I look back now and realize how much people extended themselves for me during my time of need. The school staff supported me through the spring as I imped towards the end of the school year. Neighbors baked casseroles, did my grocery shopping and made sure my lawn was mowed. Patrick's friends, who were scattered all over the United States rallied around me; calling, sending emails and cards, and generally keeping tabs. Our families, Patrick's and mine, were a large part of my support system as I navigated life as a widow and childless mother. And my best friend, Jody, came to my rescue by leaving her life in San Francisco to live with me for three months. I am eternally grateful to all those who stepped up to the plate and stuck by me during some of the most difficult times.
One group of special souls were six senior boys at Pleasant Hill High School, who had grown close to Patrick over the span of their high school careers. Patrick had helped them with resumes, college applications, goal setting, and basketball coaching. But they had also become his friends...and he was their confidante. This group of boys were also in my first period Senior English class. Prior to the accident they were usually late, chuckling about being Seniors. But after the accident, that group of boys were always on time, most days waiting at my classroom door when I arrived at 7:30am. Waiting to make sure I was okay and ready for another day of school.
One morning in early May, one of the boys, Preston, came to me with a surprise. He said "Ms. Barr, I know your dog was in the car with you and I know you were close to her. My black lab just had a litter of puppies and I would like to give you one of the females, so you can have another dog."
I could hardly look at him. Tears welled up in my eyes as I tried to hold the flood gates together. Not wanting him to see how touched and deeply moved I was, I busied myself, straightening piles of papers on my desk. I told him that it was such a kind offer and a wonderful gesture, but I wasn't sure I was ready to have a puppy.
Preston said, "but Ms. Barr, we are all worried about you being alone. We would all feel better if we knew there was someone/something near by."
I declined again and added that I really couldn't have a puppy because Runa had done so much damage to our fence, yard and house. When I was at school, the puppy wouldn't be safe.
Preston left my classroom a little deflated but understanding.
That next weekend at about 9:00am, a truck full of tools, a wheelbarrow and bark-a-mulch pulled up in my driveway. Preston and five other boys from my class jumped out of the truck and one other car ready to get to work.
"We are here to fix your backyard" they told me. I was floored. Such generosity, kindness and compassion shown by this group of young men brought joy and sadness to my heart.
Preston, Jay, Andrew, Eric, and Josh spent the entire weekend at my house repairing the fence, replacing siding on our house that Runa had chewed, and laying the foundation for the new dog house they had built in their wood shop class the week prior. They spent the entire weekend repairing, cleaning and hauling... absolutely backbreaking work.
As they packed up to leave Sunday afternoon, Preston came back and asked, "You ready for that puppy now?" How could I resist?
I picked Elmo out of a litter of six puppies, she was the last female. (I named her after Olivia's favorite Sesame Street character. Liv adored the red, furry Elmo. Her routine each morning was to get breakfast, park in front of the TV, and eagerly anticipate Elmo's World. She never missed an episode and watch it in its entirety, even if she had seen it a hundred time. Elmo, by far, was her favorite.)
Elmo came home with me after school one night. She barked, whined and moaned the entire night, lonely for her family. I understood.
"I wish I could bark, whine and moan too," I told her.
"Does it make you feel better?" I asked. If it had, I would have done it every night and as loud as possible.
Elmo and I spent that summer getting acquainted, learning how to handle each other's personalities and foibles. She became my hope. My hope that life would resume again and that I could rebuild.
Runa had been the dog who witnessed my rights-of-passage into adulthood.
Elmo would be the dog who would witness my transformation into a new life.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Widow Warriors
I need to acknowledge all those who have lost loved ones, before and after my experience. It is such a difficult process to go through. It is as if we have formed an unknown society of "people who have experienced traumatic loss." We can look each other in the eye and say "Yes, I know the hell you have experienced." To all those who are grieving a loss, this entry is for you.....
To this day, seven almost eight years later, I still hate to tell people my story. Not because it brings up emotion for me (that happens on a daily basis), but because I feel this burden of upsetting others. I watch their faces change, scrunch-up, and change color as they try to process the information I just gave them. When I tell people, especially new acquaintances, all conversation stops and I feel the need to fill that space with justification, telling people "It's okay, it happened a while ago and I'm okay with it." Yuck! At those times, I wish I would just shut my mouth and allow people to process and feel what they need to feel. Maybe one of these days I will find a graceful way to tell people "my story" and not feel the need to fill the empty space.
In India the widow/widower wears white for the first year after death. It is a sign of honor for the one who had past and allows others to know of the person's pain.
That first year after I lost Patrick, Olivia and Runa, I wished I could wear special clothes to let the public know that my heart was broken and to be tender with me. I felt hallow and naked. Even just a post-it note on my back saying: This woman lost her husband, child and dog in a car accident. Be nice to her and don't ask silly questions, would have made a world of difference.
We all go through our day, meeting strangers, talking and interacting with them. But as a grieving widow and childless mother, it's a different experience.
I travelled back to Winnetka, Illinois, Patrick's hometown, to attend a memorial service for Patrick and Olivia. At that time, I was probably at one of my deepest lows. I was struggling to make sense of each day. When I got on the plane to return home, I sat down in an aisle seat, rested my arm on the arm rest and took a deep sigh. An older gentleman across the aisle, gently reached over and touched me on the shoulder. He looked at me directly and said "Hang in there, I know it's hard now, but you are a beaming light of sunshine." I was perplexed. I thought, how does he know? Most likely he didn't, but it was the kindness of a stranger that made that plane ride bearable.
But there is the other side of friendly, innocent interaction that made me as a widow not want to face the public each day:
Shortly after the accident, still on crutches and with cuts on my face, I went to the pharmacy to get some medication. The clerk was a very nice man, just trying to help his customers. As I was paying he innocently said, "hey, be careful on your skateboard next time!" He meant nothing by it, but my emotions were so out of whack and I was so tender that I cried for the rest of the afternoon.
Or I think people just don't think: At the end of the school year, we had a small end-of-the-year party. I was feeling particularly brave and asked a teacher who was two cars behind us what he saw the morning of the accident, since I didn't remember much. He told me his rendition of the events and then added "You guys were our guardian angels that morning. If you had not been in front of me, that could have been me who died." Oops!
Now, I look back at those comments and chuckle. That teacher was being honest; he was grateful. He didn't realize it would soak up two or three therapy session of me telling my therapist why that made me so angry.
Our daily interactions are most often innocent and benign. We don't know the person's history or emotional state when we talk to them. I think we are just trying to be friendly and nice. When a person experiences a deep loss, some switch in our brain gets flipped and we process information differently. That is why some sort of clothing, or even a hat would be nice. It would remind people, "hey, this person's experiencing a difficult time, be nice, be friendly, but be cautious."
No matter how innocent, how friendly the comment may be, it cuts deep and we, the widow warriors have to continue on as if life is worth living and we have no pain in our hearts. And when we feel as though we could crawl in a hole and die, facing daily life, interacting with others becomes one of the most difficult tasks to face each day as we grieve our losses.
To this day, seven almost eight years later, I still hate to tell people my story. Not because it brings up emotion for me (that happens on a daily basis), but because I feel this burden of upsetting others. I watch their faces change, scrunch-up, and change color as they try to process the information I just gave them. When I tell people, especially new acquaintances, all conversation stops and I feel the need to fill that space with justification, telling people "It's okay, it happened a while ago and I'm okay with it." Yuck! At those times, I wish I would just shut my mouth and allow people to process and feel what they need to feel. Maybe one of these days I will find a graceful way to tell people "my story" and not feel the need to fill the empty space.
In India the widow/widower wears white for the first year after death. It is a sign of honor for the one who had past and allows others to know of the person's pain.
That first year after I lost Patrick, Olivia and Runa, I wished I could wear special clothes to let the public know that my heart was broken and to be tender with me. I felt hallow and naked. Even just a post-it note on my back saying: This woman lost her husband, child and dog in a car accident. Be nice to her and don't ask silly questions, would have made a world of difference.
We all go through our day, meeting strangers, talking and interacting with them. But as a grieving widow and childless mother, it's a different experience.
I travelled back to Winnetka, Illinois, Patrick's hometown, to attend a memorial service for Patrick and Olivia. At that time, I was probably at one of my deepest lows. I was struggling to make sense of each day. When I got on the plane to return home, I sat down in an aisle seat, rested my arm on the arm rest and took a deep sigh. An older gentleman across the aisle, gently reached over and touched me on the shoulder. He looked at me directly and said "Hang in there, I know it's hard now, but you are a beaming light of sunshine." I was perplexed. I thought, how does he know? Most likely he didn't, but it was the kindness of a stranger that made that plane ride bearable.
But there is the other side of friendly, innocent interaction that made me as a widow not want to face the public each day:
Shortly after the accident, still on crutches and with cuts on my face, I went to the pharmacy to get some medication. The clerk was a very nice man, just trying to help his customers. As I was paying he innocently said, "hey, be careful on your skateboard next time!" He meant nothing by it, but my emotions were so out of whack and I was so tender that I cried for the rest of the afternoon.
Or I think people just don't think: At the end of the school year, we had a small end-of-the-year party. I was feeling particularly brave and asked a teacher who was two cars behind us what he saw the morning of the accident, since I didn't remember much. He told me his rendition of the events and then added "You guys were our guardian angels that morning. If you had not been in front of me, that could have been me who died." Oops!
Now, I look back at those comments and chuckle. That teacher was being honest; he was grateful. He didn't realize it would soak up two or three therapy session of me telling my therapist why that made me so angry.
Our daily interactions are most often innocent and benign. We don't know the person's history or emotional state when we talk to them. I think we are just trying to be friendly and nice. When a person experiences a deep loss, some switch in our brain gets flipped and we process information differently. That is why some sort of clothing, or even a hat would be nice. It would remind people, "hey, this person's experiencing a difficult time, be nice, be friendly, but be cautious."
No matter how innocent, how friendly the comment may be, it cuts deep and we, the widow warriors have to continue on as if life is worth living and we have no pain in our hearts. And when we feel as though we could crawl in a hole and die, facing daily life, interacting with others becomes one of the most difficult tasks to face each day as we grieve our losses.
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