t going to be easy. Out of the several hundred stories I’ve heard from widows, I have only known of one family in this situation, and she (the Mom) has shut down her blog and completely disappeared under what I recall as very tense circumstances. I know dozens of women who were widowed while pregnant and many widows (and a few widowers) with banked sperm or eggs, and even embryos from prior IVF attempts. I know scores of widows who had children with new partners after being widowed, and as huge a joy as each of those births is, it sounds positively Mayberry compared to the rare situation we're looking for.

There must be thousands of cancer patients (including teens) who store sperm or eggs before undergoing treatment, and we know that not everyone survives cancer. (Well, I know that pretty well. Overall 5-year-survival for all cancers, without respect to age or patient’s interest in having children, is something like 60%.) Things change rapidly: services for young adults with cancer didn't exist ten years ago, and IVF is not only more common, acceptable, and accessible than it ever was when we were seeking conception, but loads more successful as well.

So I'm hopeful: If you are this Mom, or you know this Mom, please contact me and I will connect you with the folks who are seeking this rare and — you have to admit — at-least-a-little-bit miraculous family.

Is it better to give than to receive, or am I crazy?

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 04:40:00 +0000

Is it really better to give than to receive?

I have come to think it is, for me, at this time in my life. Why and how is a complicated alchemy of heart, mind, and science.

For one thing, by being in a position to give, you are inherently doing okay. Giving forces you to see that you HAVE. This awareness is itself a kind of gift.

Giving encourages you to be intimate with need -- to direct your gaze at a gap. You might become aware of the sting of your own emptiness; you might see how easy some needs are to fill, which might (for just a moment) make life seem just. Often, when we give, we see that others have needs greater than ours. In our own needy places, we have closed our eyes.

Always, when we give, we know we are not alone. We find we can make a difference.

Science shows us that altruism feels good: performing a good deed, volunteering for a cause, or even the abstract and removed act of writing a check has been shown to release endorphins, the body’s natural feel-good hormones.

It was hard for me to get comfortable giving away, of all things, MONEY. I have always been a tightwad and for most of my life, I've had to scrimp just to keep my own interests alive. But when I started to share my income with projects I believed in, when I sent my money out beyond my household, my brain started to process just HOW money gets things done. In my heart, I felt that I was engaging in the world again, just a bit, after a long period of isolation.

All of a sudden, I wasn’t just USING. I was PART of whatever it was. Take my church. By making a decent sized gift each year — giving a portion of my income, paying the church FIRST, not some bit when everything else was left over — I became an investor. And “investment” refers equally to having a financial stake in something and keeping your heart there.

Giving enabled me to connect in a different way, one that I had never had. A peculiarly ADULT way. One with not only dreams, but also responsibilities.

I give as generously as I can because honestly, it does feel good to me. I give to a few organizations that do things that I feel need to be done. I give because I want them to keep going. I don’t care if they spend what I give on boring stuff like copier paper, but that’s just me. I expect them to handle the money responsibly but I also expect “my staff” (see how that happened?) to be paid fairly.

The largest share of my “schedule A” giving goes to Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation (SSLF). I support SSLF because they are building the programs that I wish had existed when my husband died in 2006 (the first Camp Widow was held in 2009). SSLF shares my vision and they allow me to help (I now serve on their board). They allow me to help a LOT. Soaring Spirits was the partner that enabled me to create WidowedVillage.org, a dream that was too big for just me to handle. With them behind me, that small community is part of a much larger world of support and connections for widowed folks.

And I do all this work because peer support saved my life. SSLF is providing that same kind of comradeship and hope to thousands of widowed people every day. SSLF builds these connections in creative and important ways. If you’d like to say that SSLF programs are yours too, make a gift.

Every gift matters. It might be easy to feel that your individual gift is not the kind that will make a difference. It’s probably pretty easy to imagine that someone who’s doing a lot better than you can afford to give a larger share. You might think that lots of corporations and foundations are willing to fund SSLF programs right now. Would you believe me if I said that neither of those things is true?

But I know you recognize this story: the intense relief and gratitude in the face of someone who for the first time, meets another widowed person they can relate to. It's astonishing: you share one small experience or feeling with them and all of a sudden, they "get it" that you "get it." Their eyes light up. They don’t feel you made just a small contribution. For that person at that moment, the world stops being completely broken and becomes a world where a bit of light is visible through one of the cracks. These connections are our path to hope.

SSLF is lean and growing rapidly but dependent on individuals like you and me.

Our new site on StayClassy makes it easy to give once, or set up a recurring donation. If your gift means something to you, believe me, it will mean something to this organization and to all the people we will serve next year.

So think about it… and tell me afterwards if it was as good to give to Soaring Spirits as it was to receive.

You can make a safe, secure gift to Soaring Spirits programs at http://www.stayclassy.org/fundraise/team?ftid=4358.

Part of the Service of Remembrance

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 15:22:00 +0000

I participated in our church's annual Service of Remembrance, organized by my wonderful friend, John. In the talk, I allude to two of the mourning practices of our Unitarian Universalist church: for one year, you stand during the moment of silence in each service (based on the Jewish tradition of the kaddish and yahrzeit); at some point, you or a volunteer at your direction embroiders your loved one's name on one of seven gorgeous memorial quilts that hang in the sanctuary. I have spoken in the past about these and my experience here, here, here, here and here. (Oh hell. Just click on the "church" label over there -------------------->)

Here's what I said this past Sunday:

I am here to speak a little about my loss as part of a once-a-year service of remembrance. There is a time for this, this remembering and mourning, as there is for all things. But I’d like to tell you that here, in this community, every day allows for remembrance.

A little about my time here: In 2004, my husband Kevin and I visited this church as part of our beginning journey as parents, and a way to cope with the crisis that his cancer diagnosis had brought us. A year later we joined. Kevin missed the joining ceremony because he was recovering from a surgery on his spine, a brutal operation that both saved his life and, as I look back on it, signaled the beginning of a rapid, bumpy decline in his health.

I had never had a church: no faith, no religion or tradition, and no second home. I had no way to deal with what we were facing. As the caregiver of a dying man, and another year later as a new widow with a young child, thrust into the world of death and grief I was confused, overwhelmed, and nearly broken myself.

Above all, I worried about time. I wanted to grieve quickly -- perhaps I could squeeze it all in to the 3 months which I had told work I'd need? I shuddered when I heard about rituals, like standing during the silence, that lasted an entire year. If I had known a year means nothing... If I'd known my loss is still a big part of my life, even remarried, even at 5 years.... ?

When I was in this sanctuary, I didn't have to "know." When I was here, time stood still. I never felt hurried here. I wasn’t judged. I could move backward and forward fluidly, as I needed to. When the time came, I even got awesome dating advice. Some of it from John and Amy on the playground, right out there.

Here, I was only one of many people who had lost someone. Here, we are surrounded by the names of others who loved and had to leave. People in church are not afraid that the past had existed. They say the names…. They share the loves, past, present, and future.

And the friends I made here… some of them were hurting more than I was.

Above all, the rituals of this place — the times it built — the time, at last, to stop standing during the silence — the time, concrete and specific, to embroider Kevin’s name on the quilt — helped me understand what time is and what time does for those who have lost.

One day a year is terrific. Ritual is magic, even Unitarian Universalist ritual. In this home, we are fortunate to be able to explore the traditions of the Piscataway, of Moses, and of others who have also lived through loss… who’ve done the work of time. People who know the ancient truth that our modern sage Laurie Anderson rephrased last year in a performance art piece:

“They say you die three times, once when your heart stops, again when your body is buried or cremated, and then the last time someone says your name.”

This home where the names live on — where it is always okay to cry and to laugh — can give you YOUR time, your own time. To find the freedom of your own ways to live in a world without someone you can’t live without.

This time is all that you and I have.

Surviving the first year, with help from Buffy

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Tue, 27 Sep 2011 18:20:00 +0000

When my husband died, I had no idea how I’d recover. After two years of nursing his terminal illness, our household was drained and I was just plain exhausted. As the breadwinner, I had worked full time through his illness; as the mother of a small child, I was desperately needed at home.

Perhaps it looked to the world like I could make it. Gavin had told me, over and over, “you’re stronger than you think.” Grief was overwhelming, but I knew that would run its course in time. My therapist assured me I had all the right tools in place to build a path up out of loss, a new life, to get my mojo back. But I just wasn’t feeling it. I needed an image… a narrative… a mentor.

I also needed something to do after putting my daughter to bed. I had abandoned most hobbies (and been abandoned by most of my friends) after our long fight. My eyes hurt too much to read. I was doing all the work, in all departments: estate, job, home, self care. I needed a little time out, some escape.

And I found something passive that held tremendous healing power: the TV show Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I pledged to watch all 144 episodes, seven seasons in order, that first year, as part of my self care. I swore, too, that I’d always have the essentials, red wine and dark chocolate, on hand.

I was converted to watching Buffy late in its run when a friend revealed to me that the show’s setting — a high school — had been built on top of the actual gate to hell. The blond and perky cheerleader heroine was burdened with her duty to save the world, and she did it over and over. This scenario was familiar. Duh! The entire show was ironic.

I didn’t get that when I caught my first fragments of Buffy episodes while surfing through Saturday afternoon reruns. The show’s special effects were superior to those of Dr. Who, another cult favorite I never got into, but I couldn’t understand why vampires would be marked by forehead bulges. Were they supposed to be Cro-magnons? The other characters were cute teenagers living in an idyllic suburb. I’d been a city girl and a brainiac who barely survived high school. No way could I identify with this laughable show.

When I finally surrendered, I enjoyed the last 2 seasons, action packed and subtle, postmodern to the max, while completing grad school. The legion of Buffy fans will tell you it’s a deceptive show, deep and dark at times, with real heart and occasionally, silly as all hell. Vampires — ordinary vampires and spooks in film — have always seemed to me to have as little to do with death as an amusement park. Even when the sets, costumes, and effects are “convincing,” movie monsters don’t grab me. At their best, the creatures are metaphors, unconvincing and fleshless. Death in a movie is a fake climax guided by music and lighting, when real death is blank and empty. I’ll always favor Beckett over Hitchcock and certainly over chainsaws.

The writers of Buffy don’t make any of those easy mistakes. After my experience of watching my husband die, living in the warm lap of mortality as that event approached, Buffy’s world seemed important and worthwhile. I could feel her duty, her struggle, and her fight against evil and root — with relish, like a good cheerleader — for the right side to win.

So every night, I settled on my couch with a glass of wine and opened a Netflix envelope. I spent an hour or two watching a girl younger than me kick ass, make fun of goths, and kiss boys (Yes, there is sex in Buffy. Good sex. Talk about the teenage years I never had!). I kept an eye on her friends, even the goofy ones, as they helped out, sometimes haplessly. I sat through the blood and the imaginary monsters. I made friends with ambiguous demons of all sorts, because nothing is black and white in the show; bad guys become lovers and friends break into evil. Watching Buffy is fun, but it’s rarely simple.

Over and over, the premise of the show, its characters, its choices and even a few of its conflicts were real for me. Two events in the series spoke out to me in particular as a grieving person, and they are both about the hurt of our world.

In one episode, the partner of teen witch, Willow, is killed violently before her eyes. Slowly, grief transforms her: after losing everything, she comes to feel all the pain of humanity. Overwhelmed, her eyes turn black and she knows she must end this unbearable existence for everyone. It is loss that pushes Willow to cross over the edge — not a will to power or any desire to join with dark forces.

Like Willow, I could feel cracked open to feeling too much. I didn’t feel so much like destroying things, but then, life as a Mom grounded me and didn’t have any access to the tools of black magic. But I was awed that the story presented by Buffy’s writers isn’t the fairytale vision of what pushes evil.

At the end of season five, I felt Buffy’s relief as she sacrifices herself for her little sister and the fate of the world. This death is oblivion, which I felt strongly from contemplating my own loss. When Buffy is brought back to life, I agreed with her sadness at returning to this plagued and difficult world. She’s in a funk most of season six, performing her duties with little zeal. She just doesn’t want to be “here.”

Like me working through that first year, Buffy doesn’t find any tricks for her getting her groove back. An episode called “Once More with Feeling” suggests that living through an all-singing, all-dancing spell could break any mood at the same time as it encourages the viewer to suspend a last level of disbelief, if she had any left. In the end, Buffy and her friends save the world one last time, not without losses and costs. Good men die, an eyeball is poked out (and shows no sign of magically reappearing), and the whole town collapses into dust.

During my most difficult year, Buffy the Vampire Slayer showed me that everyone hurts. The world of Buffy is tough and often painful, like that of a Grimm fairytale, but I felt, as Buffy usually did, that this world is worth fighting for. There are no superheroes, although you get points for agility and teamwork, and once in a while you find a magical talisman or a talking book. By being honest about loss, Buffy gained my trust so I was able to enjoy the relief of rescue at its conclusion. By being silly and exuberant, the show kept me listening and broke down my intellectual barriers.

Watching Buffy every night required me to rest. It gave me color and excitement in the comfort of my own home, and a role model par excellence.

Most of all, my year of Buffy taught me that my imagination is probably my best and most intimate tool, and one I can’t live without.

Gavin's 9/11 drawing

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Sat, 10 Sep 2011 03:01:00 +0000

My late husband’s drawing about September 11 was a memory of what a beautiful day it was, you know, otherwise. So clear and bright, mild, touched by a fresh breeze. His piece captures also the mystery, the gradual entry of that smoke and fog we couldn’t place or understand, not any piece of it. The sense that our whole world was about to change but we didn’t quite wish to believe it even as we grasped to know something. To know anything. To be included somehow and to be back in the world.

September 11 started as a quiet day, with birds chirping. We couldn’t hear birds after around 9, depending on where we were, but after some chatter, the day was quiet and calm again as we all hoped the state of knowing nothing, feeling only jumbled wouldn’t last. We scrambled to compute how many and who while we had no information and while so many parts were moving.

So yeah, like you all, I remember.

9/11 wasn’t my first loss, my primal one, but it was a sort of entry into adulthood, a turning point, like becoming a parent. 9/11 was most like the shock of Gavin’s diagnosis of terminal cancer and only a little like losing the man himself and grief and all the adaptation and transformation that we call widowhood.

So it’s an apt drawing, I think, that tells me many stories. Gavin hid this drawing, a bit, and I just discovered It last week, as I said goodbye to the last parts of “his” part of our home. (Forgive the crappy photo.) Unlike his sea drawings, I didn’t have any negative feelings — this event and loss are so much larger than his cancer and death, injuries I can remember in great detail still, and so much more “healed” (how can a nation SAY that?).

Seeing them reminded me how big that day was, how specific, and really, how beautiful our world, even one corner of polluted sky.

I was thinking about this as I drove home, bloodied a bit by bureaucracy, after handling the last bit of home sale business, something particularly thorny and so deeply entangled with Gavin’s time of illness and my worst breaks. It was a flood of feelings but I took care of every bit, pinned it down with numbers and maps, and connected people to solutions. As I left, relieved, I was remembering that distant day and the drawing, and I left the garage: there was the sun in a big clear sky, innocent and present like a child.

That sunlight was fresh and blinding after a week of solid drubbing, of oppressive wet, of trees destabilizing and bridges sinking, a week or more when nothing could be done easily, at least 8 days of crying for the WORLD AROUND ME TO CHANGE DAMMIT, of praying over nearby thunderclaps at 3 a.m., the few good moments in the week were pure gratitude when I remembered how close I had once been to moving to Seattle.

Today's sun was a message to me to keep my eye on the bright that you can’t see behind the sky.

Artwork: the breakdown

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Wed, 31 Aug 2011 19:44:00 +0000

I have often said that I’m grateful that Gavin was an artist and that he left a concrete legacy — that he made a difference to literally thousands of people who look at a painting or drawing by him every single day. I say, it made it easier to throw out clothes like his old socks (although… he really did like his damn chinos). Because of the tons of artwork he created during his life time, I didn’t have trouble with which objects mattered to him or which ones would matter to me.

But that’s kind of a pile of garbage (as are many other things) now that I’m moving the last things out of his studio. Because when you get past the many layers of treasures that he created, there is still a lot of junk that was secondary. And even as great a genius as he was (Not really) (Gimme a break, I was married to him), it’s not worth saving every little thing he ever scribbled on. Except for some of it.

Let me give you a list of just a few of the categories of “stuff” and what has been their fate so far:

Actual artwork, large sizes: went to professional, climate-controlled, secure art storage facility.
Actual artwork, small sizes: moved to flat files which have been moved to my new home.
His notebooks, letters, and sketchbooks: to Smithsonian museum libraries for their collection of “papers of American artists,” in hopes someday someone will write about his work.
Sketches that were unbound, some rough, some finished, some with markings to help him enlarge them.
Artwork by his friends: some hangs in our home, some will be sold. This work falls into subcategories: pieces I really like that hung in our home, pieces I didn’t like much that hung in our home, pieces that didn’t hang in our home, pieces I have never seen; pieces by people I never met, pieces by friends that were in loving trade, pieces by friends that were “gifts” that might not have made it in a situation of natural selection, pieces by people I actively disliked. Pieces he bought during “good years.”
Art materials. Paint, not only the type he used. Turpentine. Half-dirty turpentine (fine for housepainting). Color pencils (a child of the 60s, he wouldn’t ever say “colored” pencils), boxes of broken conte crayons, soft pencils, hard pencils, china markers, 24 boxes of oil pastels that must have some story behind them. Most of all this went to the local college art department, whose 2 senior professors were his classmates there. Sheaves of luscious 100% cotton paper, pristine, wrapped up like nuns. FOR SALE!
Furniture. Tables made specifically for his work, the right size, unfinished plywood and 2x4s. Two “puzzle” desks he built from a pattern in Popular Mechanics 30 years ago. Shelves for tools. The dust from 500 punk rock and opera LPs that I sold long ago for $1 each.
Tools. Extra sets of screwdrivers (sets!? Who am I fooling.). Five hand saws. Thousands of nails and screws of the type no one ever needs. Extra brackets, nuts, clamps, and containers that I didn’t already claim for the new house. A compound miter box he felt obliged to buy when he was very, very ill.
Art-related tools. Matte cutter. Copy stand. Two lightboxes. A projector.
Empty frames. Frames with cracked glass. Replacement glass for frames that I don’t know where they are now. Frames that must be checked, lest a drawing is behind an old matt.
Slides of most of the work he created during his 30 years, which were scanned and stuck on Flickr. Slides that are snapshotty… will be tossed.
Snapshots. Includes snapshots that were source material for artwork, made and unmade. Snapshots that were “active,” on his desk, in the top drawer, for work that was finished in the past few years and for work he was contemplating. (Many are being scanned.) Family snapshots. Albums of family photographs, most of them without name or date information.
Books. Do not get me started on the damn books.

The last items to be removed from his empty studio — just yesterday — was a clutch of large drawings stashed in his drafting table (which I didn’t even know had a compartment). Some I’d seen before, some I hadn’t. Strange that items from the “valuable” category showed up long after empty frames and packing material had already been given away. Spookily enough, this group includes his piece for September 11, which I knew was SOMEWHERE around here. Right. On. Time, dear.

Clearing this out has taken forever, and called up a complicated tangle of emotions: I get only fog. There’s some justice seeing things go where they “ought.” The frustration of friends who don’t seem to care for relics of their own relationship with him. My anguish over deciding which papers to send to the museum, and which to recycle. (They’ll do no one any good in our attic).

(Yes, it would be a hell of a lot easier if I believed the house sale would actually CLOSE. But I'm in permanent skeptic mode after what I've been through this summer).

There’s slight zeal in throwing out pieces that I know he wanted to destroy. One evening a few months before he died, he came upstairs saying, “some day I really need to burn some of those early paintings.” It was practically his only intimation that he knew he wouldn’t last forever. I found this batch behind the hot water heater (I’m pretty sure those are the ones he meant). But I felt a passive aggressive compulsion to photograph them before bending them up, as if I wouldn’t even let his ghost escape their primitive colors and compositions.

I had no such compunction tossing out oversized newsprint pads of figure drawings from college. Several large unsatisfying, unfinished paintings were figural too…. Figures were always his least successful pieces. Even when he cloaked them in allegory and myth and removed them into abstract or performance realms, no one really responded to them. (With one notable exception.)

There are literally crickets chirping among the oddments that remain, furniture that’s claimed but not picked up yet, my checklists and tools to bring home, some packing materials, and six identical empty frames.

And I’m oh, so tired.

Why you might consider bringing a party dress with you to Camp Widow (At least, if you are a girl, lady, or woman, or someone who identifies as one of those)

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Wed, 03 Aug 2011 15:00:00 +0000

It’s hard to explain why I am in the market for a pair of silver high heels. Am I really going to feel like dancing at Camp Widow -- a “grief retreat”?

Well, I may or may not — but Kim put in an advance request to the gala DJ for some Chaka Khan, so there’s a good chance I’ll shake some tail feathers (note to self: pack tail feathers).

Yes, there will be a lot of crying at this conference. Everyone attending will, like me have lost their spouse or partner. Workshops will tackle every subject in grief, loss, and adjustment. But I am excited to attend an art workshop and one in writing as a way of healing.

More than 200 widows and widowers… men and women, of all ages (right now, folks aged 21 to 83 are registered!). Couples who were married or unmarried, gay and straight, divorced or “complicated.” People actively raising children, empty nesters, and couples who didn’t have children are represented in almost equal numbers. Folks who’ve lost someone just this summer… and those who are ten years out and more. You’ll hear about their losses, about their loves, and their selves, and you’ll see that they all have coped differently.

Camp Widow is a little bit, for the grieving soul in me, like “coming home.” And what an opportunity to be out, to be real. It can be beyond overwhelming to see and meet so many others who’ve been there, others who are “there” now, and people who are through it — who’ve gone beyond mere survival to flourish. Many attendees will find out they’re not crazy, or that they are doing pretty well. Some will have the experience of reaching out a hand to someone else and with that step… understanding their own path a little better.

Grieving people don’t have many chances to show how they feel (though we may do so unwittingly by staying home most of the time) — to live our souls in all their richness, the dark and light showing equally. Unlike when we’re out in the “real” world, at Camp Widow, we can’t hide. When no one expects you to hide your feelings, you might not even want to hide. You might even wish to shine. Something about belonging in that way — about that rare experience of deep freedom — might just make you want to boogie.

Sparkles are on my agenda because I had one regret last year. At Camp Widow 2010, my first time there, I wore a new outfit — a very “daytime” outfit because I was keyed up about speaking, hate shopping, and don’t have many clothes that fit me after the “ups and downs” of being a mom, grieving, and now being happily remarried.

That evening, after a long day of workshops and friendships, I was surrounded by comrades and allies, and there were drinks.

I looked nice enough (although I discovered I have back fat). I could have danced in my sensible shoes, but what about black wedge mary janes makes you want to dance? NOTHING.

I didn’t think I’d need a party dress. I didn’t dream I deserved a whole second brand new outfit. Didn’t Thoreau tell us to “beware of all enterprises that require new clothes”? I shouldn’t have been so cautious. I minded being a little dull that evening (plus my toe hurt). That’s my regret.

Something about that rare place and time where you can “come as you are” — a chance to relax without denying all your stresses, to work on rebuilding your “wild and precious” life — is in itself a celebration. And that is the element of Camp Widow that I find the hardest to explain to people.

Maybe this should be the motto: “Camp Widow: the grief retreat where you should bring a party dress.”

So pack something spangly and see how you feel, okay?

The Fish is Dead, Long Live the Fish

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 14:51:00 +0000

Winny, the third of three beta fishes (and the fourth pet if you count his best friend Fasty, the snail) has died. We are more or less certain that the fatal injury was incurred on a playdate by a mischievous friend wielding a cheap piece of jewelry.

Short Stack wrote this letter to the alleged perpetrator:

Dear Sophia, I'm sorry to say but you stuck paart of the necklise in the fish boll. My fish is dede now. It is not todally your falt. It's my mom's falt too!! Fish water: if you stick something (metle) in the fish water when you take it out, it is dry, that is how fish water works!

(Man, it was really fun to frustrate autocorrect there! Nyah, nyah!)

He's going in the garden in this scheme:

Fasty: under a tiny rosemary which has since, um, not flourished
Reddy (Bob): at the foot of a young redbud
Winny: in the hole I dug for a new hydrangea paniculata
Daddy: half, in the base of a young but noble elm tree (half still on a bookshelf).

(Sadly, the first fish, Goldy, was unceremoniously flushed because he died when I was out of town. But we're regretting that now).

Does this all help my daughter understand her great loss -- of her father -- any better? It's really hard for me to say. On the one hand, I think she's overly preoccupied with death. On the other hand, I just read that 7-year-olds tend to be a bit "goth" as part of their internal development. She's certainly not as bad as above mentioned Sophia (who believes that she is secretly a vampire and she keeps her little brother's secret powers in her jewelry box). She hasn't even been as sad as I'd expect after each loss, even though she expresses great affection and interest in each pet. And we are talking about fish here.

I mean, fish that she READS TO ("the Night Before Christmas"). Fish that she teaches TRICKS to. Fish that she has tried to get to pronounce the word "FOOD."

This kid knows how to love. She invests, even in small scaly things. And she doesn't get real upset, even while blaming me. It seems to me she has grown into her loss -- that she and I are more intermeshed because of it -- but it hasn't stopped her (or me) from attaching to Mr. Fresh. She is so at ease with having had two Daddies.

My child is such a comfort and a curiosity.

And she is campaigning for a cat.

What he was thinking, 2

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 17:09:00 +0000

(What he was thinking, 1, is here)

After Gavin died, I found a post-it note at his desk that stated:

Ataraxia: a tranquil indifference to the world’s vicissitudes.

I can’t think of anything he strove for more than this: calm and ease with the world.

As time went on and I sat in his office where I'd found the note, doing "estate business," (har har!) I wondered how he had managed to stare at these words all day long during his frustrating and futile fight with cancer (which angered him on many, many occasions). But I had, somehow, lost the note (I’d put it in a “special place” #yeahright). So I looked it up. Wikipedia had a different view of its meaning:

… For the Pyrrhonians, owing to one's inability to say which sense impressions are true and which ones are false, it is the quietude that arises from suspending judgment on dogmatic beliefs or anything non-evident and continuing to inquire. The experience was said to have fallen on the painter Apelles who was trying to paint the foamy saliva of a horse. He was so unsuccessful that, in a rage, he gave up and threw the sponge he was cleaning his brushes with at the medium, thus producing the effect of the horse's foam.

I could compare the two definitions and try to psychoanalyze him, but probably, actually, I couldn’t. And I’m not sure it would be useful, since I THINK he wrote the note before his diagnosis and I don’t know where his version came from.

But I love that the example quotes another artist. Gavin was always using his work to explore, and he was often, often frustrated. Looking for definition, and finding Apelles, was for me and probably for him, too, like running into an old friend.

I remember how often Gavin wanted to tear up his beautiful sheets of Arches (and how often he did), when all anyone saw was the tranquil and pristine result. How often his struggles were with the page or his idea, and NOT with the wicked and messy world we live in. It’s a kind of transcendence that the artist has, even with cancer and the whole bit.

He knew how lucky he was to be an artist, allowed to use his energy this way. And I know how often putting it on paper helped him find peace.

Which is nice, because I tend to dwell on the hurt.

Which might be what makes writers.

Culture Clash

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Fri, 08 Jul 2011 22:53:00 +0000

I love leading an online community. Today Widowed Village received the following application for membership:

I am intended to marry with widow/divorced woman. Their status, age, (having children) doesn't matter, only virtue (pure heart)is important.
I can promise I will be responsible person to make our family always be happy.
I think if we are doing something really right then we have to do this. This will my prominent decision of my life.
Widow/divorced woman are isolated from world, therefore i want to turn my wedding decision to right way and we both will be respectable for each other..

I am Aamir H. from India, as above given is short description, but it is truth. Actually, i am single but interested in to marry with widow woman .. so can you help me? Give me suggestion too...

He is only 26 and yes, I turned him down (we only allow widowed people to join).... I mean, for membership, of course.

Is Aamir doing a good deed? (Can we assume he's very ugly, ill, impotent?) We've all heard horror stories about being widowed in India. Even though the sati is banned, remarriage is supposed to be rare.

It just looks so, so bad in this country where soliciting online for a bride is a business and arranged marriages are considered an injustice beyond anything. Amir's request sounds... cheap. It seems... an ugly sort of business transaction. But if I read it... well, it seems like there's a man with a heart there. I don't really mean to make fun of him (though it would be easy to).

This is the third or fourth request we've had like this. They're all quite clear about their intentions. The first one made me queasy. By now, I sort of respect their honesty and wonder what is up. Do these fellows want to move to the U.S. or another English-dominant country? Do they think our community has many Indian members (we might, someday, I suppose)?

Can someone explain to me what is going on? I know I have readers in India....

Reflections on independence

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Mon, 04 Jul 2011 22:47:00 +0000

This flag, reflected in the window of the Marriott San Diego when I was at Camp Widow last year, shows a little bit of how flags REALLY work: their symbolism might seem to be written in stone, but a flag at every moment, to every person, looks different. Linear, elemental, in primary colors, a flag symbolizes a foundation, but any real flag changes constantly, responding to wind and water. This one appears here to be cut off and wavy, and it was alone on just one tier of many mirrored levels of the hotel facade.

And I really hate Monday holidays (pretty sure I posted this last year too), which is a reflection of how crappy I am as a single parent.
Yes, I'm remarried, but Monday holidays are often deserts for us still, I don't know how to connect, I don't have family nearby. July 4 holds lots of triggers about Gavin's death even at 5 years (he died June 2, his birthday is July 2). In the 3 years I've been with Mr. Fresh, he's been out all day July 4 for a work/hobby commitment. Short Stack and I end up a bit alone, isolated almost as if on purpose, when everyone else is at their pools.

Because even married, I have to be able to be independent. I always was: and while I hated being a single parent, I got really really used to doing things my own way, without negotiations or input. I'm still adjusting to being a "partner" again. You'd think it'd come easy because I was so happy in my first marriage, but this one is so, so different, and I am nothing like I was either when Gavin and I got together (20 years ago!) and only a little like I was when he died (5 years ago). You'd think I'd be good at it because I'm "the marrying kind."

But there are times you want to be alone, and there are times you don't. I think part of my social funk is residual from widowhood, part of the process of having gone through many changes very quickly. I had to learn to be independent as a parent, which was already a new role. And I had to be somewhat good at that before I could find enough center to fall in love and give up some of my time and energy for the sake of a larger easier family life.

Living through loss has been for me, a journey of self discovery. (I know! GAG! But it's true. It's the only way I've gotten through... by learning). After the traumas of disease and death, and all the adjusting, I'm looking back more to my original pain. It will be a while to heal this, too, which had to be left undone while survival became job one. Back then, I coped by hiding and reading -- and I am starting to feel more like an introvert.

Being alone, and lonely, and isolated, and independent -- on my own in all these different ways, I'm learning that I LIKE it. The last time I took a Myers-Briggs personality assessment, 2 jobs ago, I tested as an extreme extrovert. They say that you're an introvert is you're "fed" by being alone, an extrovert if company and talking energize you. A lifetime later, I'm finding out that this was an adjustment -- it didn't feed me. Now that my life is more in balance, and easier, I'm finding that extroversion is fun and satisfying -- for example, all the outreach I do on Facebook and elsewhere -- I have developed the skills -- but I'm understanding it's not my easiest path.

Now I'm finding that if I listen really closely, and watch some of the things I most enjoy, those activities are solitary.

I'm finding that while I've learned so much about people, I'm a bit of a misanthrope at heart. And I'm not only talking about getting a break from parenting.

Not being in crisis means having a choice, being able to do what I need to cope, even though I know it's not ideal.

So I'm enjoying my time alone, maybe because I now have so many hours on my own that I CAN listen.

And I'm adjusting to life as an introvert, as part of a couple and a family, and someone who really really likes her "personal time," even though I am still craving more company on a Monday holiday.

Me and Casey Anthony

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Thu, 23 Jun 2011 13:35:00 +0000

My daughter, Short Stack, was 2-1/2 when Gavin died, and Caylee Anthony was nearly 3 when she “disappeared.” So every time I heard someone say, “how could a mother possibly hurt a little angel like that?,” speaking of what Casey allegedly did to her little girl, I took it a little personally.

That first year that Shortie and I were alone — the year from 2-1/2 to 3-1/2, which started on the hot summer day we came home from hospice without her Dad — was, in many ways, hell.
Shortie was still in diapers and I was still nursing — rushing these difficult and untimable aspects of her development had not been priorities during the two years Gavin was ill. On my own for the first time as a parent and grieving hard, zombied out, barely coping, the two developmental milestones, one at each end of my girl, seemed like Everests — I couldn’t imagine where I’d even find foothold. A critical survival technique: do the least you can get away with.

Among the worst memories was the constant fight in and out of her car seat. What an irony that this constraint was for safety! There was no way to be a “good” parent: I could force her in, cursing between my exertions, or fail to protect her. The lose-lose equation of single parenting was never in higher relief than during those four or six muscular tussles each and every day.

Another daily, deadly pain was anytime she needed to sleep, or I did. Shortie hadn’t napped since 16 months and every afternoon was a long, drawn out struggle of wits and blood sugar against a soft mattressy background. If you want to feel drained, try waking up at dawn, running around till afternoon in an effort to tire a curious toddler, nursing her in bed and feeling the reciprocal relaxation and comfort …then having that child STILL not sleep. I felt used and abused — and more so, the more I nurtured her.

That year also held many sweet moments, milestones of wonder, and huge growth for both of us. She attended day care for the first time with hardly a whimper. She learned new words every day. She was a talented artist, drawing faces “wif two eye” and experimenting with paints with great concentration and zeal. She shared her feelings, bit by bit, and sometimes turned to comfort my hurting heart. One morning, I woke up to find my face tenderly cradled in her hands: “Mommy, you tow pooty!” Who had ever adored me so?

I learned to listen to the hardest things she said, day in and day out. She didn’t understand he was gone, and she was constantly curious and exploring, but without much verbal variety. She was at an age where a sensitive parent can see the confusion and the searching in her eyes, “see the gears turning” in her mind, but it’s stifled, it can’t quite come out. Which results in white hot animal rage a lot. You cherish that your child is learning what works for her and what she likes and that she’s learning to express her wishes, but of course, you don’t really like getting hit or bitten.

Gavin and I wanted to be parents, more than almost anything. We were in different stages of what is nicely called an “infertility journey” for around 8 years. He was, in a way, more maternal than me. He was the one who stayed home with her while I worked, and he played “the nice one” with the outside world, and in nearly all matters. We were good complements…. I never thought I’d be parenting on my own.

I remember being shocked, even before I’d met my husband, when a friend — a wonderful, involved Dad — told me, after a difficult New Year’s Eve in a fancy hotel room with his warmed-up wife and their 3-year-old, that he understood why people would want to kill their own children. I avoided his eyes. That will never be me, I thought.

I also thought I’d never let my child watch four hours of television a day. Whatever rules we hoped to live by — and use to run our good, competent households …. A real child would require them to “flex,” at least.

Having a child — a real, physical, delicate child in my custody — is a challenge that few of us are prepared for. It stresses our systems and relationships in pretty much every way. Most parents talk about moments of overwhelm with humor and awe, but you can tell they never knew they’d live on this distant planet: “I can’t believe they are sending me home from the hospital with this thing…”, “now I know what it’s like to see my heart living outside my body,” and “don’t break the baby.” We feel rooted, or perhaps screwed down solid, both feet paralyzed: there’s no way out once that kid hits the air.

Being a single parent is exponentially more difficult — being an ONLY parent even more so: not twice as hard, much, much harder. I had no rest, no relief, no days off. All errands, all support were undertaken WITH the child. (Don’t tell me you enjoyed taking a 2.5 year old to a supermarket.) Day care and babysitting were critical but had to be used sparingly — mostly saved for the necessaries, like work. I had no one to play “bad guy” (or in my case, “good guy,” no one to suggest alternatives or take a turn being hit “by accident.” (And this is without taking any account of my own needs or emotions at the hardest time in my life, or working Mommy guilt, or how broke we were).

So I could see how someone could hurt a toddler. Even a really good parent occasionally calls their two or three year old “monster,” “wild animal,” and “alien,” alternately with “angel,” “muffin,” and “monkey.”

Don’t get me wrong: I love my daughter and I’m a reasonably good mother, possibly an excellent one. I’ve never hit her (though I pinched her pretty hard once). The only time I came close to hurting her was the hot afternoon I craved to crash my car and do us both in. Gavin was still alive, barely, but still my partner, and the impulse lasted just a moment (I screamed enormous release and pulled the car over — then retraced my two block progress to arrive back home and throw my girl at him). Bedridden with treatment side effects, recovering from surgeries, and with the merest spark of life remaining in his thin frame, Gavin was kind and able to handle my child and lighten my burden. I could hand her over to him after a frantic yell of a drive and know she’d be okay. I could cry upstairs, revelling in what a terrible parent I was, and still be free of custody for a few moments. Hell, he was even able to get me a yogurt and a beer.

A kind authority figure might say, A child’s needs are non negotiable. An authority who doesn’t have much faith in you tells you, Once you have a child, you can’t just take it back to the store, you know. Other authorities say, As soon as you get used to this stage, they’ll grow into another one. I say, Be honest about the strains, but write down those beautiful moments and days and phases, too, so you don’t forget them. (And remember one really bad one — preferably, a poop or throw up story — to pull out on prom night.)

Because kids at that age — at a certain stage, which I hear can happen between 2 and 4, and can last around six months — are totally fucking impossible to deal with.

Mr. Fresh, my new husband, attended Gavin’s memorial service. When he saw me, knowing my daughter’s age, he was hit back to the reality of his kids at this age. Oh God, he thought. She’s alone with a kid at that age. How awful. (He told me this just a year ago).

Since Gavin died, for five years now, still, whenever I see a child at that age — yelling in their car seat, playing “the yes/no game,” arguing endlessly and physically , exercising more will than a wild animal but only slightly less force and, O blessed!, duller incisors— I am reminded of those terrible days and empty, drained nights. Witnessing a real child and frustrated parent gives me a validation that heartens me, even though I’ve learned it over and over again.

I thought it was just my grief. I thought I was a terrible parent. But they’re all like that.

So when I heard the suspicions about Casey Anthony, how she might or could have killed Casey, including so many folks who wondered “How could someone kill a beautiful child like that?” I thought: you must not be a parent. Or maybe you just haven’t spent enough time with a kid that age. Because when I hear about this terrible crime, I say a little prayer of gratitude for ending up, myself, in a better place: there but for the grace of God go I.

Author’s note: Just to be absolutely clear: I’m not justifying anything Casey Anthony did or is alleged to have done. I’m not saying that all kids are impossible, even at this age; not all parents feel, even for a moment, capable of hurting their child. I’m saying that anyone COULD get close to hurting their child. *I* felt it for a moment and kids that age are really, really difficult.

Someone gets it

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Thu, 16 Jun 2011 02:35:00 +0000

May 26, 2011

Dear Supa,

It's almost the fifth anniversary of Gavin's death. In the past, I would not have sent a note. I would have thought, "Sending a card is superfluous and even presumptuous. Supa certainly knows the date. You only talked to Gavin a few times. And you're lousy at keeping in touch, so it's weird to send something now."

From talking to you and reading your blog, I've learned that these thoughts aren't meaningful. Even though they still crop up, I'm ignoring them. I want you to know that I am still sorry for your loss. I will be thinking of you and Short Stack, especially on the 2nd. And I'll be hoping peace will be with you, Shorty, and Mr. Fresh.

Rebecca

Five Years

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Thu, 02 Jun 2011 13:05:00 +0000

Holy crap. Today it's five years. He was a handsome guy and a wonderful artist and I loved him, and he loved me.

LGBT Families Matter in Grief Support, too

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Wed, 01 Jun 2011 21:03:00 +0000

I had followed and supported the "issue" of gay marriage like most other good Unitarians, but I didn't really think this niche of civil rights was all that big a deal (most of my gay friends seemed pretty lukewarm on it) until I became widowed. Well... a little sooner... I "got it" when I became the caregiver for a dying man. Then, I KNEW how serious it was if your partner would not be allowed to visit you in an ICU or other secure hospital situation.

After I was widowed, and coped with the bureaucracies from insurance companies to my own and my child's health insurance, to the MVA and how my home was titled, I realized how many essential privileges I'd had by virtue of marriage -- and how I'd taken them for granted. How their denial would make life so, so much more difficult at the worst time in my life already.

But grief and loss expose many other fault lines, between people and in society. It often shows you who is left out or falls between the cracks. As I discovered grief support and started to map how it looks in America, I found organizations, local, regional, and even online, that won't allow folks who weren't married to their late loves to participate. (Yes, even straight ones. As if that helps.) Knowing widowed folks the way I do, I know their grief and their loss can easily be the same size as that of a married widow. (Just to avoid splitting hairs: no grief ever has a size: even folks who HATED their late partner are facing loss, grief and adjustments that cannot be measured or compared).

So what about couples who CAN'T marry? If you believe that people who loved more, or lived together longer, or had more children have grief of a different size, how do you honor the ones who are not legally allowed to "marry," whatever's in their hearts?

(Fortunately, for the most part, the organizations that support grieving children don't care so much about the paperwork that accompanied their parents' love.)

(This is without even starting in on all the many grief organizations run by religious organizations, including those with covert Christian agendas (**coughcough**), many of whom find other reasons to exclude grieving LGBT people. ((Just to make it totally confusing, many grief groups hosted at churches are completely secular.)) And I'm not touching on how this affects the transgendered widowed, or the massive sexual upheaval that can be an aftermath of loss, because honestly, I'd only be guessing at this point, but I expect those stories will, er, "come out" as we grow grief literacy.)

So: make no mistake. Civil rights IS an issue for organizations that support the grieving. Gay families are families. I challenge organizations that support grieving people to accept love and families of all stripes and to STATE their non-discrimination policies up front. Because sad as it is, you can lose a partner and STILL get turned away from free, peer-based support, and you can make that call without ANY idea how you'll be received.

There is little enough grief support for young people who've lost a partner, and little enough understanding of the lives of widows and widowers, for us to leave anyone out.

Please meet some of my friends -- Unmarried widows, Hira Animfefte and UnweddedWidow, and our friend, Dan, whose blogroll will introduce you to many other LGBT bloggers as well as other resources. (I list the bloggers, but they're only divided by year of loss).

My community, Widowed Village, includes a small and private area for LGBT widowed people and welcomes them in all discussions and other programs as well.

Camp Widow -- the premier weekend of support and learning for widowed people, held this year in San Diego in August -- is inclusive.

Read the other posts in the #LGBTFamilies series at Mombian.

What he was thinking, 1

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Tue, 31 May 2011 16:30:00 +0000

I speculate all the damn time about what I imagine Gavin was thinking as the end approached.

And I am selling the old house, clearing out the non-art stuff from his studio, as well as unpacking boxes at the new house and unpacking my own experiences and percetions at the same time. My new life doesn't stop moving just because my old life is leaving -- or rather, my old life keeps evolving while I'm building my new life. (As if they are even two separate things).

Last night, in a box of his notes, this scrap of his handwriting, clearly original (he was fastidious about attribution) popped out at me as a challenge to my perceptions about what he was thinking in his last few months:

Fear accentuates the sense of self -- thus brings into play another "existential" fear, namely non-existence.

Are the two connected?

Can there be a veiled "existential fear pre-existing -- as a condition -- of existence which aggravates all fears and specifically heightens a fearing Self

Must one lost both fear and self -- simultaneously

(Yes, he was too intellectual. We fit together well as navel-gazers.)

In one sense, I can barely figure out what he meant. The words make sense, but I'm straining to remember my orthodox Sartre from years ago, and I'd do anything to add a few punctuation marks.

In another sense, I am reminded that as much as he denied that death was on the way, he was also afraid. This wipes away some of my anger at him, and also makes me feel compassion -- my least comfortable emotional companion, the one that hides from my other selves -- for where he was, what he was feeling during those dark last months, and helps me understand why he wished to hide the worst of his fear from me. It reminds me that my memory of that time is distorted -- as was my perception of what was going on at all levels for that long important period of downsliding that we went through together and (mostly) apart.

Five years after my loss, I continue to process, and change, and I am still putting things away in boxes.

Bloggers, Win a Scholarship to Camp Widow! UPDATED with all entries!

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Fri, 13 May 2011 22:24:00 +0000

THIS POST IS UPDATED with all the posts from entrants. The contest is CLOSED! Thanks to all who participated or helped spread the word!

In August, Camp Widow, the premier event for connecting widows and widowers, will held for the THIRD YEAR. Please visit the website for location, list of speakers and workshops, registration, and (my favorite) Frequently Asked Questions. This is the only event run by a non profit organization BY widowed people and it's an exception weekend of support, new friends, and the freedom to "come as you are" -- where EVERYONE "gets it." The event is inclusive (men, women, LGBT, all ages, all parenting statuses) with content and social events to meet all needs and interests.

I strongly encourage widowed folks to attend. To make it easier, I am helping to run this blogging contest, funded by a group of friends.

Widowed Bloggers -- win a ticket to Camp Widow!
Write a post sharing WHY you want to attend Camp Widow 2011. Notify us that you posted by leaving a comment on this post (below) to make sure we see it (you can also send us a note.)

Camp Widow is a exceptional weekend for widowed people of all ages. We will choose one (possibly two) bloggers to receive a PARTIAL scholarship that covers Camp registration and some incidental expenses. NO ACTUAL CAMPING IS INVOLVED. Learn more about this event, which is in its third year, at campwidow.org.

How do I enter?
Please write and publish a blog post telling the world WHY you wish to attend. You can include topics such as how you expect to benefit, or share about some of the widowed people you've already met. You do not need to demonstrate financial need though if you wish to write a separate note discussing your financial circumstances, you may do so.

Who is eligible to compete?
Widows and widowers of all ages who started blogging before 4/1/11 and who are interested in attending Camp Widow 2011. Please note: you should be prepared to pay for and arrange your travel to and from, and your lodging in San Diego. (We can help you find a roommate to reduce costs). If our generous donors can pay more, they will, but please don't apply unless you are prepared to make the trip (including arranging child care, taking time off work, etc.).

Summary and dates

You must publish your blog post AND notify us by midnight EST, * * * Tuesday, June 14. * * *
We will notify the winner(s) within 2 weeks.
Camp Widow will be held August 12 to 14. Details are at campwidow.org.

Winner(s) MUST arrange and purchase their own travel and hotel reservations. Scholarship covers Camp Widow registration fee plus some incidentals.

Questions? Want to help fund this scholarship? We want to hear from you.

(Disclosure: This competition is hosted, managed, and funded by an independent group of widowed bloggers. We're not being compensated for creating this competition and those judging entries are not eligible to win.)

Here are the folks who've entered our competition so far!:

Carolyn, Through a Widow's Eyes, We Widowed as Community, Camp Widow as Village Square
James, JamesPinnick.com, Camp Widow 2011
Christine, Widow Island, A new beginning... again
Maria, Missing Jorge, Fantasy Camp
Greggie's Widow, And I thought I loved you then..., Love, Tears, Laughter, Support, (In Person) Hugs... Camp Widow
Nancy Drew, Get a Clue with..., Camp Widow
MPdaCNA, If I could write a book..., Thursday... It's almost here
C, Letters to Elias, What does it mean?
And our last entry... Kim, Live from the 205, Camp Widow 2011!

These posts are terrific -- thank you! The reviewers will do THEIR THING and read 'em all and winner/s will be notified around July 1.

What he was thinking, 1

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Fri, 13 May 2011 22:02:00 +0000

I speculate all the damn time about what I imagine Gavin was thinking as the end approached.

As part of selling the old house, I spend my days clearing out the non-art stuff from his studio, unpacking boxes from OUR move here to the new house. This work unpacks my own experiences and perceptions at the same time. Memories I've taken for granted give way, shifting closer, probably, to the way things were. Bit by bit, my lens clears. As those memories change, so does my view of today, not of objects, but of actions: if I didn't DO this because of that, then I must take responsibility for THAT. My new life doesn't stop moving just because my old life is leaving -- or rather, my old life keeps evolving while I'm building my new life. (As if they are even two separate things).

Last night, in a box of his notes in my new, box-filled office, this scrap of his handwriting, clearly original (he was fastidious about attribution) popped out at me as a challenge to my perceptions about what he was thinking in his last few months:

Fear accentuates the sense of self -- thus brings into play another "existential" fear, namely non-existence.

Are the two connected?

Can there be a veiled "existential fear pre-existing -- as a condition -- of existence which aggravates all fears and specifically heightens a fearing Self

Must one lost both fear and self -- simultaneously

(Yes, he was too intellectual. We fit together well as navel-gazers.)

In one sense, I can barely figure out what he meant. The words make sense, but I'm straining to remember my orthodox Sartre from years ago, and I'd do anything to add a few punctuation marks.

In another sense, I am reminded that as much as he denied that death was on the way, he WAS afraid. This wipes away some of my anger at him, and also makes me feel compassion -- my least comfortable emotional companion, the one that hides from my other selves -- for where he was, what he was feeling during those dark last months, and helps me understand why he wished to hide the worst of his fear from me. It reminds me that my memory of that time is distorted -- as was my perception of what was going on at all levels for that long important period of downsliding that we went through together and (mostly) apart.

Five years after my loss, I continue to process, and change, and I am still putting things away in boxes for later, later when I have more room, around me and inside my head, for new ideas from old things.

Two Kisses for Maddy: A widow reviews Matt Logelin's memoir

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Thu, 14 Apr 2011 13:00:00 +0000

Two Kisses for Maddy: A Memoir of Loss and Love, the new memoir by our friend, Matt Logelin, stands out among the passel of recent books by widowed people about their experiences. With a combination of grace and profanity, Logelin shares his life and love leading up to the death of his beautiful wife, just a day after delivering their daughter, Maddy, and his path upwards as a father and as a man since then.

Readers of Logelin's blog are familiar with his "story" (uh, we used to call it a "life?") but will be happy to find the book not only original, but as heartfelt and black-humorous as his other writings. It's meaty without being gloomy at all.

Logelin says he's no writer, and the first piece he wrote with any emotional content at all was about Liz, just after her death. But Two Kisses for Maddy is both candid and well crafted. In addition to sharing with us his taste in music (which he admits runs to the moribund), the author knows which details to include to illustrate the paradoxes and wonders of his experience as a young widower and Dad. He's an easy-going, frank person, and readers will enjoy getting to know him in these pages.

While I expect most reviewers will spend their emotional energy on Matt's "story," my readers (most of them widowed) won't see the novelty in a young widowed parent trying to get by -- but there is plenty for this tough audience to enjoy in Matt's honest memoir.

For me, the most vivid images in the book are those of communities that built around him and those he discovered. His family and Liz's, a lifetime's worth of close friends, an army of well-loved acquaintances, get together with blog readers and complete strangers (which he calls "~~strangers~~ friends") in coffee shops and record stores, surround him with love and support in a way most grieving parents would envy. You sense that the world around him has accepted and adjusted to the new life he and Maddy have. And he shares how meeting widowed friends in blogs helped him feel less alone at the darkest times.

Logelin's "story" (uh oh, that word again!) aroused tremendous interest in the civilian world, and he and Maddy were showered with gifts, including many from blog readers. This unexpected generosity moved Logelin to start a foundation in Liz's honor, which is the only one of its kind in the country. To date, the Liz Logelin Foundation has made more than 72 no-strings-attached financial gifts to young widowed parents -- an amazing accomplishment that surely helps make our cause more visible to America and demonstrates its value to these young families.

Logelin is inspired, every day, even every terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day (and he shares vivid images of those days), by his daughter's needs. Numb after witnessing death, Logelin is awake enough to be terrified that he is now solely responsible for her future: "Fucking up," he says, "was not an option." Loss gives Logelin not only a bigger job than most parents, but also the fierce determination to not manifest the "bumbling Dad" archetype. He's doting and competent, appreciative, intent, and his musical taste is being passed on in spite of (or perhaps thanks to?) DJ Lance and Brobee.

On a shelf with dozens of navel-gazing tomes about grief, Logelin's is that rare memoir that illustrates and illuminates a young but deep life. Two Kisses for Maddy is smart, sweet, and full of heart. I recommend it for widowed people and civilians alike.

Two types of people in the world

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Tue, 12 Apr 2011 19:43:00 +0000

During my undergraduate class in Homer, I learned there are two types of people: Iliad people (emotion, war, death, loss) and Odyssey people (exploration, magic, critters, homecoming). Our small department taught just one of these each year, and I was thankful to have hit year two when the Iliad was "on" so I could enjoy the language without resisting my grain.

By senior year, after a few real-world jobs and other dabbling in the adult world that "deals," I’d decided there were, instead, two types of people in this world: people who divide the world into two types of people, and everyone else. I was determined to join the latter group though I knew it would be a tough transition.

I was tired of black and white.
And as I aged, through my twenties, fighting depression, married, my vision filled in the grays and occasionally dipped into full color. More and more, people who thought themselves (or me) defined by "D" or "R" affiliation looked small to me. Those arguments became easier to avoid. My rewarding tussles at parties with wine were about perspectives and transcending boundaries. I assumed at the core that our differences were valuable.

I wasn't perfect or consistent, but this was what I was aiming towards: learning something every day, pushing myself to break out of simple rationalizations for distance between people.

And then I had a kid and the world broke into two types of people again: people with kids and those without.

In the first few days and weeks of being parents, Gavin and I crossed that line of being committed to something else in a different way. For months, we'd been hearing the lilts of "your lives are going to change," as a challenge. I remember realizing that all those people actually KNEW they weren't talking about how often we'd make it out to see live music. I lost my stake in proving them wrong. These people inhabited this world of after and they were right. Absent addiction or psychosis, we would never stop carrying our child in that way that all parents (and I'm not limiting this to biological parents) understand.

All of a sudden people who cared whether we got out to nightclubs "didn't get it" and this line seemed too hard to cross, or not even worth it.

Three years later, six months into being a widowed mother, I found another split: widowed people talk about "DGI's," or people who "don't get it." If you're familiar with this little niche of culture, you know that widows often feel isolated and alienated to the point where they feel that folks who haven't had a major loss "can't" understand their experience. At the same time as they feel "those people" are coming from a different place, they still react with hurt to the dumb and insensitive things people say. The implication: we're better because we have BEEN THERE. Grief and loss have set us apart and we can never go back.

A huge factor in building this worldview is our sense, as widows and widowers, particularly those in younger social circles, that we have leprosy. We see others avoiding us, and we think it's about us, and not them.

I'm not going to describe this point of view in more detail or critique any particular aspects of it, because I don't think it's 100% incorrect. In particular, as an observation and set of feelings it can be neither "right" or "wrong."

But in my 5th year of widowhood I've discovered that I might not be as ensconced in this worldview, possibly not forever on the side of "after," as I would have thought earlier.

Because I've occasionally said the wrong thing, too. After all, there really, truly, isn't any RIGHT thing to say. There are innocuous things to say, and there are actions that make a difference, but words, for the most part, don't do a whole lot of good to someone in the darkest throes of grief.

I have sometimes (brace yourselves) even felt that it was hard to see someone else's pain. I've recognized it on the face of someone trying desperately to cope, to stand up, in those early months. I've seen myself in them, and been flashed back to the same time in my experience. And you know… I don't always feel like running towards it with a hug. In those moments, I've thought it might be possible that I was turning back into a DGI.

Spousal loss is big. It's scary. And seeing my reaction to it, today, I have gained some empathy for my community and how they saw ME back when I was doing really badly.

Whether or not these community members (and I"m mostly speaking about people in my UU church) were widowed, they saw me just fine. They were brave. They weren't happy they couldn't make a huge difference… but they understood it and many of them accepted it.

In other words: they didn't need to have "been there" to feel that I hurt and be uncomfortable (to whatever degree) with facing someone they couldn't fix. Grief is painful to see. That doesn't imply fault in the viewer, or perfection in the griever because she (or he) is untouchable. Untouchable, like the Indian caste, and untouchable, because nothing will help, not right at that moment.

The farther along I get from my loss, the more I see that the experience of widowhood (listen up, because this is BIG), is NOT just about the grief. That's where the gray is, and the color: the rebuilding of a new life. The adjustments to life after loss are as big — and affect most of us for a much longer period of time — than the grief, which gets all the press and attention, and creates all the fear.

As with the Iliad and the Odyssey, my point of view has shifted over the years, and it's still evolving (Does that change happen as a war or as a journey? Do we have to choose one?). Now that I've seen a lot of gray (both in other people and in my hair), and from those periods when I've lived in full color, I've learned this: the times in my life when it seemed there was an "us" and a "them" were not my best times. That point of view of polarization, and of distance, is what I have when I'm low and weak. And I don't want to stay there.

While I will hang on to the lessons of loss, and I think grief literacy is a valuable area of culture change, I am going to choose to let go of the black and white view of the world. I don't need to be on both sides.

If I'm stuck in a corner… let it not be me who put me there.

Peace online: one comment

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 21:47:00 +0000

I could write scores of pages on why I hate the whole "fight cancer with hope" thing, but it's still a trigger for me, and I know the vitriol which calls those words from me isn't natural — or at least, I don't want to make it a permanent part of me. So I have avoided blogging about it, and for the most part, I've stopped baiting Lance Armstrong on Twitter.

Cancer burnt Gavin and me, but lying about it and pretending he wasn't mortal were what broke our marriage apart as I prepared to lose him, alone, while he dreamed of miracles.

My feelings about this dance, four years later, overlie and conceal true pain, which I would love to deny, but which I must own if I am to be human.

But I come upon people with cancer, and they're all different: both the cancers and the people. Their string of eternal hope is often visible, and looks so dangerous to me, but I'm not a doctor. My story matters, but I'm a jerk to walk around with a cape that tells people my husband died from it (it doesn't quite say that, but one can imagine). This is true whether they're "internet friends" or "real friends."

These humans with cancer have to manage their lives and their information and their emotions any way they can. I know, because Gavin and I did it nimbly, brilliantly for nearly two years after he received his terminal diagnosis. Real people need hope, and who am I to say how they should receive it or balance it? Who's to even say that Gavin and I did anything "wrong" while lying to ourselves? Just because we got to hospice too late, doesn't mean my intervention, tactless as it usually is, will get someone into the right hands sooner.

But I still bear the weight, and I'm saying it even without a word. And I'm pulled so hard to intervene, to share, to, I wish!, help them avoid my particular doom. It draws me so hard, in fact, that the message is painful to get out, and it's never "right." I'm left stammering, my force gone, sad and unsure with all my triggers set off and the lamest "I'm sorry… how are you doing?" on my once-strident lips.

I was like this when I first met Susan Niebuhr, founder of Mothers with Cancer, at BlogHer09 at Kate Inglis' panel. She saw my mourning/superhero cape, I saw her lymphedema sleeve. We danced without causing each other, I think, any real damage. We were both brave enough to keep in touch; Last year she cheered me on when I announced I'd finally prepared a will.

But I finally did something right in, of all the small things, a blog comment. Susan's doctor gave her some new information, and she asked her readers how to talk it all when she wasn't even sure how she felt about it. (It was a long time ago... did I ever mention I'm a slow blogger?)

For once, for her, my message walked out of me in a loving, non-triggery way. I told my truth without hostility. I tried to account for all her possibilities. I tried to limit my story to the parts I know, the ones I can testify about, and still not lose the parts that I can't prove, like the hurt and fear. I tried to take the shame out of it and hint at what it might be like to be her loving family. I wanted her to know I take her fight — and her choices as a writer — seriously:

Personally, I want to hear you as honest as you can be. The struggle to be brave and positive was extremely oppressive to me when my husband was sick, and we were parenting our infant/toddler.

As a mom, I know there's a balance of hope and courage that's necessary, but I also know that children can handle more feelings than most of us think and often, provide us with new and helpful perspective. They can't do this when we're "putting on a good front," so much, and we wouldn't hear it anyway.

Being honest makes it easier to be calm. There is a calm kind of fear, too.

I'm not your husband, but when I was the wife of a patient taking Nexavar (post clinical trial but pre-market) (Nexavar reduced his tumors 75%+, BTW!), I would have preferred him showing me that I could be honest and share my fears. Instead, we both grew apart showing the wrong face to each other as well as to the world.

Yes, I would say this even if he had lived. I have relived those last months many times and that's when the damage was done: living with the strain of being "brave" and thus, being separate. I absolutely would say this even if he had lived.

As a blogger, I know that what we show isn't always the whole story, and that voice is your choice. Those who connect with you outside will respect your decision, your difference, if you choose that.

YOU ARE LOVED. And I don't feel your story is anywhere NEAR over.

And then I held my breath. Later that day, Susan responded.

Thank you. I needed to hear this. And I think I needed to hear this from you.

And I cried with relief, because I made a difference. For once.

Musical Monday: Man in the Mirror

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Mon, 04 Apr 2011 20:43:00 +0000

Once again, today, I sat before a mental health professional as they marvelled at the fact that I was alive. I felt, again, like the subject in the Natalie Merchant song, Wonder (a song I've found puzzling enough to never own though it would be so glorious to fit into it...).

Maybe there was less gawking than just pure appreciation. The disbelief part comes from within me, because I can hardly remember how bad I've had it, how crazy my world has been, especially for the year plus after Gavin died. Things seem so easy now -- they're not -- but I don't take credit for making my way through the muck and bricks and hurt of that time. I think so often of the caregiving, I ponder who I was at various points, what did I know? What was he thinking? Death and life and the big stuff. I turn these images over and over like minerals shifting color with the light.

And also, I have this concentric circles idea, that hurt and healing have led me back to finding a truer self and a path that has been nearly forgotten. That the farther I get from loss, the larger my life looks, the wider a perspective I can take, and the more I can heal from other damages, earlier and really really old. Somehow at this long view reminds me I'm not so old, really.

I'm still changing, and maybe even faster now, and it's still a load of work. So I heard Man in the Mirror on the radio today with fresh ears, irritated by today's burst of sunlight. Spring is playing with us, but our bodies must respond. I am stimulated and remembering how dark it was, how strong I must be, and contemplating as I usually am, the "what's next."

Man in the Mirror! Of all the superficial crap. I remember how that song sounded when it came out: like a distraction. It seemed to wiseass me that America had asked, "Mr. Jackson, have you had extensive plastic surgery to make you look like Diana Ross?" and received the answer: "HEY LOOK AT AFRICA." The song was not a pinnacle of honest self-assessment, and coming after the joys of Thriller and (especially -- my bliss!) Off The Wall... the whole album, Bad, just looked like a post-Michael-Jackson album.

Then again, who's a harsher critic than a student at a liberal-arts college?

Maybe I can have some empathy for what poor Michael went through to get there. Maybe I can listen to what he's saying. Maybe he has a good point.

Maybe I can look in the mirror, take credit for where I've been, and just... start.

Junk mail for the dead, or, YOU CANNOT BE TURNED DOWN!

noreply@blogger.com (Supa Dupa Fresh) — Tue, 29 Mar 2011 20:34:00 +0000

Sometimes a piece of junk mail can really make your day. Widowed people are pretty used to receiving mail, email, and phone calls for their late spouses. At first, these situations can hurt, and be another occasion to "break the news" yet again… but as time goes on, the picture gets a little funnier: the dumbest marketers are the last to catch on. And once in a while, it's downright HILARIOUS.

Like the other day, when my late husband received a bulky envelope from United of Omaha Life Insurance Company. On the envelope there was no question who was being addressed — or what they wanted from him:
"Here's that second chance you hoped for, Gavin O'Shaunnessy!"

I open it up to find a direct and engaging, yet serious letter. There are lots of small official looking bits of paper, some that look like certificates, an easy card to fill out, and oh my — a prepaid business reply envelope. As a widow, I can really use that 44 cents somewhere else. It's just so hard not to talk back to this solicitation, which often puts words into my mouth, like:

"Why didn't I get more life insurance when I was younger?…. "

Or maybe when I was alive?

"… And when it was cheaper?"

Well, um, gee, err… it probably won't get any cheaper than THIS.

"Now you've got the opportunity to get up to $10,000.00 graded benefit whole life insurance protection at an affordable cost… Your acceptance is guaranteed and your application is pre-approved."

Should I laugh or cry? When he was diagnosed with cancer, I would have killed for some life insurance -- he had just a tiny bit, because he'd lived with a heart valve defect and was self-employed. We couldn't find any that he qualified for. We kept our eyes peeled for envelopes like this. Too bad this offer arrived more than four years after he died. So, you know, I'm skeptical when the letter intones, in green gothic type,

"You can't be turned down."

RILLY? I say. Wannabet?

So I strongly considered filling the policy out. After all, as the letter states, "this insurance does not require a medical examination." And they make it so easy… that envelope was really (I had no IDEA) an IMMEDIATE ACTION ENVELOPE. The application was a big piece of paper, legal sized, two colors, but I only needed to fill out a few fields, and read the attached Post-it with Gavin's special preapproved authorization number: 519 858 890.

The forms were peppered with grown-up (if not senior-citizen) phrases like "beneficiary," "estate," "protection," "cash value," and an assurance that he'd be protected till age 121. (Suicide, of course, was excluded.) One table contained the word "GUARANTEED!" nine times in a row.

The whole package just left me feeling… I don't know. Confident. Comforted. Covered. Except for the fact, of course, that it was addressed to someone who couldn't, um, read.

Such a simple offer, a no brainer, with practically no effort required: payments could be made via "Easy Pay Option." I mean, even a dead guy could fill this out, right?

I laughed for a day solid, and so did my new husband, and I wondered if it would be even more fun if I applied, filed a claim, and had the requisite phone calls: this time, finally, with me at an advantage. Aren't they asking for it?

I mean, this is a company that bought a very very cheap mailing list. How careful could they be? They might even pay!

Then I realized that they would probably, at some point in the process, and possibly before issuing my check, ask for a death certificate. They'd probably notice that he was dead before the postmark date on my reply OR their offer.

It would probably be fun, but even United of Omaha was probably not dumb enough to fall for it.

And you know what? I've got better things to do with my time.

But it's hard to get this good a laugh out of a mailbox these days.