Widow Wise

INSTANT ZEN

2011-11-17T07:47:00.001-08:00

It’s 6:15 AM. Day 8 of meditating. I’m in my room. Yesterday, during meditation, I had visions of pirates so I’m kinda interested to see what’s going to happen next. I wait the obligatory: 30 seconds and I begin repeating my mantra. I go into a non-dream, dream-like state. I’m conscious but I’m not. Soon, a man appears in my thoughts. He’s not a good man, I can just tell. He may or may not be wearing a white jacket. He speaks to me, “I’d like you to give me your insurance card.”

“Why do you want my insurance card,” I ask.

“Because I want to know what hospital to drop you at when I’m finished with you.”

My heart starts beating very fast and I start repeating the mantra very fast. I feel sick to my stomach but I do my 20 minutes. When I finally finish, my hands are sweating and I can’t stop the fluttering in my chest. It’s like bees in my heart.

This is my safe place? What?! I do not believe this. Now I’m mad. Who invited that man in there? Why would my sub-conscious bring him out? What will I summon up next?

It took me a day to be able to meditate again.

Now every time I try to meditate, my head feels like a popcorn popper. The thoughts begin as kernels, continue cooking until they pop and jump around my head, filling up my brain with nonsense.

I go back to my mantra and POP another one starts. Sometimes the thought is helpful – I can’t forget to buy yogurt. So, I chase it around a little bit. I add items to the grocery list. I decide that I’m going to start flossing my teeth in front of the TV. This trick will ensure that I honestly floss on a daily basis instead of lying to the dental hygienist (who, let’s be real, knows I’m full of crap). Oh Crap. I forgot the mantra.

I go back to my mantra.

I think about the Facebook post I’m going to write.

I go back to the mantra.

I notice my mouth is hanging open. That’s good; maybe I’ve been sleeping. That’s not good. I’m supposed to be meditating.

I go back to the mantra.

Has it been 20 minutes yet? It has to be 20 minutes. But does it really count as 20 minutes if I’ve been thinking more than saying the mantra?

I go back to the mantra.

I peek at my phone. I’ve got 4 minutes left. I usually have 4 minutes left when I peek.

I go back to the mantra.

I fall asleep. I wake up to the chimes of my phone alarm.

If this is transcendence, I’m wondering what all the fuss is about. But I know it’s not. And I know I’m not doing it right. And I want to be doing it right. I WANT TO FEEL BLISS, DAMN IT! And because I’m not, IT’S MAKING ME STRESSED OUT. And extra stress is the exact opposite of what I wanted to get out of this.

OK, yes. I think meditating has made me calmer with Gavin. That is something. That is good.

But I want to be like the Yogis in the Himalaya’s – happy, content, and serene. But, like NOW. I’m so Western that way. I want peace in hyperdrive. But the universe is telling me patience, patience. I'm sensing a theme that I should probably not ignore.

not a sports fan

2011-11-04T09:44:00.000-07:00

I hate being sad. That's a funny thing for someone who's had a lot of sad things happen to her. You'd think I'd be at least good at it. But I do not like it. Not on a train. Not on a plane. Not in my house. Not with a mouse.

Grief to me is like a dodge ball game. I will do anything to avoid it. So when I'm forced to play, I make sure I take ridiculous precautions to protect myself. This time around in the Break-up Tourney, I'm 0-4 in some pathetic attempt at redemption. It sucks because I've invested a lot hoping this would help things. Transcendental Meditation and St. John's Wart is my head gear. The (unused) gym membership is for training purposes. A steady diet of carbs and candy is to help dull the hits.

I walk onto the court (an elementary school gym floor). I had to forfeit my phone so there's no one to call for back-up. I'm all alone against a team of angry allegations and pesky memories.

The first one comes at me: You should have tried harder. Whack!

And then the next: I miss his laugh. Bam!

Another: You'll never meet anyone again. Umph!

You'll have to be the one to take the garbage out for the rest of your life. Ouch!

You'll lose your house, your looks and have to move back in with your mom. LOW BLOW!

With a final thought hurled at my head, And you'll never find the love that your looking for...
I fall to the floor.

I curl up into a middle-aged, pudgy ball of salty tears and beg for it to stop.

Then right before I black out, quietly, ever so quietly, a whisper of a voice in my head says, Patience, patience. And I can't help but smile... just a tiny, little bit.

Once a Widow...

2011-10-27T10:09:00.000-07:00

I stopped blogging. I stopped writing. I fell in love. Actually, I fell in love first. And the man I loved asked me to not write about him. It seemed a fair enough request. Kevin, being dead, couldn't ask that of me. And it's much easier to say things about somebody that you know can't fight back. But this very-much-alive man that I was now in love with, did not feel comfortable having people weigh in on our relationship. So I stopped writing.

But I missed writing on the blog. I miss it. I love to read and be read. I love to feel like somebody is listening, even if they don't like what I say.

So I'm not with that person anymore. It was a lovely romance. He moved in. He moved out. Life goes on. My heart broke. My heart breaks. Life goes on. Gav's heart got broken along the way, too. That is not simple to say or to write. That sucks.

But that's also when I am reminded that I am a widow...still. So I guess my story is on-going and still goes. If you are out there, I'm writing. And if you are not, I'm still writing.

My Muse

2010-04-21T20:06:00.000-07:00

The word muse originates from Greek mythology - 9 muses were the daughters of Zeus. If one of them loved a man, then the man's worries instantly disappeared. Muses can be considered seductresses or femme fatales. A muse has a powerful beauty. A muse has a certain je ne sais quoi. A muse has the inexplicable that causes inspiration - both good and bad.

Throughout history, you can find artists, poets and musicians that have credited muses for their inspiration. Usually, it's men crediting a woman (or in Picasso's case, multiple women) for providing them fodder to create their art. When I think of famous muses, I think of Yoko Ono (John Lennon), Edie Sedgewick (Lou Reed, Andy Warhol, Dylan), Linda McCartney (Paul), Mamah Borthwick Cheney (Frank Lloyd Wright) and Rosanna Arquette (lead singer of Toto and Peter Gabriel. Wow, what a woman).

Perhaps Tiger Woods and his gaggle of geese had a muse thing going on. Maybe Tiger needed these women to make him a better golfer. Maybe he liked performing for them. Maybe he liked knowing they were there. Maybe not.

Some men enjoy beautiful women around them. But perhaps it's more than that. What if they need these woman to help inspire them to use their gifts- to be more creative. The muse is never usually the wife. The muse is usually the other. This point-of-view certainly romanticizes adultery, I know. I'm not saying I support it. I'm saying it's another way to look at it.

As far as I can find, the muse is almost always a woman- at least a majority of the time. Jim Morrison considered the universe his muse, but he also got to the point that he couldn't find a woman that could top his sexual exploits. That, and the fact that drugs pretty much rendered his dick useless made women a non-issue.

I'd like to read about more women in history that have had a muse. Why? Because recently I realized that I have my very own, living, breathing muse.

This man in my life, for the longest time, I didn't know how he fit. I made the mistake of wanting him to be something that he could never be. I thought I wanted him to be with me. And, I never really based this wanting on anything tangible because we never really had anything tangible. Maybe that's not the right way to say it. We never really got to the stage to see if things would work. Nothing really grew. What I based (and base) my love on is the way he makes me feel.

When he's around, I walk a little straighter. I become a little sexier. I think a little smarter. I banter a little better. Knowing he's reading my words makes me want to get them just right. He challenges my way of thinking. His faith in me makes me be a better person. I used to think I wasn't the girl he thought I was. Today, I realize he has helped shape me into the woman I am.

I'm lucky that he's not my boyfriend or husband. My track record with those two types of men usually ends badly. Or just ends. Done. Dead. Do Not Contact. A person you grocery shopped with the week before is never to be heard from again.

Instead, with my muse, I will continue to receive unexplainable inspiration from him. I'll never be pissed about the fact that he doesn't call me when he's out or he forgets to buy milk. Instead, my muse will remain firmly placed on the pedestal that I constructed (one that provides only the best view possible).

I can call him when I need him. I get to hear how much he cares.

I can benefit from his wisdom. I get his unconditional support.

I can love him from afar. I get to love him forever.

Looking from the Outside In

2010-03-27T15:34:00.001-07:00

How do men react to your being a widow as opposed to just being single or divorced?

I wrote a blog entitled Notes from the Field (6/30/09) in which I describe the two reactions I usually get:

1) The way-freaked out guy

2) The secretly-thrilled guy

And 9 months later, I have to say, nothing has really much changed from the guy's perspective. The guy says he is sorry and gets slightly uncomfortable and then he falls into one of the two camps. However, I have noticed a difference in myself. For one thing, I am very hesitant to give up my annonymity. I wait as long as I possibly can (without appearing slightly paranoid) before I will exchange personal contact info. I have an email that doesn't have my full name and it works out better that way. I've learned that if men find out about the blog too soon they react in two ways:

1) They get way-freaked out

2) They want to know when I am going to write about them

The last date I was on, the widow bit came up right away. It was all what's-you-story, blah, blah. As I was talking to this guy, I started getting uncomfortable. It's like I was floating above myself witnessing the conversation and I was not coming off too well.

Here I was, dressed in all black (LBD, but still) going on that I was widowed and that I had a blog in which I talked about being a widow... 4 YEARS LATER. Soon I started some stuttering of my own. From my perch above, I thought I kinda looked a little kooky. What's wrong with this chick, seriously? She's a total buzz kill, even if she is wearing a really hot pair of shoes.

It didn't help that the guy had just finished telling me how he was the luckiest guy in the world - that good things happened to him all the time, every single day. In fact, just before he came to meet me, he found an amazing parking spot, right out front. Now for those of you that don't live in a major metropolitan area, finding good parking is akin to some sort of spiritual high-five from the gods.

So I sat there looking at this guy looking at me and thinking that anyone listening to this conversation would say we were the polar opposites. Me the unlucky, lace-wearin widow and him, Mr. Lucky. Yet, I never feel unlucky. I had experiences that others have not, but it makes me who I am. It doesn't make me cursed. I'm not sure Mr. Lucky felt the same way, but whatever.

I will tell you one thing - Mr. Lucky surely didn't get lucky on our date. He didn't ask and I didn't offer. As we walked back to our cars, after a quick good-bye hug, I noted to myself that my car was parked a lot closer than his.

Cruisin?

2010-03-20T15:55:00.001-07:00

Today, we were supposed to leave on our Disney cruise. My mother planned it a year ago. It was to be my mother, step-father, Gavin and me. My mother got the idea that we (she) invite my 78-year-old grandmother to come with us... and stay in my room. My grandmother that wakes up at 4 am and falls asleep with the tv on. My grandmother who has the ability to say my name in such a way that I resent the sound of it. My grandmother who is freshly widowed, got laser surgery on her face and is on the prowl. I'm not sure I'd call her a cougar, but she is some type of old cat. I've been joking over the last few weeks that if Grandma Teddy brings home a guy, one of us is going overboard.

A week after Christmas this year, my step-father had a heart attack. The first thing he told the doctor was that he needed to get well, he had to watch his grandson go down the slide on the Disney Boat.

This would be our third Disney cruise. We're hook. We love it. We couldn't wait.
7-days of paradise. For the last month, we've been doing the countdown. My step-father and I traded voicemails - 42 more days... 37 more days... 21 more days. This week, he called laughing, 3 more days and a wake up. It was almost here.

In school last week, Gavin's class was talking about international subjects and travel. He made a passport. I showed him on the map where we'd be traveling. When asked by his teacher how he liked to travel, Gavin said, "by Big Red Boat."

So as excited as we all were, Gav man was beyond ready. He wore his goggles to sleep last night.

This morning, in Chicago, we woke up to snow. March 21, Spring in Chicago. We were all happy to be heading to the warm of Florida and beyond. We got to the airport two hours early (just in case) and found a spot for breakfast.

Our flight was delayed an hour. American Airlines diverted our plane to Indianapolis. All around us, other people were taking off, consumed with the goal of rest and relaxation. Ok, an hour is no big deal. We can still make the cruise.

We changed gates. My mother paced. My grandmother read her book. My step-father looked out at the planes not taking off. Gavin played with his Go Gos, unaware.

I called Disney. They could possibly hold the boat. I couldn't be guaranteed but there were 20 people on our flight heading for the cruise. We had a little strength in numbers. The hope kept me going for another hour.

Soon you could identify the families that were supposed to be cruising with us. It wasn't the kids. Not one kid seemed to be anxious. Most were coloring, playing with game boys, eating french fries and chilling out. They had the confidence of youth on their side. But their parents' faces told a much different story: one woman clenched her cell phone, another father was yelling at the AA attendants. Others were silent, shocked, hoping we'd still make it.

According to American Airlines, our plane was here, it just couldn't park. If they thought this news was helpful, it wasn't.

I called Disney again. I am always amazed at Disney customer service. As a brand, they do it right. Once, my mother left her robe at one of the Disney resorts and they sent us a postcard telling us they found an item in our room. When I called about the item, they happily mailed it back to us. They told us. My mom had no idea she was even missing her robe. That is good customer service.

Anyway, I spoke to a wonderful supervisor named Melissa. Our ship was going to sail without us. She said she'd do everything to help us rebook our vacation. Because of the experience I've had with Disney in the past, I really believe her.

We didn't get on the flight. We drove home by the same driver who brought us this morning when we were wide awake, excited, vacation bound and overflowing with luggage. American Airlines couldn't get us to Orlando, but they managed to fly our suitcases there. As of right now, our luggage is lost in limbo and we can't seem to get an answer as to when we will get it back. This is not-so-great customer service.

On the way home, none of us could do anything but argue and sulk. None of us, except Gavin.

My little man handled the entire situation like a pro. He was sad when he found out we weren't going on the Big Red Boat, but his faith wasn't the least bit affected.

gav: Mom, it's OK. We can just go on the Big Red Boat next week.

me: That's right Gav. We will go on our vacation. Don't worry. We will get on that boat.

He smiled up at me, soothed. My stomach lurched. I hope I am right. So now I'm relying on some Disney magic. I could really use it right now. That, and a toothbrush would really be awesome. Universe, keep your fingers crossed...

Question submitted - Widow or Divorce?

2010-03-17T13:52:00.000-07:00

#6 In what ways do you think it's more difficult AND less difficult being a single mother because your a widow vs. being a single mother as a result of divorce?

In a lot of ways I feel like I am a lot luckier than someone who is divorced and still has to co-parent. When you are forced to do it on your own, you do it. No more am I disappointed by somebody who doesn't follow through. No more am I waiting for someone else to take the garbage out. No more am I having to argue about schedules and where we go on Christmas day. I get to do it all.

And, sigh, I get to do it all - be the enforcer, be the bad guy, be the heavy. Gavin told me he hated me the other day. He's worn out the mean mommy bit. Now he goes right in for the kill. The adult side of me says it's OK and we have a rationale conversation about it.

me: Gavin, I know that you don't really hate me. I know you are mad at me and you can be mad at me. I still love you even if are.

Gav: no, I hate you. I really do.

me: Wow, that really hurts mommy's feelings when you say that. I don't think you hate me. I think you are mad a me.

Gav: I'm furious at you.

me: I can see that.

At least I got him back to understanding he doesn't hate me. And then I think, ah crap, one day he just might hate me. He could be super pissed at the choice Kevin and I made. He could resent the shit out of me for bringing him into the world with disadvantages from the start - no Dad, a mom who won't cook, screwed-up looking ear lobes. He'll have a lot of ammo.
Right now, though, I have to remember he doesn't hate me. I have to be the adult and give him the room to feel pissed off. Right now, I can rock his little world with a smile and a pack of Go Go Crazy Bones.

So the day in and day out, we do alright. Do I wish I had someone to shoulder the burden? Sometimes. More than not, I'm fine making the choices. I like getting my way.

Gavin is scheduled to go to kindergarten next year. For his age, he's on the smaller size. However, he's close to reading, he can count to 220 and he understands pattern concepts like a six-year old. Some parents I know are holding their kids back another year and putting them in Kindergarten when they are six. I've heard the pros: the kid will be better in sports, he'll be more advanced in his studies, he'll be the first to get his license. He won't know the difference, only the advantages. The only con I've heard is that the kid may be bored repeating things he's already learned.

I struggled for a while deciding what to do. I talked it through with people who could offer expert advice. I spoke to friends. I listened to my mom. The only person I couldn't ask was Kevin. I couldn't argue my case with him. I couldn't agree with him. I couldn't resent him for disagreeing with me.

Gavin will go to kindergarten next year. I believe it is the right thing for him. I believe this. I don't, however, know for absolute certainty. So much of my parenting is trusting my instincts and hoping for the best. When he turns 16 and really hates me because most of his friends will have been driving since the 8Th grade, I may not feel as confident. At that point, I'd like someone else to share the blame. Right now, me and the Go Gos are navigating with relative ease.

just keep swimming

2010-03-12T18:20:00.001-08:00

I came home tonight and I was tired. It's Friday. My week was long. I was out the night before. It was a good night but it left me melancholy today. I felt heavy with memories. I met someone that I now call my friend, but that at one time I called my baby. My head was full of questions that I couldn't find the courage to ask him. Truth is, I don't know if I want to know the answers. I was feeling unsettled.

Funny thing was that this unsettled feeling planted roots and stuck with me all day. Made me itch. Made me twitch. I know my moods well enough to know that when I don't get enough sleep or I am hazy from wine, the voice in my head cannot be trusted. Tomorrow, I know I will be fine. Tomorrow, I will remember that I am happy with my choices. But today, today everything was a bit undone. It was a day that I just had to get through. The clock was my enemy. The clock betrayed me. When it felt like it was three pm, it was only just a little past eleven. I sighed, deep and feel old.

But suddenly, it is 8pm. My upside down day is almost done. I've played with Gavin. I've eaten dinner. I see my bed. The pillows are plump with feathers. The sheets look cool and inviting. My US magazine seduces me with tales of Oscar fashion and escape. The finish line is within reach. And then, I check my email.

There is a comment on my blog. As much as I like writing the blog, I also like to hear what people think. It is so mind-blowing to know that I am connecting with someone that I don't know. I dig the non-connection, connection. I find comfort in learning that some little piece of what I've said, someone else felt.

This comment that I got was a beautiful sentiment from someone who just found the blog. Equal parts touching and kind, it made me teary. It made me happy. It made me, well, less tired. It's like I got a big mother hug from cyberspace.

So tomorrow, I have a lot more writing to do. Thank you for the reminder. Thank you for the push. Thank you for the hug.

Question submitted - Widow or Divorce?

2010-03-05T14:45:00.000-08:00

Wanted: The conclusion

2010-02-26T09:31:00.001-08:00

Something changed after I found out I wasn't pregnant. I wanted it more than ever. I do believe some kind of deep maternal instinct was awakened in me (four thousand dollars worth of hormones certainly contributed something). But a lot had to do with my competitive spirit, which made an entrance after the first rehearsal. Disappointed with the outcome, I couldn't fail again. I had to make sure the final production was a huge success. That meant flowers, cheers, a standing ovation and a baby.

We waited a month and started the process again. More shots. More weight. More complaints. Halfway through, after monitoring progress though ultrasounds, my doctor cancelled the cycle. Stuff wasn't happening the way it should be.

Kevin continued with chemo and got it in his head that he wanted a dog. Enter Maude. A six-week old Boston Terrier that was afraid of anyone that raised his or her voice above a whisper. Kevin and I were smitten. Kevin took lots of pictures of her. I took her on lots of walks. We signed her up for obedience school and doggy day care. Kevin was determined to make her a good dog and spent a lot of time teaching her how to sit, heal, stay and not jump up on anybody. In the way he treated Maude, it was easy to imagine what an amazing dad he would be. Maude now lives with my friends Phil and Ilene, where she's long forgotten it all: Kevin, her tricks and me. But at the time, she was good practice.

More than committed, slightly obsessed and a little worried, I began researching how to make a baby. I stopped drinking caffeine. I started going to an acupuncturist for fertility treatments. And, I opted to not take any more hormone shots. I discussed it at length with my doctor. Because we were going to use the frozen embryos, I wouldn't have to go through another round of egg retrieval. Hooray for that. Because I was young and healthy and had no diagnosed issues, I wanted to try to do stuff as naturally as possible. Because the hormones were to correct problems (which I didn't have) I believed it was causing my body to freak out. I wanted to see what I could do on my own. The doctor agreed. I used an ovulation kit to figure out the days on which I would most likely conceive and I went back to the clinic to transfer three totcicles (this name is courtesy of my dear friend Supa).

We had two more weeks of waiting. Stuff began smelling funny. Kevin already was having weird effects from the chemo that caused a heightened sense of smell. We called it his Spidy sense. Then, one day I had it too (I took this as a very good sign that I was knocked up). I could not only smell somebody’s perfume but I could also smell his or her BO underneath the perfume smell. It was weird. It was gross. I was happy.

Before the two weeks were up, I took a pregnancy test. Kevin and I stared at the faintest of a blue line next to the dark blue line. I think I’m pregnant. I took two more. Same thing as before, we saw two very faint blue lines. I took another test that would reveal the word pregnant or not pregnant. The word pregnant showed up in the window.

We were not supposed to be doing this. A blood test would confirm it at the clinic and then we had to see if my HCG levels increased. Sometimes, this early, it’s a false pregnancy, meaning something happens and the embryo starts off dividing and making more cells and then suddenly it stops. No more pregnancy. Pretty common and a lot of women have this happen without even knowing they were and then weren’t pregnant. So it was dangerous to be watching everything so closely. I couldn’t help it.

Simultaneous to this entire happening, an old colleague who was now in film school approached Kevin. Initially, Kevin told me she wanted to do a documentary on him and how he was living with cancer. After talking with her, it turns out that she wanted to do a documentary on us. How we came to the decision to have a baby amidst Kevin’s fight against cancer. Later, when I watched the documentary at her film festival, I realized that the story was about women who decide to have babies (some under difficult circumstances: me) and women who don't.

The filmmaker asked if she could be present when we went back to the clinic to get the blood work and then again when we got the results. We agreed. It was kind of cool and unusual to be followed around with a camera.

That afternoon, they filmed us. We were on the tree-lined upper deck area of the Aon building as I confirmed the news to Kevin (and crew). News we already knew. I was pregnant.

I still have a black and white picture of the three five-day old blastocytes that went in during the third transfer. It's Gavin's very first photo. As for his mates, as I said before, my theory is that the Gav-man ate them. By day five, that spunky little cell had already inherited something from his mother: a very competitive nature.

-Gretch

Week #8

Egg Hunt: Part 4

2010-02-26T09:15:00.000-08:00

me: I don’t want to.

kev: Just bend over.

me: You’re liking this way too much.

kev: Yes I am.

This wasn't the exact conversation but it went something like that. And this conversation was repeated daily, each morning, when Kevin had to administer my hormone shot. I never liked it and I never got used to it and it never got any better. The shots got worse when we ran out of real estate, which was surprising to me. If my doctor would have told me that my butt was actually too small for a month's worth of hormone shots, I would have stopped him mid-sentence with a big, sloppy kiss.

Besides the shots, before work, I would get ultrasounds. With every visit, we watched as my ovaries transformed into what resembled extra large broccoli stalks containing lots of pebble like follicles that caused them to droop over.

My body was getting ready and getting fatter. I gained fifteen pounds from the protocol and I was not happy.

me: Do I look fat?

kev: I can't believe you are asking me if you look fat when I have cancer.

me: I know. I'm sorry... but, seriously, do I?

kev: I'm not answering that question anymore. You know the answer.

This non-answer left me feeling even worse. I wanted Kevin to hug me and lie and tell me that it didn't matter because I was having his baby. He wouldn't. To be fair, this was a question that I asked all the time. Anybody close to me had heard it, hated it and had no idea how to answer it.

When undergoing IVF, besides the daily shots, there is one crucial shot that is given at the end. The money shot. It's called the HCG and it basically tells your body, GO! If not administered correctly, it will mess up the whole damn process. It's the shot that Kevin had no idea how to give to me at the moment it was to happen. Kevin was on the phone with our doctor. I could hear a lot of muffled yelling and see my husband frantically opening needles and syringes as I stood waiting with my pants down. I was laughing as I usually do in nerve-wracking situations. In the end, he stuck it to me. At the right time. In the right place.

Day of the Egg Hunt

Two days later, we went back to the IVF clinic to harvest my bounty. I was ready. I was very uncomfortable and bloated. To collect the eggs, I would be awake, but not really aware. A needle would be inserted through my vaginal wall into the ovaries. The doctor would be guided by ultrasound as he plucked the follicles. He explained it was kind of like playing a video game and he hoped for 10-15 eggs. They got 36, which earned me a silver medal. In the doctor's history, only one other woman topped my score with 42 eggs. She was an animal.

The procedure was quick and not too painful. On rare occasions, a side effect occurs called hyper stimulation of the ovaries. The ovaries are so taxed that they sweat, letting off fluid. I was the rare occasion. The day after the procedure, my abdomen started filling with fluid and it became difficult to breath. I looked about 6 months pregnant and was mortified. I went back to the clinic where they drained a gallon's worth of fluid from my stomach. Ugh.

Meanwhile, the doctor had injected each of the eggs with one of Kevin's sperm and the embryologists were filtering out the healthy ones. Those tiny embryos continued trucking along: splitting, dividing, and moving. Out of 36 eggs, 23 embryos were conceived.

Three days after harvest, it was time to transfer them back. Because I was young, healthy and had no big fertility issues, we decided to only transfer two. The other embryos would be frozen for future use. The countdown continued.

We then had to wait a grueling two weeks. Two weeks, in which I was convinced I was pregnant. Turns out, I was not...

The Great IVF debate part 3

2010-02-18T11:24:00.000-08:00

Before embarking on IVF, the program we entered required us to speak with a counselor, two nurses and the IVF specialist doctor. The appointments were to last most of the morning and Kevin was on his way.

I remember sitting alone in the tiny waiting area with other couples. One couple was holding hands and talking excitedly to each other. Another couple, the woman’s face taut with worry, the man checking his blackberry, the two of them alone in the own thoughts. They looked weary, like they arrived here at this last stop baby-making station with a lot more baggage than when they started.

Another couple had a two-year old who was running up and down the tiny corridor of chairs. This irritated me because the people in here were desperate for one of those little drunken monkeys of their own. It felt like they were showboating their heir and seemed greedy to want to expand their brood. I didn’t say I was rational. My judgmental side tends to go into overdrive when I’m scared.

Kevin was late. This was typical. Kevin was always late. Most of the time I could deal with it. Except when I was anxious. Then, his being late became this cosmic void between us. Instead of me thinking he just got lost in work and time, I took it as an unmistakable slight toward me, a sign that he wasn’t as invested in the marriage as I was, a message that he loved me just a little bit less. And so, I became a super bitch – to prove him right, perhaps?

My name was called to see the counselor. I have been to many therapists. In fact, my mother is a therapist. Their offices are usually a clue into their therapeutic approach. Some play soft music. Some have soft pillows. All usually have some sort of soft saying – like life is what you make it or keep on, keeping on or just breathe. Crap like that.

This office was closet size, putty colored and lit by disconcerting florescents. It fit a very large, all steel desk and two uncomfortable-looking guest chairs. They weren’t padded and the paint had been rubbed away from wear. One guest chair was noticeably empty as we waited for Kevin.

The therapist had a very neat bob and a short fifties-style scarf around her neck. I couldn’t see her feet but I imagined that they were dangling from the chair. She looked about twelve years old as she clasped and unclasp her hands and smiled.

After two minutes of us both staring at each other and the empty tin chair by my side, the therapist suggested that we get started. She wanted to know how I arrived at the decision to undergo IVF. I gave her the cancer cliff notes that I could practically recite by heart. She nodded and wrote in her book.

She took down my history (our history). She asked if I had questions. I did. I had one large, loaded question that I aimed and fired right at her and her tight little bob.

I told her that I had read that IVF could cause a radical imbalance of hormones, even leading to depression. I worried how I would react to having even more hormones in my already hormonal body. Would IVF make me crazy?

She told me that it is possible that IVF could lead to hormone imbalances but if it was my dream to have a child, then I should be able handle it.

Hmmm. My dream. Was this my dream? To be having a baby in a test tube? To be having a baby while my husband was undergoing cancer treatment? To be discussing this stuff with a complete stranger? Once, I had a dream of being a famous author. Once, I had a dream that I’d travel the world. Once, I had a dream that I’d be happy. I wasn’t really thrilled at where my dreams had gotten me thus far.

I tried another approach. So on a scale of 1 to 10 in the hormone department, number one being Mrs. Brady pissed about the broken vase and number ten being Joan Crawford with a closet full of wire hangers, where would the effects of my hormone-producing rage reside?

Trying to not appear crazy, I didn’t give this example. I did try to ask the question again.

Little Miss Bob tried another approach. “So how long have you been dreaming of having a child?” asked the (I’m completely convinced) psych intern. Where were her credentials anyway? No degrees or certificates were hung on the pock marked walls.

Right about now my dream was to hop over the desk and pull the two sides of her scarf tight enough to make her stop breathing. I was starting to question if I was mother material.

Enter Kevin to save the day. He arrived with a kiss for my cheek. Ever the doting husband, he held my hand, and provided his own rendition of I have a dream.

The counselor smiled warmly at Kevin. We passed our interview. She wrote something more in our file before we were sent off to the next set of appointments.

One of the nurses ran us through the procedures for the FSH injections that would be delivered via a shot in the butt. FSH is a follicle-stimulating hormone that helps a woman produce multiple eggs. The goal was to harvest as many eggs as possible. The more eggs I made, the better the odds. The doctor would then inject a single Kevin-sperm into each egg to make our embroyos. It was all rather Frankensteinish stuff but fascinating too.

Kevin would be the one giving me my daily shots and this discovery made him laughed manically. We were warned that soon my butt would be black and blue and it might be difficult to find an injection spot. This did happen. In addition to the shots, I was to get ultrasounds a couple of times a week to make sure that my follicles were laying eggs and my womb was getting itself guest ready.

The next step was to meet with the IVF doctor who walked us through the procedure again and had us sign a gazillion documents. Really. We had to decide what would happen to the embryos if I were to die, if Kevin was to die, if both of us would die? Did we want them to go to an embryo adoption agency? Did we want them destroyed? Could they be used for science? Who had the rights to them? For now, we would have shared custody. If one of us died, the rights would go to the surviving spouse. If we both died, we decided that they should be destroyed.

Today, I am the sole custodian of these 7 little embryos. The implications of which, sitting in that office, on a cold day in March, could not begin to affect me. I was only half-listening, instead my thoughts kept drifting to the one question the half-schooled therapist had asked me, was having a baby really my dream?

And our IVF adventure was about to begin…

Gretchen

Week #7

Levity Break

2010-02-08T12:34:00.000-08:00

Gav: Mom, aren’t you going to ask me how T-ball was today?

Me: How was T-ball, Gavin?

Gav: It was boring.

Me: Really? Why?

Gav: We just threw the balls back and forth. No running on the bases. I didn't get to bat.

Me: Oh, well, next time, I bet you'll bat. So what else did you do at school today?

Gav: We have a fish bowl with our names in it. We get to pick out a name and give each other compliments.

Me: That's really cool.

Gav: Mom, I like the way you are a mom to me.

Me: Oh, Gavin, that's a nice compliment. I like how sweet, smart and wonderful you are.

Gav: And, I like your boobs.

Me: Well, thanks Gavin.

Gav: They are really soft.

It was at this moment I realized I wasn't just having dinner with Gavin, we were actually on a date...

Me: OK, Gavin. Want to order some ice cream?

A few minutes later after the ice cream comes and Gavin realizes that he doesn't like it.

Gav: I’m finished.

Me: How about one more bite?

I cannot believe my child is the kid you have to beg to eat ice cream. I could eat six bowls in the time it takes him to finish two spoonfuls. Instead of eating any more, Mr. Sweet Talker starts spitting into the bowl.

Me: Gavin! Stop! What have I told you about spitting? When you spit, you get punished. Sorry kid, but no TV shows tonight.

Gav: But I didn't spit at you. I spit at the bowl.

Me: No spitting means no spitting.

Gav: I didn't know I couldn't spit at bowls.

Me: No bowls. No rolls. No walls. No balls. No moms. No friends. No Bubbas. No Poppas. No anybody. NO spitting at NO body. It’s rude and it’s gross, Gavin.

Gav (hands in the air): Ah mom. This is not the day I was gonna have. At school, my class smelled stinky and old. T-ball was boring and now I can’t watch my shows.

Me: I’m sorry Gavin. You are having a bad day, huh?

Gav, nodding in solemn agreement: Yes.

A few minutes later in the car...

Gav: Mom, that reminds me of the Bad Day song. Can I hear it?

Gavin loves music as much as I do. He has his own mix that we keep in the car. One of his favorites is Bad Day by Daniel Powter, although I think he prefers the Chipmunk’s cover version. He’s been singing it since he was two and a half.

Me: Sure you can, buddy.

I turned the music on and Gavin closed his eyes and moved his head to the music.

Me: Aren’t you going to sing, baby?

Gav: Shhh, I’m not ready yet.

He stayed with his eyes closed through the whole song.

Gav: Mom, can I hear it again. This time, I’m going to sing.

Me: Sure.

And he did sing, at the top of his little lungs. I joined in.

Gav: Mom, I feel better.

Me: Good Gav, you turned it around...just like in the song.

Gav(smiling): Yeah. I did.

Five minutes later, with the bad day away, he was asleep in his car seat.

The Great IVF debate part 2

2010-02-08T12:08:00.000-08:00

Kevin’s cancer coming back was like me smacking into a closed patio door. I could see the green grass on the other side, but I couldn’t get to it no matter how much I slammed my body into the glass. At home, I cried. Kevin did not. I went online and immediately started reading all I could about metastatic colon/rectal/anal cancer. The news wasn’t good. Kevin had a 5% chance of survival. Most people diagnosed would not last longer than five years. I read and reread posts from people that were living with it. I read and reread posts from people that were dying from it.

Anal cancer is an older persons’ disease. Most of the people were in their later 50 or 60s. OK, so maybe Kevin’s cancer was different. He was young. Kevin could fight. My head was a jumble of scared voices. I closed the computer and went to cuddle next to my husband. We were silenced for the night.

We met with Kevin’s primary oncologist, Dr. N., a man that I would grow to love in the way you do toward your heroes—with respect, with reverence and with a bit of fear. At moments, I would hate this same doctor with equal venom.

From the moment Kevin met Dr. N., he adored him. Dr. N. is a no-nonsense, doctor’s doctor. Around six feet tall, he wears his bifocals low, bends his neck forward and talks to you like you should understand everything he says. There is an authority in his demeanor and his delivery. He is the type of man that has a dry sense of humor, and I’d feel proud of myself when I got his jokes. He made both Kevin and I feel smarter and more in control.

The first thing Dr. N. told me was to get off the computer. He said to stop going online and reading statistics. Kevin wasn’t a statistic. He told us Kevin did have his youth on his side and his body could withstand the chemo regiment. The cancer was small and localized.

Dr. N. prodded Kevin’s belly and felt around his intestines. He touched the area near his iliostomy and repeated that Kevin was tough. Dr. N. checked Kevin’s port—the plastic device stitched under his skin near his collarbone. It was the device installed to easily deliver Kevin’s chemo cocktails. At the cancer group, it was a sign of victory when you got your port removed. Kevin never had his port removed.

Dr. N. slapped Kevin’s shoulders as he told us about a new drug called Avastin that recently received FDA approval. Kevin was lucky that he could start it right away. The goal was to get Kevin back into remission. His chemo cocktails would be served with a side of 5-FU (another cancer drug) for more potency. Kevin wouldn’t have to stop working. The doctor pushed us back into hope mood. He said we would see how everything looks after three months. He never said, Kevin, you are going to die. But he also never told Kevin he was going to live.

Me: Dr N., Kevin is a workaholic. He won’t stop until someone tells him he should. He pushes himself harder than I do when I’m at my best and he has cancer. So, will you please, please promise to tell us when it’s time for Kevin to stop working so he can enjoy the rest of his life with his family and friends?

This was my plea— the one I would repeat over and over.

Dr. N: Yes, I will tell you when it’s time. It’s not that time.Now’s the time to fight.

I always think of this scene in Man in the Moon (the bio-pic about Andy Kaufman movie starring Jim Carrey). It’s near the end of the movie and Kaufman has been traveling around the world looking for a some one to take away the cancer. He’s found a psychic surgeon, somewhere in the Philippines. The surgeon is known for removing diseased parts of the body with his hands and curing his patients of their ills.

Kaufman waits, naked, in a small, disheveled hut, lying on a peasant’s table. The healer man starts working his magic. In a brief second, Kaufman sees an attendant hand the doctor a towel and a sack of animal intestines. The healer is a fraud. The conman has been conned. You can see that Kaufman is shocked, hurt, scared and then something else, something like relief. He begins to laugh, big hearty laughs and tears poured down his face. Kaufman is finally in on the joke. He realizes that despite everything he’s tried, he’s going to die. There is no miracle cure from cancer.

From that moment on, the feeling that I wasn’t being told the whole story would plague me until Kevin died. I starting thinking that the counselors at Gilda’s club, the chemo nurses, the surgeons, the lab assistants, basically anyone associated with cancer, all these people were keeping something from me.

I know now that my denial wasn’t letting me hear the whole story. I was the one lying to myself. I was the one keeping the secret. It was easy when everybody in our inner circle was so willing to collaborate. Everybody believed that Kevin would make it. So I’d try to have faith but the feeling that something wasn’t quite right would never leave me.

Several days later, over dinner, Kevin said he wanted to have a baby. I told Kevin he should focus on getting better and that I wanted to focus my energy on helping him beat cancer. I didn’t think I could handle being pregnant and taking care of him.

Kevin told me three months wasn’t that bad. He could handle it. Then he’d be done. We’d be over this and on to the next chapter. Kevin argued that the best time to try was now. By the time the baby was born, he’d be done with everything. We’ll have something to look forward to. We could be normal again.

He didn’t want me to answer him right then. He told me to think about it. He kissed me. He hugged me. He turned on his crooked smile and he charmed me like only Kevin could.

His parents, especially his mother, were all for the idea of us having a child. It would be good. It’s time. You guys would make wonderful parents. You can stop focusing on all this cancer business. Maybe if Kevin had a child, he’d stop working so much and spend more time at home. Blah, blah, blah.

My mother was also excited to be a grandmother. She was slightly more diplomatic saying that she wouldn’t tell me what to do, but it sure would be nice to have a baby around the house.

The thought carousal would begin whirling around.

Kevin has terminal cancer.

So, he could live with it the rest of his life.

Eventually he will die from cancer and you will be raising this child on your own.

It could be years before that happens.

When Kevin fights, Kevin always wins.

He wants this. If it were you asking, you’d want Kevin to hear your wishes.

But if it were me, would I even ask? Would he do it for me?

Around and around it would go. I felt like I was just along for the ride.

His insurance wouldn’t cover IVF. They would cover adoption and they would cover some fertility issues, but not IVF. So Kevin wrote the very moving letter that changed their minds. We would be covered for three rounds of IVF, including retrieval and implantation. It would be practically painless to have the baby through IVF. Practically.

I’d like to say that I had a major epiphany. I did not. I did realize that having a child was much bigger than the both of us. I could help Kevin create a legacy. Maybe it would also help keep him alive.

Most people get that permanence thing when they have a child. I think it becomes more profound when your future is uncertain, when death is actually residing in the house, not just waiting around the corner. And lastly, because I did not yet know Gavin, it was easier to think how this decision would affect my husband, not me or my child.

The term, Ignorance is bliss is a total cliché but it’s grounded in truth. I had no idea how hard my life was about to become.

To be continued…

Oh the places you'll go

2010-02-02T06:01:00.000-08:00

[Editor's Note -I'll post the second part of my IVF blog later, but right now I need to acknowledge the day.]

It's been four years since Kevin died. If this were high school, I'd be ready to graduate.

Gosh, looking back at my freshman year of widowhood, I was such a nub-- awkward, a bit underweight and searching for any junior or senior boy to make me feel like I mattered.

In many ways, it's true. I'm a senior at this widow thing. I've been schooled.

In my history class, I relearned about my husband's death. I've rewrote it many times trying to view it from his perspective: the fear he must have felt to die, the anger he contained about missing his son growing up, the jealousy he held toward me. I try to feel his disappointment of having an unfinished life. I study our history to understand my present - like learning how to live on my own and like it. I study history to know that because of my past, my future is wide open.

I'm also well studied in the math of single parentdom. I can figure out if I've got 100 bucks in my bank account till payday and it costs 60 bucks to send Gavin to soccer, 20 bucks to quell my Starbucks fix, 14 bucks to get my nails done and 30 bucks to keep my picky little pirogi supplied in chicken nuggets, something's gotta give...

I've aced social studies. I went from being widowly inept (vomiting my innermost thoughts to grocery store clerks and alarmed parents at my son's school) to nodding politely, keeping my mouth shut and vomiting my innermost thoughts on my blog.

My science class taught me the science of little boys - I can identify a hungry one by his eye rolls, sarcastic demeanor and complaints of a tickle-y tummy. I know a tired boy by his inflamed temper tantrums that spark like a match. I know the exact spot on a certain little boy's back that will elicit a spontaneous and contagious case of the giggles. I've deductively concluded that sometimes a boy that is repeatedly throwing a baseball against the living room wall is just a boy that needs his mom to stop writing on the computer, pay him attention and throw him some baseballs.

In art class, I've found a new appreciation for the squiggly line - did you know it can represent a lake, a circle, a wiener, a bowl of spaghetti or a self-portrait? It takes a trained eye and a beautiful imagination to be able to see all these things. I've rediscovered that coloring is a very relaxing activity. But most of all, I've learned that the tracing of my child's hand (at any age) is a priceless masterpiece.

As for phys ed, I've learned that juicing is bad, yoga is good and the older you get, the more you need to run around the track.

Yes, it is time for me to graduate. I'll never forget widow school. It's given me an amazing education. As the years continue to pass, I'll never forget Kevin. He gave me some amazing memories. True, we had our ugly parts. But we also had our sitting-on-our-deck-watching-fireworks-and-drinking-wine-parts. Today, I choose to remember those. Today, I'll take those good parts with me and let the rest fall away. Today, I'll remember the Kevin that I loved.

As life after Kevin continues...

The Great IVF debate

2010-01-27T09:39:00.000-08:00

In order to answer the question on how I came to decide to have Gavin through IVF, I have to first give some background.

Kevin was diagnosed in June 2003 of rectal cancer. I remember standing around my kitchen island with his family trying to understand the pictures of his colon.

“Oh my God, is that the cancer?” I asked pointing to a cluster of round kernel-like objects.

“No, I think that’s corn.” answered his father without a hint of condescension.

At this point, the mood was anxious but hopeful. Kevin had cancer, he had to undergo chemo and radiation but we had a plan. I was going to buck up, be the best wife in the history of wives and help him through it. He was going to beat it, because that’s what Kevin did. His family and my family were going to all pitch in and help.

Kevin was to begin the radiation in a few weeks and at the end of October, he would have surgery to remove the tumor, have a temporary iliostomy put in and then receive chemo flushes to help rid the body of any residual cancer.

Most nights, we would hold each other and talk about the future - how we'd go back to London when this was all over and life was normal.

Anyone who says that radiation is not bad is lying. Kevin started with chemo and then began radiation every day for (I think) the next six weeks. It’s hard to remember. Every single day a doctor would point a laser at his anus and burn his body. By then end of the third week, he could barely sit down. The area of skin on his butt was black. Using the bathroom was terribly painful but also constant. By the end of fourth week, he could no longer hold his bowels.

One Friday night we both sat crying on the couch after he lost control and fell to the floor. A year earlier our Friday nights were spent eating out with friends or at a bar playing Golden Tee. If Kevin had poop issues, it was do to late-night burritos not from a laser beam of posion. Life now was very different. We both agreed. Cancer sucked. We even had t-shirts made.

Still we had hope and we had each other.

News after his surgery was fanflippingtasticly positive. No more cancer. The doctor had gotten it all. Kevin would have to continue with chemo after he healed, but only to make sure there weren't any free radicals out there. It was success. Kevin and I had a few blissful months of recovering. He’d get up with me in the mornings and as I walked to the train, he’d hit Starbucks. He read the paper, did some blog writing and got down to the business of getting better. Things between us were calm, content, almost boring. I remember thinking, “wow, that’s it." The whole cancer thing was over. It was anti-climatic. I may have even felt slightly disappointed. I loved having Kevin depend on me. I loved having him need me. I loved having him home.

December. Kevin was almost fully healed and would be starting work after the New Year. He’d already started with preventative chemo and was going once a week. He also continued to get PET/CAT scans to make sure no cancer was coming back. The first week in December, his doctor noticed some tiny spots on his lungs that showed up during the scan. No big deal, almost minuscule, but he wanted to biopsy them just in case. Kevin went through the biospy procedure, in which a long needle pierced his chest and took a sample of the spot on his lung.

I remember sitting in the dark waiting room, waiting and waiting. Northwestern is a beautiful hospital--deep mahogany woods, maroon walls, subtle lighting made the room feel like a men's club. The chairs are leather, plush and comfortable. I hate everything about it.

We met with the doctor. This is what I remember him saying, “It’s cancer and I am truly sorry.” My stomach lurched and danced. My throat closed up. I held Kevin's hand but I couldn't look at him.

When cancer comes back, it is considered metastatic, meaning it has moved from the original location to another part of the body. There is no treatment for colon rectal metastatic cancer.

The schism had started. As the cancer grew in Kevin’s body, our relationship started growing apart. Cancer is sneaky. It's smart. It's a shape-shifter. If you try to attack with one drug, eventually it will figure out a way to defend itself. It will hide and wait. I’ve heard cancer being describe like the creature in Alien--it devours the host's body, eventually taking control. Yep, that's about right. Cancer was eating us alive.

However, in my experience, what was stronger than cancer, what beat it every time, what truly was the one thing to outwit Kevin's cancer was…our denial. Unless you’ve ever been susceptible to denial, it is difficult to try and describe its power. Maybe my tale will help explain how magnanimous its hold was on me, on Kevin and on our family and friends.

to be continued...

Gretch

Week #5

January 27, 2009

About last night

2010-01-18T08:55:00.000-08:00

What was it like for you the first time you had sex as a widow?

My story is different - I had sex with somebody else before my husband died. Chemo didn't do much for Kevin's libido and when he moved into his own apartment, I took the opportunity to rearrange the furniture. I met someone who liked the way I decorated and that was that.

I've talked to other widows that say that they crave sex after their husband dies... with anybody. I can see that. I know when I first hooked up with Mr. Nice Guy, I wanted out of my head. I wanted to forget the last couple of years. I wanted to feel like a woman again, not a mother or a nursemaid. I wanted.

Wanting was probably the biggest thing, the most thrilling part of the act. For so long, it was what Kevin wanted. Now I got to want, I got to act on my wants and I didn't have to consider anyone but myself. Brilliant for me. Not so great for somebody else...wanting to love me.

When Kevin did die, I couldn't bring myself to have sex. Something clicked off and I tried for awhile to get it back. Then, I stopped trying. I eventually broke off the relationship. And then I went on a major shopping spree for a while.

I kinda answered that question, I guess.

Week #4

January 18, 2010

What do you regret most about widowhood?

2010-01-11T13:50:00.001-08:00

I don't save cards and I try not to regret things. I try to think ahead and live my life in a way that I won't regret later. I can't regret being a widow because I could not have done anything different to be one, except not marry Kevin. And yes, I would have still married Kevin knowing I'd be a widow. Now saying all that, I did do things that I'm not proud of when Kevin was in the final stages of his life.

There are two things I regret about his dying:

In January, when he was in the hospital, he asked me if he could move back home. I asked him if he'd give up his girlfriend. He said no. So, I said no. He wasn't angry at me and I wasn't angry at him. It was just a case of two people realizing what they could and could not accept. I wasn't strong enough to live through any more infidelity. I didn't want to find any more evidence of betrayal. And by find, I mean, I didn't want the temptation of scanning phone records or reading his emails if he happened to leave out his computer. I was tired of all of it. I knew how ugly I'd been when he'd cheated. I didn't want to end up punching a cancer patient in the face. That would be something I'd really regret. He died in February. To this day I think, it was only a month. If I'd known it was only a month that Kevin would be alive, I could have handled him moving home. I can handle anything for a month. I may have even invited his girlfriend over for a sleep over...

My other regret is that I never gave Kevin a card that his best friend wrote to him. It came in the mail. I opened it. I read it. I ripped it up. At the time, I wanted everyone to be as mad at Kevin as I was. Side with me - I'm the one alone with the new born baby. He was the selfish prick that moved out - terminal cancer or not.

I don't know if Kevin would have responded to the card, he was withdrawing from everybody. But, I'll never know. Maybe Kevin and Peter would have reconciled. Maybe they would have had some deep meaningful conversation about life or death or Gavin. Or maybe Kevin would have read the card and forgot all about it. I regret that didn't give him a last chance to be a stand-up guy. I still feel like a gigantic asshole about it. More so, my selfish actions pained our friend Peter because Kevin never called him. I will always feel remorse for that.

So while I can't take it back, I can continue to try to live my life honestly so that regrets are minimal (and possibly only food/exercise related).

Gretch

Week #3 January 11, 2010

Interstitial

2010-01-11T13:39:00.000-08:00

I like to think that my writing is real and direct. However, I've realized that I filter more than I thought. Even though I am honest, I certainly paint a picture of myself that is carefully crafted. Even the ugly bits, like addictions and depression, I weave in a laugh or two. Or I exaggerate to make a point. I also realize that I've had the answers to the blogs in my head before I wrote them. I'd already written what I wanted to say. Having someone ask me a question catches me off guard. My noodle is officially el dente.

It doesn't mean I won't answer every single question. I will. I can't answer them in order, though. I have to work my way into each one. Once again, thanks to everybody for helping me with this cool assignment.

Questions thus far

2010-01-11T13:29:00.001-08:00

#1 how different would your life be if you weren't a widow? Answered Week #1

#2 i went back through the blog and noted that you wrote here and there about coming to the decision to do IVF, to have gavin knowing, probably deep down, that you would be a single mom.so i'm curious about that part of your life. what your family said, what your friends said--because knowing the range of people in your life, i'm sure there were strong opinions, ones you didn't always want to hear. how did you deal with it all, sift through everything? i want to know what that pregnancy was like, the emotional ups and downs, the regular struggles on top of the knowledge that your husband, your child's father, was dying. i guess i want to see you during that period, and you've definitely given glimpses, sometimes longer looks, but i'd love it if you dove in more.

#3 What was it like for you the first time you had sex as a widow?

#4 What do you regret most about widowhood?

#5 I'm curious about your relationship with K's family now. Are they a part of Gav's life at all? How do you deal with that if they are, and if they aren't, do you think they'll ever be a part of his life?

#6 In what ways do you think it's more difficult AND less difficult being a single mother because your a widow vs. being a single mother as a result of divocrce?

#7 What did Gavin believe about the afterlife? How about you?

#8 What did you do with his [Kevin's] body? What have you told Gavin about that so far?

how different would your life be if you weren't a widow?

2010-01-03T18:32:00.000-08:00

OK, this may be harder than I originally anticipated...

I wish it was as simple as black veils and white weddings. Being a widow is not something you get over. I've moved on, after four years of running and stumbling, taking stock and catching my breath. But, like brown eyes and big boobs, being a widow is now a part of my make-up.

If the person you love with, live with, think you are going to spend your life with(the good and bad),dies before you're ready for it, their death changes your life. I sold my condo. I moved to the suburbs. I picked out kitchen appliances. I refinanced my house. I learned how to deal with almost-frozen pipes. I know how to change my heater's filter. I know what it's like to be alone with your kid in the emergency room. I put together a batman motorcycle. I own a snow blower. I started a blog. I do freelance writing. I sit at the computer and eat dinner. I never make my bed. I've captured a wild possum living in my garage (actually, I paid somebody to do it, but still). I'm not sure I'd know how or do any of these things (all by myself) if Kevin was alive.

Yet, I don't wake up every day and say, hmmm, how am I going to be a widow today? Mostly, I wake up and scramble to find something to wear, while I beg Gavin to get up and help me look for my keys. I'd still be this scattered if Kevin was alive. The difference is that I wouldn't be criticized for not being more organized. Today, I'm my worst critic.

I also don't tell everybody I meet that I'm a widow(that's more freshly widowed stuff). When Kevin first died, there was this tremendous need to blab about it. Now I reserve my blabbing to the blog. I do still play the widow card but mostly for laughs and a sense of entitlement-- like why shouldn't I park in visitor's parking? My husband's dead.

[gavin wants the computer, please hold: ggavin]

I'm back...

Let me try to answer the question again. How different would my life be...which life? I've had so many. Here's a quick recap on how I thought my life would look at different times in my life:

In third grade, I thought I grow up and be an astronaut... then I realized all the math that was involved.

In 8th grade, I thought if I wrote a letter to John Hughes and told him how much I liked his movies, he'd ask me to be in one. So I practiced what I'd say if on the Oprah show... then my uncle told me the probability of that happening was about 1 in a billion.

In high school, I thought I'd marry my boyfriend... then he went away to school. When I didn't get into the same university as him and he met another girl that he liked just a little bit better and my heart broke for the first time, I realized that the probablity of marrying him was about 1 in a billion.

In my twenties, I thought I'd be a single mom, then I ended up having a miscarriage.

One weekend, I thought I was just going to hook up with Kevin for some fun... four years later we ended up married.

I always thought I'd have three kids and live in the city in a brownstone... then Kevin got diagnosed with cancer. Now having Gavin the wonderboy is all I can comfortably handle. As it turns out, he's all that I need.

I thought I'd have to take care of my brother after my parents died... then my brother died before my parents.

I thought I'd have a book published by now... then I realized that you have to actually finish a book before it can published.

I thought I'd stay close with a few friends from high school... even as they are living on the West Coast, in the Midwest and East Coast, we are still in touch. Twenty years later, any one of them can make me giggle like a 12th grader.

I thought I'd watch my dog grow old... instead, my friends Ilene and Phil are doing that for me.

By now, I thought I'd live someplace warmer... but my family warms my heart and keeps me here.

So if i wasn't a widow, would I be with Kevin? I still believe we have unfinished business... our relationship was complicated. We worked at it. We laughed a lot. We bickered a lot. We went to therapy. We went our separate ways. We always found a way back to one another. And, we have the Gav-Man together. We will always be connected through him.

The day Kevin told me he had cancer, the direction of my life changed. All the things I wanted or thought I needed got redefined. I like the life I have now. I would not trade it and I would not have it... if I wasn't a widow.

Does that answer the question?

Gretch

Week #2 January 4, 2010

a little clarification

2009-12-29T09:05:00.000-08:00

Ha. Well, when you open up the blog to comments, you get them. And basically the gist is people are not digging the vibe I'm sending. C'est la vie. Guess what, I'm still going to try to do this. If it fails, so be it. I feel like being experimental and right now, this is my only outlet. he he.

But to respond to the comment on 12/28:

Here's the deal - you have to ask me questions about me or you have to give me a topic that is somehow related to being a widow and single or single and a mom or single and gasp, pushing forty. This is far different than a radio personality commenting on topics of the day. Nobody else has access to my head - although sometimes I believe that people read my mind and steal my great ideas...

So I'll be here waiting for a question or topic or two. I've already threatened Megan and Julie to provide some to me or I will not stop whining. They have graciously accepted.

Until then, I'll be playing Toontown.

Year-ish anniversary

2009-12-28T11:40:00.000-08:00

After a self-imposed holiday break, I'm back to blogging. I started this blog a little over a year ago and my goal was to do it for a year - practice writing, capture what my widow's life is like and connect with other Ws out there. I'm proud to say that I achieved it all. But I have to admit I'm gotten slightly sick of myself, too. And, I feel as if I've run out of things to say.

My friends have been asking me why I have stopped writing these last couple of weeks. The holidays overwhelm me is one reason. Toontown may be another...

However, when I told one of my friends that I was done with the blog, she was not happy. I got the same response from others. Of course, my narcissistic side was doing a jig (you like me) but my practical side (smaller for sure) kept saying, um, so, now what?

And then, lightening hit. I came up with an idea that would allow me to keep writing and not disappoint my sweet readers out there (the few that I have left after the long break).

As an aside (this will become relevant in a moment) I cannot stand the expression, think outside the box. It's cliche, dumb business jargon. And, anyone can think outside the box. It ain't that hard to come up with a brilliant idea. Executing the brilliant idea is where the work comes in. For example, I've been in brainstorms where the only instruction was to unleash our creative power by thinking outside of the box. And you know what? Our group came up with tons of really awesome ideas. Awesome yet totally ridiculous, not at-all-practical or relevant-to-the-brand ideas that would never come to fruition. Ideas such as win a trip to the moon, or travel the world on an OfficeMax sponsored Segway, or enter for a chance to win a new refrigerator every week for life--ideas that are parked firmly outside the box.

But when you think inside the box, when you put rules in place, when you have filters that limit the crazy, you actually have to become more creative in order for an idea to live. To me, that is the tougher assignment. Because when given stricter parameters, I've got to think about something a lot more and work my noodle. Then, usually something magical happens and a great idea is born...

Back to the blog: I've never really understood how to interact with people that post comments. Do I respond back to their comments? Do I answer each person privately and individually? Or do I do a blog about the comments? Do I add smiley face emoticons to every comment I like and saddy faces to every one I don't? I'm not sure. I suppose I could have consulted a blog etiquette site or something. I'd see a post and think wow, interesting point. What should I do next? Then, I'd get a hang nail and all my focus would revolve around this tiny flap of skin on my middle finger.

But I've been thinking about people's comments more and more. So I'd like to address all the comments collectively. Actually, my answer comes in the form of a plea: I'm asking for some help to keep me writing. Since I'm not very organized and I'm trying harder to be, I've decided to make a box to keep this experiment together and under control.

Here are Gretchen's new rules/ help for my blog-- taken directly from inside the box...

Rule #1 In the most current blog entry's comment section, provide me with an idea, a topic or a question (you may post it anonymously if you are feeling shy).

Rule #2 The idea, topic or question has to revolve around my life as a widow or single mother (now, then, whatever - my friend Megan told me to add an addendum that says you are allowed to ask me about my dating foibles).

Rule #3 Feel free to post as many ideas, topics or questions as you like.

Rule #4 I'll answer your ideas, topics or questions (provided it adheres to Rule #2) as truthfully as I can with an anecdote, essay or poem (okay, probably not a poem, but I needed a third for the series).

Rule #5 I will write at least one (hopefully more) blog entry based on your feedback. I'm hoping that I have at least 52 weeks of friends, relatives and readers to fill it up. If not, about half-way through this experiment, I will be soliciting for more...

Rule #6 Who says a box has to have six sides?

There it is-- how I'm going to keep the blog going...I hope...for the next 52 weeks.

Sincerely,

Gretch

Week #1 - December 28, 2009

(Please post comments here :)

Let's face It

2009-11-18T12:03:00.000-08:00

I have 235 friends on facebook, 175 of which I’d never invite inside my house or actually want to see in person. It starts simply enough, you get a friend suggestion: OK. I accept. And if you friend just one friend from high school, in two weeks, you’ll be friends with a majority of your graduating class. These friends multiply like teen acne.

I have a terrible memory for faces so I can get flummoxed with friend requests. I’ll put someone into context by searching the friend list of the person making the request. However, if I’m having to narrow down a friend by using six degrees of separation, I'm kinda thinking we're not really that close.

I am FB friends with my 14-year-old little brother. This works for me because we barely speak. I know more about his life than I would if it weren't for FB, such as the fact that he's one of 10 million against fox hunting being legalized (good kid) and that he’s a republican (oh kid). Other pros for facebook include the ability to catch up on large groups of people quickly and the ability to advertise my blog freely.

But then there’s the flip. One of my girlfriends got a friend request from a woman that used to bully her in grade school, causing many an upset stomach and trips to the nurse. My friend couldn't decide if she should friend this woman or not. Was it rude? Would other classmates find out?

Now it's easy for me to say, Girl, seriously? Except... why am I friends with my ex from San Francisco (the man who cheated on me with the one good florist in the neighborhood)? Before he got his hands on her, she was my flower-shop flirtation. The only woman I've ever met who could take my measly $10 and make miracles with weeds, berries and thistle. I loved her, that is until my ex decided he wanted to pot her daisy.

Do I need to be my ex’s FB friend? The Rear Window voyeur in me votes yes! So I found him. Here's where it gets weird: the other night I caught myself looking at pictures of his new wife (that I've never met) at her friend’s 40^th birthday party as she’s dancing and making funny faces at her husband (my ex). Seriously, what am I gaining from this? Perhaps it's the smug satisfaction that I think I'm better looking than her? Great. Meanwhile, I've lost 30 more minutes of my time to this bullshit.

But I'm not the only one abusing the power of FB or using it for questionable means. Here are some others:

Bad Usage #2: The High School Switch Up

Hey, I sorta knew you in high school, but we weren't really friends... Anyway, I think you’re kinda hot now so... wanna go out? These are real excepts from an email I received from a guy I mistakenly friended. I’m fairly certain this man would not have the balls to say any of that crap to me face-to-face, in a bar. However, possibly because he’s seen my beach vacation pics, he feels it’s perfectly OK to go there. It’s not.

Bad Usage #3: The Cheap Guy's Version of E-Harmony

I almost got tricked into this friend request, but luckily this man had an open profile. On his profile page is an explanation as to why Mr. Slick has friended me (or you or you or you): he looks for women he finds attractive and then tries to date them. Before you say ick, this guy had a lot of friends (me excluded). I’m sure a lot of people are scanning FB for dates, I’d just never come across it.

Worst Usage to Date: Turning Facebook into your own Jerry Springer episode

This story comes from one of my best friends. His son’s birth mother found the boy (now man) and friended him. FB is the vehicle that she chose to introduce herself to a person that she said good-bye to almost twenty years ago. Does she think that sharing movie quiz stats and Mafia War secrets are going to bring them closer? Or that it would be good for her biological son to see pictures of the life he wasn't allowed access? This hurts my heart and makes me mad. According to my friend, it is happening a lot.

And as long as I'm ranting, I'd like to ask friends to stop using FB as a forum for announcing miscarriages, overly large bowel movements or elective surgeries. I know I said we’re friends but perhaps it's best for you to save a little face.

I guess this explains why I block feeds or defriend as soon as I feel slighted or get offended. It's my way of slamming the door in cyberspace and when I'm mad, I love that door-slammin' sound. Plus, I don’t want to be tempted to know about you after we're done. This quick, decisive action does suck later when I realize that I will never, ever hear you discuss yourself in the third person, again. Sigh.

Social networking is such a strange mix of the intimate and the untouchable. I understand it because my blog is a prime example. I feel like I can divulge the not-so-nice parts of my personality but I’m not standing up at a party doing it. In fact, if you saw me at a party, I’d probably be tipsy... in a corner... mumbling to myself. How's that for a pretty profile pic?

wine and cheese market

2009-11-02T09:43:00.001-08:00

I was a little worried that my date with Mr. Secret Service would be compromised because of my tell-all journal confessionals. In fact, I thought he'd already read everything in my blog leaving him at an unfair advantage. In addition, the man is skilled in the art of interrogation and is excellent at keeping much to himself. I figured I was screwed.

I was pleasantly surprised when he told me he hadn't read most of the blog. He did add that I might want to rethink posting my inner most thoughts online in such a permanent way.

Hmmm...

However, I am glad that he's still in the same position that I am in with him - the extraction stage. The time when I pull out small nuggets of info trying to decide if this guy is going to take up some residence in my life or if we'll end up back to being strangers.

Dating is fun. Sorta. I think I know everything about everything so it is interesting to hear that some people would rather watch a movie at home than go to a show. Or that Halloween wasn't a big deal except when going as Hannible Lector. Or what sacking a quarterback means. Or that in the Book of Jobe, a lot of bad shit happened. Cool.

Still, it's hard getting to know somebody. It's not like when you're four and you show some other knock-knee'd kid your new Matchbox car. Just like that, you are BFFs for life... or at least thru kindergarten.

Newness is ok, but it's not what I look forward to. I'd much rather be in the comfortable silence stage of the game. My favorite part of being intimate is the private connection - like, when at the same moment, you look each other in the eye and realize it's time to pay the bar bill and go get naked.

I wish I could fast forward to knowing glances and inside jokes... the sighs, the stares and the stars.