newly widowed ~ instructions not included

November 20, 2013 / 126 Comments

When is the time right to tell the world my husband died? When do I announce to everyone that I am (as the “On Being Alone” booklet points out) “newly widowed?” He always said – and I never understood it or really agreed with him – that “dying is a private business,” that when the time came, he wanted to die alone, just to sleep on.

And so he did. It was last week, and it was the day before our 22nd wedding anniversary. And it was when our daughter and I were far away in rural Derry, in the heart of Seamus Heaney country.

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And it might even have been around the time I was talking to blacksmith Barney Devlin’s son in The Forge on the side of the road at Hillhead, hearing all about the great night’s craic behind Heaney‘s The Midnight Anvil when Barney struck the anvil twelve times to ring in the new millennium with another son listening in on his cell-phone in Canada. Posing for a photograph with Barry Devlin on the other side of The Door into The Dark I was happy to be back home and anxious to write about it, holding in my hands the anvil that made the sweeter sound.

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All I know is a door into the dark.

Later (yet earlier in Arizona), I knew something was wrong when he didn’t answer the phone; when, troubled, I sent a troubling text to my best friend to ask her to please go check if he was home and alright; when, nervously, she told me that, yes, both our cars were in the driveway and that our little dog, Edgar, was sitting on the couch, silently staring back at her; when she found a key under the doormat; when she opened the front door and tentatively called my husband’s name once, twice, and then a third time to no response; and, finally when she crumpled.

“He’s passed away! He’s passed away!” she cried. “He’s so cold. I’m so sorry.”

Then our daughter’s primal scream, a horrible, harrowing sound from somewhere deep within her, a sound I will never forget as she heard me tell my friend on the other side of the Atlantic on the other side of America on the other end of the line to please call 911. Just. Call. 9-1-1.

Too quickly to be true or anything good, I heard the noise of our house filling up with strangers, kind and efficient, from the police and fire departments, the crisis management team, and finally the people from the one mortuary that agreed to take my husband’s body even though there was some as yet unresolved fuss over who would sign the death certificate.

If nobody would sign it, perhaps he wasn’t dead.

“Are you sure he’s dead?” I asked.

“Yes. He’s dead. Yes. I’m so sorry. He’s gone.”

Gone.

They pronounced my husband dead at 1:10pm not a full hour after I had called and left a message for him to please pick up the damn phone. Replaying my voicemails, back in America, my lovely loving parents with my daughter and me now, I can hear the irritation in my voice, and it reminds me that I find it easier to harbor annoyance than worry, and that anger is infinitely easier to bear than sorrow.

Blue morning over the LIffey
Blue morning over the LIffey

A week before, I had been so happy, wandering streets of Dublin still familiar to me, as though I had never left Ireland. I called my husband from Trinity College, where I’d happened upon a graduation, and when I told him how much fun I was having, he told me to have some more. And, I did. I was proud of myself, smug even, finding the perfect anniversary card for him in one of those bijou boutiques that have popped up on the south side of the Liffey and then breezily asking the concierge at The Brooks Hotel to mail it to America for me as though I were Meryl Streep‘s Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada.

For over two decades, we had an ongoing contest, my husband and I, over which of us would present the other with the best birthday, anniversary, Valentine, and Christmas cards. I won. Hands down. Every time. Even after he thought he was on to something when he discovered a Papyrus store at the Biltmore Fashion Park. Naturally, some of our years shone brighter than others – they sparkle still  – and browsing through dates and sentiments scrawled on cards saved in a drawer along with drawings by our girl, old polaroid pictures and postcards, business cards from my different jobs, I see our story unfold from beginning to end. Stranger than fiction, it shimmers with all you would expect from a page-turner. I’ll maybe write a story for you one day.

So when the anniversary card arrived from Ireland in my mailbox yesterday – too late in spite of my good intentions – I had to open it. Turning it over in my hands, the post-mark – 11.11.13 –  brought to mind  another anniversary – the second since my cancer diagnosis. There is no doubt that November is the cruelest month in this house.

Snapseed

Had I remembered what it was I’d written to my husband a week before, I might have left the card sealed in its envelope and put it in the pocket of the shirt on his dead body. But I had forgotten. When I scanned my handwriting on the inside of the card, I knew that, yes, I would have won again. He would have smiled, deadpan, at the last words he never got to read from me:

“See you 18th & I hope our next anniversary is without cancer, aneurysms, & dog shit.”

After our last dog, an over-anxious greyhound, Molly, my husband was adamant that we revert to being strictly “cat people,” but when our daughter rescued that tiny dog on a busy street a few weeks ago and immediately named him Edgar, he somehow relented.

Is it too soon to say that I am still alive, that life is for the living and for finding new rituals? Maybe. Then again nobody knows what to say or do. There are no rules. It is a complicated business, and it is neither private nor simple. It is painful.

Not long ago, I read a review of Bridget Jones: Mad About a Boy in which there was some hand-wringing about why Helen Felding chose to make a widow out of Bridget. The Telegraph columnist, William Langley, wonders if Fielding has made a leap too far, opining that the new book “ raises the awkward question of how far a character can reasonably be stretched.”  Why is it an awkward question? Having joined Ms. Jones on this new path, I feel myself stretching more with every minute that passes, and there doesn’t appear to be any sign of a limit.  I think I might be grateful to Helen Fielding for taking Bridget into widowhood, for going there. It somehow helps to know that Bridget probably doesn’t know how to back-flush the pool or when to rotate tires and change the oil or the ratio of sugar to water for the hummingbird feeder.

A good night’s sleep eludes me, and it feels a bit like I swallowed a sharp stone that has lodged in my very center. How I wish it would go away. But it’s early days. They tell me I am in a state of shock and to take one day at a time. They tell me he is in a far better place now. Really? How could any place be better than in our dining room next month to light sixteen candles on my daughter’s birthday cake or in the audience to cheer our girl as she walks across the stage to receive her high school diploma less than two years from now? How could any place be better than a ring-side seat at all those milestones that bring pure and simple pleasure?

I remember some years ago, I had one of those very lucid and realistic dreams in which I had misplaced a book and was frantically searching for it, high up and low down, in a dark and unfamiliar house. When I awoke, I was frantic and unsure if it had all just been a dream. Perturbed to have lost “the big book of simple pleasures,” I asked my husband if this book had ever occupied our bookshelves. It seems plausible, even tonight, that such a book could have existed in reality; it brings to mind a compendium of Martha Stewart’s good things or better yet, well-worn wit and homespun advice from Irish mammies – “sure who’ll be looking at you anyway?”

The very notion of a big book of simple pleasures appeals to me as does an ordinary day filled to the brim with them and time enough to fully savor them – I think it is in the mundanity of life, within commonplace conversations and overlooked ordinary spots of time, that we find the stories of ourselves, maybe even our best selves. Consider the ordinary things scratched and scribbled on post-it notes and paper napkins, the reminders to do or acquire the stuff we need to keep us on solid ground, the grand ideas hastily captured on a napkin over a glass of wine with a friend, our lists of instructions on what to do and what not to do, and then the extraordinary things on bucket lists of dreams yet to come true.  

In the book of simple pleasures, there is no place for a message received too late, a fence never mended, undeniable evidence of a loved one’s descent into memory loss, or a last goodbye from someone who loves you. Between the covers of such a book, one would find only those ordinary certainties like the kind that used to make a Sunday morning around here.

I have always been slow to stir on Sundays, in spite of the predictable sunshine breaking and entering through slats of closed window blinds and the sounds of my husband making a pot of coffee.  He always tried to do it quietly, but I was always awake and listening, enjoying the distinct sounds of newspaper pages turning, tiny showers of cereal falling in a bowl, slices of bread popping from the toaster, and tell-tale stifled chuckles from our daughter if she had successfully snagged the Sunday comics from the newspaper her dad had strategically arranged for reading.

Propped up against my pillows, I liked the outside interference too – the random arpeggios up and down, ringing gently from California wind-chimes that hang heavy and lower today from a Chilean mesquite tree that dominates our backyard; the distant rumble of a truck on an otherwise abandoned freeway; the plaintive coo of mourning doves, and the soft woof of a neighbor’s dog. Altogether it is a Sunday morning spell, cast just for me, selfish me, so I have to let it linger into the afternoon.

Workday mornings are different and will be different still when they resume. A little more hurried and harried by stupid thoughts of what and what not to wear, what needs to be turned in, last minute signatures on a permission slip, money for lunch, reminders to take vitamins and cancer medicine and maybe something to take the edge off and to have a great day. Just one more cup of coffee, a goodbye hug, a kiss, and a rushed and perhaps perfunctory “I-love-you-I-love-you-too-see-you-tonight-call-me.”

Before going to work for the past twenty-two years, I have counted on three things: 1. My husband blows me a kiss. 2. He flashes a peace sign. 3. He watches from the window until I disappear from view. These tiny, ordinary rituals made the perfect farewell. Fare well. Every day. So at the mortuary yesterday, my daughter and I gently unfolded his cold hands and created a  sort of ‘V’ with two elegant fingers of his right hand.

Peace. Out. Baby.

Peace signs and hundreds of visits to Dairy Queen on the way home from school on Friday afternoons; feeding the hummingbirds, recycling the junk mail, and putting things in the tumble dryer when their labels clearly say “Dry Clean Only.”  Thus we marked time.

Is it simpler to live life in these quotidian moments that can so easily saturate the space that stretches from sunrise to sunset? No subtext, no surprises, the secrets suppressed, each of us on solid ground – home and easy and boring?

Being Boring by Wendy Cope

“‘May you live in interesting times,’ Chinese curse

If you ask me ‘What’s new?’, I have nothing to say
Except that the garden is growing.
I had a slight cold but it’s better today.
I’m content with the way things are going.
Yes, he is the same as he usually is,
Still eating and sleeping and snoring.
I get on with my work. He gets on with his.
I know this is all very boring.

There was drama enough in my turbulent past:
Tears of passion-I’ve used up a tankful.
No news is good news, and long may it last.
If nothing much happens, I’m thankful.
A happier cabbage you never did see,
My vegetable spirits are soaring.
If you’re after excitement, steer well clear of me.
I want to go on being boring.

I don’t go to parties. Well, what are they for,
If you don’t need to find a new lover?
You drink and you listen and drink a bit more
And you take the next day to recover.
Someone to stay home with was all my desire
And, now that I’ve found a safe mooring,
I’ve just one ambition in life: I aspire
To go on and on being boring.”

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126 Comments

      • Michael Symons

        November 23, 2013 at 4:52 AM Reply

        Dear Yvonne,
        I have followed all your postings since the reunion last summer and have commented on many but my words are under Arlene’s name, I don’t want you to think that I have ignored all your postings.
        But this news was the most shocking and saddest of all.
        We knew each other briefly – and i knew your husband, not at all – but this piece about “Considering the Lilies” brought me right into both your lives and made me aware of a beautiful and loving relationship you had with Ken.
        Mike Symons

        • Editor

          November 23, 2013 at 10:24 AM Reply

          Dear Mike
          Thank you very much for your kindness. I must tell you that the connections made at Trywoodie all the years ago have buoyed my daughter and me over the past week. It is a week already, more than a week, and while I cannot really speak – I don’t know what to say – I can somehow type.
          As private as my husband was and as separate as we kept our personal and professional worlds, he never minded that I told the world so much in this space.
          We had 22 years together and in spite of all our flaws and faults we made a terrific human being in Sophie.
          It feels as though time has stopped for us right now and I am so grateful for everyone who is taking a moment to stop with us.
          Thank you
          Yvonne

    • Editor

      November 22, 2013 at 11:16 PM Reply

      Thank you Audrey and Eileen. It has been a whole week already and I don’t know what to say or do really. I am buoyed by the support of everyone here and the kindness of people I may never meet. It is a comfort to come to this space and find such warmth for our circle of family and friends.

  • Paddy's Wagon

    November 20, 2013 at 4:29 PM Reply

    Oh no Yvonne, I’m so shocked to read your heartbreaking story. Know that all who hear of the sudden loss of your much loved partner & father to your children will be sending prayers of love & courage, that hopefully, in some way, will help to sustain you over the coming months. What courage already you have, to share your sad sad story.
    Paddy [New Zealand]

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 6:06 AM Reply

      Oh Paddy, the shock and the grief comes in waves and somehow it is easier to type words than to speak. I don’t know what to say. It is a very sad moment in my life, an ending I would never, ever have anticipated.
      Thank you for your kindness

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 6:16 AM Reply

      Oh Marie. It is surreal and sad. It feels as though all the clocks stopped last Friday and when they start again, I will be a different person in a different house doing things differently. And Sophie. My Sophie. Why must this have happened to her?
      x

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 6:19 AM Reply

      Philippa dear, thank you so much. It helps so much to know I am encircled by the kindest women right now, women I may never meet but without whom I could not manage. x

  • The Accidental Amazon

    November 20, 2013 at 6:59 PM Reply

    Oh, Yvonne, such beautiful words to describe such deep sorrow. I am gutted for you, stunned, heartsick, full of tears. You and your daughter and all your family are in my heart. Love & abiding friendship, Kathi

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 6:23 AM Reply

      Kathi, I don’t know what to say. I am holding my breath, waiting for news that it has all been a mistake because it is just so unfair.We are gutted.
      Love
      yvonne

  • Martha Brettschneider

    November 20, 2013 at 7:12 PM Reply

    Yvonne — I’m numb. Words simply elude me. Everything I start to type here sounds trite. You are a beautiful soul and deeply loved. Hang on to that knowledge. Sending healing warmth to you and your daughter. ~ Martha

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 6:27 AM Reply

      Martha, thank you so much. There are no words that can do the job right now. I know I am loved and I know I am cared for by so many people and that is helping. I can type and type but I just cannot talk. Seeing the sympathy in people’s faces, hearing it in their voices, reading it here, is just surreal.
      Thank you for sending such warmth our way.

  • Julie Christine

    November 20, 2013 at 7:55 PM Reply

    Yvonne, there are no words. There is only an outpouring of love from a stranger. Your sorrow is not to be comprehended. It is to be respected and honored. I embrace you and pray for your peace of heart and strength of body. I am so deeply sorry for your loss. Julie

  • pinkunderbelly

    November 20, 2013 at 8:43 PM Reply

    Oh, Yvonne. I’m so very sorry, for you and for your sweet girl. What a terribly tragic thing. You’re so right that there are no rules, that it’s a complicated business, and that it is neither private nor simple. That you can manage to write so beautifully in the midst of unthinkable sorrow is amazing. I hope it helps ease your grief, if only briefly, to get the thoughts out of your head and onto your blog, and that you know how very loved you & your girl are by your blog friends. Sending lots of love from Texas.

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 6:33 AM Reply

      Nancy, I am so sad for my lovely girl. I know you lost your mother and have written about the pain of it, often breaking my heart and leaving me not knowing what to say. I often wondered how you managed to find such eloquence in the midst of such grief.
      Somehow the words, as inadequate as they are, are easier to type than to say at this moment. The blog is my soft place to fall and i am glad for it.
      xo

  • galeweithers

    November 20, 2013 at 9:17 PM Reply

    Dear Yvonne, so so sorry to hear of the loss of your husband. I have no idea what to tell someone who has just become a widow or a daughter who has just lost her dad, but I am sending you and your daughter love and hugs, and an understanding that in due time you will be able to function again.

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 6:38 AM Reply

      Oh Gale, I have no idea what to tell myself either. Such a blow to my daughter’s sense of certainty about all the little things – her dad waiting for her after school or making sure her cat had food and litter. I know time will help us get through, at some point the clocks will start ticking again. Right now is just horrible.
      Thank you

  • Jamie Inman

    November 20, 2013 at 9:20 PM Reply

    Dear, dear Yvonne
    The well of loss is deep, and if I could sit there with you and listen to stories about your husband, weep (and laugh) with you, I would gladly do so. The moment when you and your daughter formed his hands into a V took me back to when Mom and I placed a Snicker’s bar in my Dad’s hands. It meant something to do this odd thing for him, and I imagine it meant very much to you to be able to take his hands in yours one last time.
    All love,
    Jamie

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 6:41 AM Reply

      Oh Jamie
      Yes. It meant so much to be able to make that peace sign, to put his glasses on his face, to say goodbye the way we always did one last time
      Thank you so much.
      Yvonne

  • Deborah Moran

    November 21, 2013 at 12:57 AM Reply

    Dear Yvonne,. I was so happy for you to be enjoying your long anticipated trip home and read the first paragraph of your blog hoping that it was a story about someone else’s husband. I am so very sorry .xxx Debbie

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 6:48 AM Reply

      Debbie,

      It was the best trip home ever. Some days I felt as though I was 21 years old again, I laughed so hard.

      Ken and I talked every day and he always asked if I was having fun and when I told him I was he told me to have some more. So I did.

      And then he died and I don’t have the right words to convey the sense of unfairness I feel for Sophie. She is such a fine human being and so young and courageous and I hate that her dad can’t be there waiting for her after school or holding her hand when she gets cold in the frozen foods section of the grocery store.

      xox

  • BlondeAmbition

    November 21, 2013 at 1:03 AM Reply

    Heartfelt condolences to you and your lovely daughter, Yvonne. There are simply no words and I’m not sure how you were able to compose such a beautiful tribute under such circumstances. But words are indeed your gift and I hope they continue to carry you through this very difficult time. Keeping you and your family close in my heart and sending much love.

  • speccy

    November 21, 2013 at 1:06 AM Reply

    I am in awe, Yvonne. Your ability to write beautifully is deep within you, like a name in a stick of rock, to produce such beauty and coherence when your world is upside down, broken and spinning.
    You and Sophie are in my thoughts. I am so very sorry for your loss.

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 10:53 AM Reply

      Oh God, Fiona, it is terrible. I don’t know what to say and I am hiding from people because I can’t bear to see the sympathy on their faces even though I appreciate it so.
      “Like a name in a stick of rock.” That will stay with me always. Thank you
      xoxox

  • nancyspoint

    November 21, 2013 at 7:32 AM Reply

    Dear Yvonne,
    I’m am stunned and saddened to learn this horrible news. I’m so very sorry. I will keep you and your dear daughter in my thoughts. My heart aches for you. Sending love…

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 6:59 PM Reply

      Oh, AM
      It is just desperate altogether. I don’t know what to say or what to do or what comes next. Minute by minute and trying to remember to take a breath. I am just so grateful for all the support that is keeping me warm and safe.
      xo

  • lesleypr

    November 21, 2013 at 8:07 AM Reply

    Oh, Yvonne. This is such a brave, beautiful piece of writing. How you managed to pen these wonderful words with the grief and shock so raw in your heart is astonishing. I am still reeling from your news and cannot begin to imagine how you and Sophie must be feeling. It’s simply incredulous that just over a week ago we were giggling like teenagers in the Crown, and stuffing our faces in Home – talking about the chapters our life-stories still to be told. We would never have imagined that this was about to be yours. You and your girl are in my heart. With much love xxx

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 10:59 AM Reply

      Oh Lesley, it is not brave at all. I just don’t know what to say to people or even to myself. Somehow it’s just easier to type even though I’m not sure what it is that’s tumbling out from me.
      It is just stunning to think of that fabulous Wednesday we spent in Belfast with Fiona http://memineandotherbits.wordpress.com/ When I told Ken I was having fun, he told me to have some more. As you know, I did. And, dammit, I didn’t get to tell him about my time in Barney Devlin’s forge, beyond the door into the dark.
      I don’t know what’s happening next. Almost afraid to plan anything, to tell you the truth.
      I know you are with Sophie and me on this unexpected new pathway.
      Thank you
      xoxoxoxo

  • nornironman

    November 21, 2013 at 8:36 AM Reply

    Hi Yvonne.

    I’m very sorry to hear about your loss. I can empathise with your situation having lost my father a few months ago. I received a call on the early hours morning of my wedding anniversary to advise that my Dad had passed away. Trying to pull things together that day and focus on getting myself, my wife & son packed & transported from outer London and back ‘home’ to Belfast wasn’t easy. I left Belfast some 20 years ago and travelling back ‘home’ to Belfast was always a happy time but things were more ominous this time around and driving the last leg of our journey from the port of Belfast to my Mum & Dad’s home was a real killer. I can only imagine how difficult your return trip back to the US must have been.

    I am also a voluntary bereavement counsellor with Cruse Bereavement Care (a support charity here in the UK) and have supported clients through their bereavement. While grief is a very personal and individual experience, knowing the grieving process doesn’t make it easier for me to work through; grief is grief after all. I hope you’re not offended if I share a link to the publications section of our website: http://www.cruse.org.uk/publications/booklets. I don’t know what support services may be available to you locally in the US, but perhaps these free booklets on our site may be of some help to you at this time.

    Best wishes,

    David

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 7:09 PM Reply

      Oh David
      Thank you so much for this. That phone call and the subsequent journey (irrespective of the distance) is just so hard because you have such a sense of the finality that awaits.
      My trip home this time was the best ever. When I spoke to my husband every day, he asked if I was having fun and when I told him I was, he told me to have more. So I did – Belfast made it easy. It is – along with Dublin – was just marvelous, so much different from the last time I was home.
      I so appreciate what you have sent me and when the quite time comes, I will need it. My parents flew back with me to Arizona, and between the cups of tea and daddy planting flowers for me, I am feeling safe and supported.
      Best to you and thank you.
      yvonne

  • nornironman

    November 21, 2013 at 8:37 AM Reply

    Hi Yvonne,

    I’m very sorry to hear about your loss. I can empathise with your situation having lost my father a few months ago. I received a call on the early hours morning of my wedding anniversary to advise that my Dad had passed away. Trying to pull things together that day and focus on getting myself, my wife & son packed & transported from outer London and back ‘home’ to Belfast wasn’t easy. I left Belfast some 20 years ago and travelling back ‘home’ to Belfast was always a happy time but things were more ominous this time around and driving the last leg of our journey from the port of Belfast to my Mum & Dad’s home was a real killer. I can only imagine how difficult your return trip back to the US must have been.

    I am also a voluntary bereavement counsellor with Cruse Bereavement Care (a support charity here in the UK) and have supported clients through their bereavement. While grief is a very personal and individual experience, knowing the grieving process doesn’t make it easier for me to work through; grief is grief after all. I hope you’re not offended if I share a link to the publications section of our website: http://www.cruse.org.uk/publications/booklets. I don’t know what support services may be available to you locally in the US, but perhaps these free booklets on our site may be of some help to you at this time.

    Best wishes,

    David

  • Susan

    November 21, 2013 at 8:38 AM Reply

    Yvonne I am so sorry to hear that your husband has passed on. What a shocking time for you, your daughter and the rest of your family. I send you blessings and thoughts of love and light. xxx

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 7:12 PM Reply

      Thank you so much, Susan. It is shocking and surreal and sad and the only thing that is bringing any comfort really is just sitting here knowing I’m in a safe space.
      x

  • Kate, of Kate Has Cancer

    November 21, 2013 at 9:17 AM Reply

    As an Irish girl with a young daughter, I feel your shock more than most. I can understand your desire for the small comforts and “I love you signs”. Please accept my sympathies. You and your daughter are in my thoughts and prayers.

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 11:02 AM Reply

      The Irish part makes it even more sad, somehow. Knowing that people are lighting candles for us so far away and remembering us in prayers and sending cards. The cups of tea and my parents’ neighbors telling me they were sorry for my trouble broke me in two. I never thought I would be back home and hearing those words about my husband.
      Thank you

  • Three Well Beings

    November 21, 2013 at 1:54 PM Reply

    I was sent “your way” and introduced through Fiona, and after seeing your beautiful smiling face in the picture of the three blogging buddies, I read her post and I am simply deeply saddened for you and your daughter. Such a huge loss…there really aren’t words that fit. But I do send condolences and prayers. Debra

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 11:05 AM Reply

      Oh Debra
      Thank you so much. It was and is surreal to have met Fiona and Lesley in Belfast. We had a fabulous time and my husband was so happy for me to have connected in the real world with people who obviously “got” me.
      It is hard to know what to say or do. Typing furiously somehow helps me.
      yvonne

  • karalyn fields

    November 21, 2013 at 2:29 PM Reply

    Yvonne, I am so very sorry for your loss, and can’t start to imagine how you and your daughter are feeling, my heart goes out to you both, take care with love karalyn xx

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 7:21 PM Reply

      Karalyn
      Thank you so much for your kindness. When I stop and think about it, I imagine it’s happening to some other woman and her daughter and I feel so sorry for them and then I remember it’s us. We will be alright, I know, with such amazing support from the hearts of people I have never met but who are so important in my life.
      y

  • Christine O Kane

    November 21, 2013 at 4:35 PM Reply

    Yvonne I was so sorry to hear that, once again, life has directed you down a path that you would not have willingly chosen and it is such a difficult journey to have to make but I know you have the strength within you. Already you have turned to the thing which has been your salvation in your battle with cancer- your writing. Now you will have to be everything to Sophie and I have no doubt that you are more than able for the task. The journey will be difficult at times but your friends and family will have your back and I have no doubt that you will come through this!You are right – life is for the living and, for you, life has changed but not ended. I am sending you all my love and you are in my thoughts. Keep writing. It is a great way to heal your wounds. Love Christine. xxx

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 11:13 AM Reply

      Christine,
      Thank you so much. I never thought – and I’m sure you didn’t either – that I would be that person people talk about, the one that’s come through the mill. I’m sure what’s happened here has resonated with you deeply. I remember wondering how you found strength and I realize much of it must come from the people who love you best and who will always have your back.
      You’re right – the typing and typing helps and, rationally, I know our lives aren’t over, but altered.
      All the support that’s coming our way is such a comfort, and having mammy and da here is incredible. They are so good, as you know yourself.
      Much love to you and yours, Christine.

      xoxo

      yvonne

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 11:14 AM Reply

      I know, Catherine. I don’t know what to say or do and I’m not even sure how I feel. Typing here is the easier thing for me to do right now. I’m just very grateful to everyone who has stopped here with me, to take a minute to just be with us on this new path.
      x

  • Liz byrne

    November 22, 2013 at 3:05 AM Reply

    My dear sweet Yvonne, I pray that God wraps his loving arms around you and Sophie, and you feel his sustaining oresence in the days, weeks and months ahead. Your writing is beautiful, your words describe so succinctly what only the aching soul knows -God bless and give you rest xx

  • Barbara Autrey

    November 22, 2013 at 8:12 AM Reply

    It’s hard to find the words to respond. but you are in my loving thoughts and what’s left of my prayers. I hope that you feel Ken’s love continue in yours and Sophie’s lives every day, for you will always have that love. Thank you for your beautiful words which answer for everyone the story of death’s visit in everyone’s life. I only wish you hadn’t experienced it. Love to Ken, wherever he is now.

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 7:17 PM Reply

      I know, Barbara. I don’t know what to say myself or how to feel or what to do, but somehow I think we will manage. How could we not with such love and warmth in our corner?
      Thank you so much for the cheery bouquet that brought such color on a rare rainy Phoenix day.
      xo

  • Anne

    November 22, 2013 at 3:13 PM Reply

    Yvonne, I have only just read this and am so sorry to hear this terrible news. My heart goes out to you and your daughter. I was thinking about you on Wednesday night as I was at the Seamus Heaney tribute at the southbank and I knew how much you would have enjoyed it. Please know that I am sorry for your trouble. xxx

  • Lisa

    November 23, 2013 at 9:34 AM Reply

    My Dearest Yvonne~

    I know mere words cannot begin express how sorry I am. I woke up to the news of Ken’s passing and read your amazingly loving and eloquent blog post allowing us into the love you shared. As I read, I cried and ached so desperately for both you and Sophie. I know it has been many years since we have seen or spoken to one another, but that amazing summer in 1984 spent together at Trywoodie, connected us for life. I feel so fortunate to have reconnected with you and hope that one day I will be able to give you the hug I wish I could give you now. Please know that you and Sophie are in my heart and on my mind. My deepest love and condolences.

    Lisa xo

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 10:17 AM Reply

      Dear Lisa
      Thank you so much for such kindness. Somehow it is easier to just keep typing than to speak or do. The Summer of 1984 will always be a seminal moment in my life, and it is awesome in every sense of the word that the connections made there are lifting me up now so many years later when I have a daughter who is now older than you were at Trywoodie.
      Thank you, thank you
      yvonne

  • Doris McGreary

    November 23, 2013 at 11:25 AM Reply

    I’m so sorry Yvonne – what a terrible shock. My thoughts are with you and your lovely girl. I was in South Derry too last week as my father died on the 9th November. He’d been ill so not entirely unexpected but still a terrible to get the call. Tough times. Thinking of you.

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 11:34 AM Reply

      Oh Doris, I saw that and meant to send you a note, but then life happened the way it does. My dad knew your father from years ago and he went to school with Alfie and Jonathan Derby. Small, small world especially our part of it.
      Thinking of you too and sorry for your trouble.
      xox

  • Jan Hasak

    November 23, 2013 at 6:23 PM Reply

    Oh, Yvonne, I am so very sorry for your loss. Words fail me and I weep as I think of all that could have been. And this so close to the 50th anniversary of JFK’s passing. May God richly touch and anoint you with His special presence. I am praying for you to find comfort and peace in the midst of the chaos and am sending good thoughts your way. Love always, Jan

  • Jana Lien

    November 23, 2013 at 7:06 PM Reply

    Oh, Yvonne, I’m not sure what to say. It seems as though nothing suffices. All I know to do is to send my love to you and Sophie. I have no doubt that you both will find Ken again in all of the beautiful moments in your lives, when they begin again.

    • Editor

      November 23, 2013 at 7:11 PM Reply

      What a beautiful sentiment, Jan. Thank you. I appreciate so much the love and warmth that is coming our way. While I am useless in terms of knowing what to actually do or say to people, I am taking great solace in just sitting staring at my computer and typing.

  • Shanna Reidhead

    November 25, 2013 at 8:56 AM Reply

    I’m so very sorry to hear about your husband. I feel and understand your pain, being a widow is not easy! I became one at the age of 33, my husband very unexpectedly passed away too. I have a very special book that has helped me get through the last 8 years. Healing After Loss by Martha Whitmore Hickman. I highly suggest getting this book. Also if you need someone to talk to who has been through it please don’t hesitate to contact me. Keep your chin up and stay strong….sending you much love and strength!!!

    • Editor

      November 25, 2013 at 9:53 AM Reply

      Thank you so much, Shanna. I am so buoyed by the support that is coming our way from far and near and appreciate it so very much.
      I am very sorry this happened to you especially at such a young age. My heart goes out to you too.
      yvonne

  • Dana Kichen

    November 25, 2013 at 9:55 AM Reply

    Thinking of you and your lovely daughter at this difficult time. My condolences to you both. My friend Ellyn Gerst (she is on Face Book) is a grief counselor. She writes and lists some very inspiring posts. When you are ready, I hope you will check her out. I will keep you in my thoughts and prayers.

  • Michael Hightower, CRS

    November 25, 2013 at 10:16 AM Reply

    I lost my beloved in July of ’12 in a tragic, unexpected accident. I cannot afford counseling. The book “I wasn’t ready to say Goodbye” by Brook Noel & Pamela D Blair PH.D, has been very helpful for me. My heart goes out to you.

  • hjelmstd

    November 25, 2013 at 12:13 PM Reply

    I have two things to share with you:

    My daughter was widowed for the second time when she was 52 (her beloved first husband died in a car accident when she was 23). She also had a sixteen-year-old daughter. Carl was ill with a brain tumor during my granddaughter’s first and second year of high school and then she was left to grieve all through her third and fourth year. It totally ruined high school. I can understand how very sad you are for your child. This won’t help now, but do know my granddaughter is now 25 and a happy, charming young woman although she will never be done missing her father.

    The second is a poem that I wrote for a friend of mine who died of ovarian cancer, even as she fiercely wanted to live. Your post quoting, “He’s in a better place” prompted me to send this.

    For Severine

    It was her time to go, they said.
    She’s in a better place, they said.

    Nonsense!

    How could it be her time to go?
    How could Elsewhere possibly
    be better than Here?

    Laura and Charles are here
    Laura is only thirteen years old

    All of us are here, longing for her
    needing that indomitable spirit

    to confront us
    to challenge us
    to comfort us

    No, I can’t believe
    it was her time to go…

    But I do know
    that wherever she is
    the skies are ablaze
    with the brilliance
    of her entry…

    Copyright Lois Tschetter Hjelmstad

  • Stella Pope Duarte

    November 26, 2013 at 10:16 PM Reply

    Dear Yvonne, your words are astounding, rich and full, like life, reflecting the great love you shared with Ken, and will continue to share, as death cannot halt the power of love. May light and love fill the void of darkness for you and your beautiful daughter. I pray that each new day will bring one more expression of love, details of love written in secret codes, longings, sighs, laughter, memories, and always great joy, for there is always great joy in a life well-lived. I am deeply touched by your courage and hope. Te acompaño en tu sentimiento….are Spanish words I offer to you: I accompany you in your sorrow.

    • Editor

      November 26, 2013 at 10:32 PM Reply

      Stella dear,
      Thank you so much for stopping in this moment of immeasurable sadness for Sophie and me – so many millions of words, and I can’t find one to describe it. Such a shock for us, and so unfair to our girl – she is growing to dread what November brings.
      Thanks for being with us
      xo

  • Rosemary Ybarra-Hernandez

    November 28, 2013 at 1:04 AM Reply

    Yvonne!!!! I am so incredibly sorry for the loss of your precious love and so moved by your words. You and your beautiful Sophie are in my prayers that you are held in the care of God’s hand to ease your pain. Much love – Rosemary

    • Editor

      November 28, 2013 at 8:20 AM Reply

      Oh, Rosemary,
      Thank you for holding us with you for a moment during this crazy time. It is surreal and sad and we’ll get through it, in large part because of people like you.
      xoxo

  • Candace

    December 4, 2014 at 7:23 PM Reply

    I’m so sorry, I just found your blog while googling David Bruce birdhouses. I know it’s been over a year now but that isn’t really much time in the scheme of things.

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