Not Broken, Just Bent

I’m quickly approaching the one-year anniversary of the death of my husband, Charles. The truth is, I’ve been thinking for months about what I would write on that day; it has to be special, it has to be significant, it has to be…real. And here I am, planning ahead again how to be “real” in the moment. Well, I’m in Manila on a business trip, doing the job of five people right now, and don’t honestly know what my day will be like on October 1^st and whether I’ll have the time or the emotional wherewithal to write that day. So, what does it matter if I write a couple days in advance? I’ve already told you how I feel about anniversaries.

But I’ll warn you before you waste any more time reading my long ramblings: this is brutally honest. Honest feelings, raw feelings (who knew how raw they’d still be after a year), uncomfortable feelings, and maybe some stuff you just don’t want to know about me.

Consider yourself forewarned and proceed at your own peril.

People have asked me what it’s like to lose your husband of 15 ½ years. Obviously it’s sad. There are days when I see/hear something that reminds me of Charles and I want to text him and tell him all about it. There are stupid things people do and say that we would so dearly love making fun of together; we were very good at making fun of things together. If I try to explain it to someone else, it may not even sound funny; or worse, it may sound offensive. And then I just feel like a bad person. Charles knew just how bad of a person I was.

I’ve also been remembering the anniversary of all the “last” things we did together:

• Our last real date together that Friday night before he passed away. We tried a Greek restaurant that was new to us, filled up on three flavors of hummus, and then watched “Looper.” Excellent film, BTW. I think I’ll watch it again on the plane ride back from Manila.
• Our last ditching-work-to-go-to-the-movies day together when I took “ill” on a Thursday afternoon and met him at AMC.
• Our last time having sex. Thank heavens it was one of the good times and not one of those annoying times where one of us was more preoccupied with something else than living in the moment.
• Our last quiet Sunday night at home when we planned/booked our holiday trip to New York.
• Our last Charles-listen-patiently-while-Heidi-unloads-the-awfulness-of-her-workday-over-chips-and-salsa night, just a few hours before he passed away.
• Our last trip to the Aquarium of the Pacific to pet the sharks.

And then my memories start to fade a little…. How can that be?  I was married to the man for almost 15 ½ years, and we knew each other a year before that. Memories shouldn’t fade. Thank heavens for journal-writing, for picture-taking, for song-listening, all of which help prompt memories of interesting events, emotions, and experiences. But then again, sometimes I don’t want the memories anymore. Because a year can change people. It can change me, specifically.

The P!nk song, “Just Give Me a Reason” inspires the title of this post: 

“We’re not broken, just bent.”

And that’s the way I feel after a year of “surviving” the death of a loved one. In some ways I feel like I’ve got two choices with this death: Pretend the 16 ½ years with one person never happened, or own it. I flip-flop on how I approach it, depending on my mood!

Not Broken

Some days I feel broken. You spend that many years investing in a relationship, and then it ends, and you have to figure out what to do with all those years that belonged (you thought) exclusively to that relationship. It’s like those 16 ½ years didn’t really exist for me. No one else knows the value of that period of my life because the value dropped on October 1, 2012. Some days I feel really, really stupid for wasting that many years of my life investing in a marriage that just suddenly ended. Those are the days I feel broken.

Then other days I remember there’s value in learning how to live with someone and how to stick with them through thick & thin for that many years. There are life lessons I learned during that period which I may never have learned any other way. There’s also this nagging little voice that reminds me how very much Charles prepared me for being alone without him. He was my biggest champion and always cheered & supported me to become my best, strongest self—all the way through leaving me. As twisted as it sounds, it’s almost like his crowning work in life was to set me up for success to live without him. Those are the days I realize I’m not broken.

Just Bent

So is it possible for me to keep the lessons and experience gained from 16 ½ years with that man, and yet start over—bending in a different direction? Can I pick up and be the person I want to be, even with the baggage/experience of my marriage? Do others perceive me as broken or bent? I believe that largely has to do with how I perceive myself. It would be ridiculous to pretend nothing happened to me. Just like it would be ridiculous to pretend I’m 24 again, like the last time I was single.

Today I feel forty. Any you know what? I like being forty. I told my mom recently that, although I wouldn’t mind having my 17-year-old body back, I wouldn’t trade the independence, freedom, and wisdom of forty for anything! I am bent toward forty, and loving it.

The past year has been such an interesting journey of figuring out who I am, disentangling myself from what happened over the previous 16 ½ years. Interestingly, I discovered that I’m bent in some directions, directly as a result of being married to Charles, which I really like about myself. For example, I never would have come to love the movies or love live music without his influence, yet those are very real, very Heidi interests today.

Learn to Love Again

For some of you, dear readers, this is the meat of the matter: will Heidi love again? I’ve mentioned a new boyfriend here before, and wouldn’t you just love to hear all about it? That’s not the point of this post. My dating life, while intricately woven into the thread of healing from the death of my late husband, is not really the “proof” that Heidi can learn to love again.

One of the great lessons of my recent history has been learning to love, period. I identified something about myself nearly a year ago, and that is the fact that I need to love: love deeply, love madly, love hopelessly, love stupidly, love frequently. That could, of course, correspond with my dating life. But I also need to love more people in more places. Starting with my family. Spreading to my friends. Expanding to my coworkers. Reaching to my church congregation. And possibly, yes, approaching my love life.

What kind of love is in store for Heidi? Some of the love “written in the scars on my heart” will never go away; other tidbits of love have faded with time and will live only as attachments to specific songs, foods, or places. Can new songs, foods, places, and experiences foster stronger love springing from those scars? I believe they can, so long as I believe that I’m not broken, just bent. Bent toward love.

Flowers

This post is prompted by these flowers, sent yesterday because someone “misses me infinitely” now that he’s 8,700 miles away:

They’re the first “boyfriend flowers” I’ve received in 17 years. Yes, I said boyfriend. But I don’t want to talk about him. I want to talk about flowers.

The above flowers got me thinking about these flowers, the last “just because you’re cute” flowers I received from my late husband last year:

And those flowers got me thinking about the first flowers I ever received from a boy. The year was 1993. My little brother, Tom, was a freshman in high school. I was 20, living at home and working full time while taking an extended holiday from my college education. Tom was auditioning for an advanced drama class and had to do a serious research project as part of the application process. His advanced procrastination skills (I can say that affectionately because I possess them, too) found the boy with only one weekend between him and his deadline, with nothing but the public library to save him. He despaired (a bit) and wasn’t really sure how it was going to get done in time, let alone how to actually conduct the research he needed. I offered some assistance, and we found ourselves not at the public library, but at the University of Washington library, at my insistence. I helped talk him through the concept of his research project, oriented him to the research tools/systems, and metaphorically held his hand as he cobbled together a decent presentation. (Incidentally, Tom has since become very adept at conducting his own research; he beat me by completing his master’s degree this year 3 months before I did! :-P)

One night after Tom's performance in Hello Dolly that year (1993)

When Tom was accepted into the advanced drama class, that 15-year-old kid went out on his own volition and purchased flowers for me. They were waiting in a vase on my dresser when I got home from work one day. And these weren’t typical grocery-store-bunch-with-plastic-and-dead-ferns-type flowers. It was a big bunch of Freesias. At the time, Freesias were my favorite flowers. No one knew that. But Tom looked at the options and they seemed like the ones that best represented what he wanted to say, which was simply, “Thank you.” Those flowers brought tears to my eyes that day. Not because they were so beautiful (although I did love me some yummy Freesias back in the day), or because he was so amazing (although he has become an incredibly awesome brother and friend), but because someone took the time to think of flowers and think of me and select blossoms that were just right.

Giving and receiving flowers is a little (okay, big) joy of mine. I buy flowers for myself frequently and also spread blooming bouquets around my circle of friends, just because I like them. For someone who loves flowers, you’d think that just any flower will do, right? Wrong. Like my friend Chuck says, “Words mean things.” So do flowers. For example, red roses say, “I’m too unoriginal to think of more interesting flowers that match your real personality.” Carnations say, “Are you dead yet? If not, you should be, because carnations are only for funerals.” (BTW, I refused to let any carnations slip into Charles’ funeral sprays—because they’re just awful flowers.) And then there are the random wildflowers (i.e. blossoming weeds) picked from the roadside and offered in a paper cup, which whisper, “Come on baby, light my fire!”

At the end of the day, flowers are one of those delightful little tender mercies from a loving God who lets me know it’s okay to be happy. Out of the gloomiest places, bright posies manage to flourish if we’ll but notice them and give them a little attention. Much like people, flowers seem to grow prettier with love and consideration. I’ve been known to thrill over a handful of wild sunflowers plucked from the freeway median: bugs, dirt, and all. In my opinion, they’re there to make me smile.

Dating, Lord Voldemort Style

So I started dating again. This isn’t a formal, public announcement. It’s just one of those things that I felt like I should start doing a while back. But, darn, now I feel the need to explain myself. As if I didn’t already feel like my life is on display for so many people to question and judge, seeking the companionship of single men is one more way for me to feel insecure about how my actions align with others’ expectations.

I haven’t gone out that much, but the little bit I have has opened my eyes wide to how very complicated it is.

God has given me all the right tools and talents to be successful at this endeavor. Like Lord Voldemort in Harry Potter: The Order of the Phoenix, now I’m fighting with a weapon (or two) I didn’t have the last time around.

With 40 years under my belt, I have much more confidence than I did the last time I was available for dating. I wholeheartedly believe that I am a good and fun person to spend a few hours with! I’ve been told that confidence is attractive in a woman…but only to an extent.

I’m also much more full of good adventure ideas and the cash flow to support them. I have a giant list of places to go, things to see, venues to explore… just awaiting someone to share them with me. But going back to the confidence issue, I’m not afraid to do things by myself and I’m not waiting around for someone cute to get out and see the world. I’ve also been told that independence is attractive in a woman…but only to an extent.

Another weapon in my arsenal is the fact that I have become profoundly self-aware over the years, which means I recognize when I’m allowing my stupid insecure tendencies to get in the way of having genuine, interesting interactions with others. But with that self-awareness comes a tendency to overanalyze behaviors, identify performance gaps, and strategize solutions. Ad nauseam. Whether in my professional, financial, educational, or volunteer service life, I’m used to setting goals & objectives, creating project plans, delegating responsibilities, following up on milestones, holding others accountable, and getting results. As I have tried to apply the same principles to pursuing attractive single men, I’ve run into a few…complications…with my tried-and-true processes.

Just like Lord Voldemort, I have failed to account for the human element in these interactions—human emotions, thoughts, insecurities, and sometimes unpredictable behavior. Lord Voldemort failed to account for the impact of Harry’s goodwill and care in behalf of his friends; that foiled he-who-must-not-be-named at every turn. Likewise, I seem to be forgetting that men are, well, human. Not to mention forgetting realities caused by daily life (like, people are truly busy at this stage of life).

Secret weapons and secret frustrations notwithstanding, the dating experience thus far has been everything it purported to be: fun.

Nine Months

Tonight marks nine months since my late husband, Charles, passed away. Nine months is a long time. It’s ¾ of a calendar year. It’s a whole school year. It’s long enough to have a baby (but my mom-friends need not worry: I won’t break it down into weeks; I don’t speak in weeks). It’s how long the US Copyright Office takes to process an application to register your copyrighted work.

Nine months is also long enough to lose 50 pounds. It’s enough time to meet and become friends with some really incredible people. It’s just sufficient time to rediscover things I had forgotten I loved to do…like hike, like learn new songs on the piano for pleasure, like make my bed every day (unless I don’t feel like it).

Interestingly, it’s enough time to learn some new tricks, such as soaking up as much sunshine as possible every day, or watching (and enjoying) hockey. Or not planning out my life more than a day or a few hours in advance. Or actively seeking slightly dangerous adventure.

Most importantly, nine months is enough time to come to know, unequivocally, that I am loved by some pretty amazing people.

If you had asked me on October 1^st how I’d feel nine months from then, I don’t think “happy, excited, hopeful, adventuresome, content, grateful, loved” would have been believable adjectives. I owe nine months of gratitude to a lot of places: to my Heavenly Father for giving me growth opportunities and listening to the sincere desires of my heart; to my family for letting me start over and try being a better daughter, sister, and aunt; to my old friends (not in age—I think I’m actually the oldest in most of my social groups :-/) for carrying me through some lonely and desperate times; to my new friends for taking a chance on me; and to myself for owning this experience and letting myself flourish.

Graveyard of Useless Anniversaries

Last Friday, June 7, would have been my 16th wedding anniversary. I was married to Charles Ballard in the Seattle Temple of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on that day in 1997. For the first time since that day, I happened to end up back in Seattle on the very day of my anniversary, in town for my brother’s Masters degree graduation festivities. I couldn’t be happier to be here for Tom’s big day, and it made me glad to have another happy reason in our family to remember June 7th, since my reason is now…complicated.

What do you do with a wedding anniversary once you’re no longer together? It seems silly to celebrate. It seems selfish to be sullen. It also seems strange to ignore it.

I have an odd tendency to remember marginally significant dates in my life. I don’t know why, because that’s one of the reasons I always did poorly in history class: my inability to remember key historical events and their associated timelines. Somehow, though, if I can make it connect to my life, I can remember. Like, the Civil War began on April 12, 1861—a date I know because it’s my birthday! I have managed to remember the exact dates for things such as my first ever date with a boy in 1989, my senior prom in 1991, my first day working at University Savings Bank in 1992, my endowment date in the Seattle Temple in 1993, my reporting date to the Missionary Training Center in 1994, my engagement date to Charles in 1997, my first day working at AFTRA-SAG Federal Credit Union in 1998, the day I purchased my first brand new car in 2005 (that one just came up at dinner last night), etc. They all reside in my graveyard of useless anniversaries.

I doubt that my marriage date to Charles will ever remove itself from that list. But, like the other days, it’s not one that I need to throw a party for. I like to remember some dates because they help me see and understand my progress in life. They also sometimes help me explain how I ended up in the mess I’m in at the moment!!!

Friday I decided the best way to commemorate what would have been my 16th wedding anniversary and what was my first June 7th without the man who made it significant for me in the first place, was to create a playlist. I took a little musical walk down memory lane and remembered key songs that figured into our friendship, dating, engagement, wedding, and life together. They aren’t necessarily my favorites or Charles’ favorites, but they are songs that will always belong to Charles. They might make me cry a little, or smile a little, or scream a little as I remember the events, conversations, and emotions associated with the songs. And that’s…O.K. What I won’t try to do is explain their significance because no one would get it and some things are just too personal for words.

If you want to take a listen, the whole playlist is public on Spotify:

I Can See Clearly Now – Johnny Nash

The Boxer – Simon & Garfunkel

I Love You Always Forever – Donna Lewis

For Baby (For Bobby) – John Denver

Wild Montana Skies – John Denver with Emmylou Harris

I Love Rock ‘N Roll – Joan Jett & the Blackhearts

A Bushel and a Peck – Guys & Dolls soundtrack

Have a Little Faith In Me – John Hiatt

Dreams – The Cranberries

Make Me Smile (Come Up And See Me) – Duran Duran

Bridge Over Troubled Water – Simon & Garfunkel

Love Song – The Ocean Blue

Love Is A Stranger – The Eurythmics

All The Small Things – Blink-182

Since U Been Gone – Kelly Clarkson

Starlight – MUSE

Read My Mind – The Killers

Resistance – MUSE

Gasoline – The Airborne Toxic Event

Teenage Dream – Katy Perry

But rather than just listen to my list that probably means nothing to you, I invite you to do the same about parts of your life that are confusing. Figure out what music might do for your emotional quandaries. Take a musical journey of your own relationships: family, friends, romantic, professional.

As I move further away from this relationship that occupied the past 17 years of my life, I am struggling to sort out what it means to me. It’s easy to identify all the things that bugged me—every relationship has those. And it’s easy to dwell on them and make myself feel bad. What this playlist does is remind me of all the good parts of that relationship, and makes me feel good about myself for being consistent and working hard and learning and growing together with someone for 15 ½ years. And that’s a good eulogy for another date interred in my graveyard of useless anniversaries.