You're Gone. You're Here.

I journal a lot about loss. The pain goes into the writing so the happiness and joy can exist out in the world. For me, writing has been my #1 tool for easing the pain of grief.

I don't care if I'm writing gibberish, random phrases, single words, stories, memories, poetry, fears or dreams. Getting the thoughts out on paper is what helps me. I just commit to sitting there with my journal, try not judge what comes out, and write for at least 30 minutes. Often one thought leads to another, and sometimes even poetry eventually comes out.

The other day I was thinking about whether or not I'm ready to "let Ken go". I was ruminating on how joyful it is to be in a new relationship, but how sad it is that Ken has to be dead and missing everything here in the world. I decided that whatever it means to let go of him, I'm not there yet. All that musing led to this poem:




Still

I'm not letting you go

You are still needed,

still giving, still providing.

Still. So still.

I'm not letting you go

either.

I could listen to you talk endlessly,

further, deeper, more.

We have movement

but he's got staying power

still.

Still, I'm not letting you go

until we stop moving forward,

stop laughing,

stop talking.

I can't imagine it.

Still, it might happen.

I won't let you go.

I'll let him slip and fade

If that's what has to be.

You can stay. You can go.

We're moving toward each other

in a room, in a house, in a city

in a new life.

I'm with you

While I'm here in this coffee shop.

You're not here.

I'm still with you.

He's still with me too.

He's still.

You and me?

We're moving.

I'm going with you.

He's gone. He's staying here too.

What Widows Fear

I can remember it like it was yesterday: the heart-pounding, animal-like fear I felt when we found out that Ken had cancer. If anything is going to activate fear, there's nothing like a cancer diagnosis preceded by weeks of tests and not knowing the outcome. The doctor appointments, the scans, the x-rays, the diagnostic surgeries, the lack of control, put it all together you've got the perfect recipe for being scared out of your mind. That's just my story. For some of you, it was a call from the police, a sudden collapse in front of your eyes, a suicide, a quick and unexpected decline, or something else. Each one, I know, made your heart race.

I've come a long way from the day of that cancer diagnosis in February of 2002. I was 40 years old with a six-year-old and a three-year-old. I've had a lot of fear to wrestle down including: how will I ever survive, what will I do with my life, how will I manage everything, and will I spend the rest of my life alone. It's nine years after that cancer diagnosis which would lead to my husband's death in 2006. Interestingly, I notice that what I fear today is completely different from the things that scared me then.

Naturally, since I believe that writing is an excellent tool for processing feelings and moving forward in your life, the whole idea of What Widows Fear (and don't fear)  is today's writing prompt.

Take 10 minutes. Write about what scares you...what REALLY scares you...and what doesn't scare you. Just keep your pen going without thinking too hard. Try this exercise again down the road some time. I'll bet that your list will be different because when you work on your grief actively, you make progress, you change, and you grow.

Here's my list:


I am a little bit scared of power.
A little bit scared of sugar.
A little bit scared of emptiness.
A little bit scared of loneliness.
A little bit scared of nothingness.
A little bit scared of never changing.

I am scared of falsehoods.
Scared of phoniness.
Scared of meanness.
Scared of contempt.
Scared of bad choices.
Scared of big egos.
Scared of cruelty.
Scared of inhumanity.
Scared of ignorance.
Scared of violence.
Scared of more grief coming my way.
Scared of having to struggle.
Scared of the swift passage of time.

I am really afraid of cancer.
Really afraid of heart disease.
Really afraid of stress.
Really afraid of being overwhelmed.
Really afraid of poverty.
Really afraid of wasting my life.
Really afraid of not being loved.

I am not afraid of my life anymore.

Not afraid of silence.

Not afraid of rejection.

Not afraid of being on my own.

Not afraid of remembering.

Not afraid of remodeling.

Not afraid of lighting a fire.

Not afraid of downsizing.

Not afraid of moving.

Not afraid of writing.

Not afraid to speak my mind.

Not afraid to love.

Not afraid to be a mother.

Not afraid to try new things.

Your turn!  10 minutes of writing about fear (and not fear). Get it out on the table where you can look at it.

A Priceless Gift You Can Give To Your Children After the Death of a Parent

When Ken died, our children were little. I didn't want them to forget the memories that belonged to them of their father; not just the stories others would tell them about him, but their very own personal memories. So, night after night, in the days following his death, we'd sit together on one of our beds and we'd each tell one of our favorite stories of Ken. Natalie, who was 10 at the time, was the official scribe who would write our memories in a special journal. Alec, who was six, would struggle more with coming up with a memory night after night, but he did it, and now they are all written down for him.

Natalie told the story of what her dad sometimes did when he put her to bed:  he would take off his glasses and try them on all of her different stuffed animals. That was news to me, and I loved hearing it. Alec recalled that Ken would call him "my bestest buddy" and how they would play a wrestling game at bedtime that involved lions and cubs and a scoring system. I talked about the delight I would feel every time Ken would drive his old Saab down the alley toward our garage as the kids and me played in the park next door,  knowing he would soon be joining us there with his open arms and open heart wearing his long brown trenchcoat.

This ritual helped us manage the early, surreal days after Ken died. We'd all gather together on one of our beds, snuggle up, talk and write. We were connected by our home, our warm bodies, our memories and each other.

In the early days and months after the death of someone you love, you are not at all ready to let them go. You're barely ready to admit they are, in fact, gone. By getting your family together to write down the little and big things you remember and love about the person who has died, especially early on, you are accomplishing a lot of important work including holding the person close to you before you are ready to let them go, and valuing the memories they left in your care.

Natalie and Alec lost their father five years ago. While there are many different ways we can remember him, one of our favorites is to take out that journal of memories we wrote together so many years ago when we were raw and sad and grieving hard. Today we can read those memories with a lighter heart. We remember how hard it was back then. We see how far we've come. We're reminded of how what we did together as we wrote made us stronger.

As hard as it is to admit it, when children lose their parents at a young age, there are many important facts and intangibles they either will not remember or will never be given because of their father or mother's absence. By helping your children unearth and write down their authentic memories before they slip away, you are giving them a priceless inheritance that could otherwise disappear forever.

Today My Loss Feels...

I'm repeating myself here but only because I think this is one of the most powerful and healing writing prompts for anyone who has suffered a traumatic loss.

TODAY MY LOSS FEELS:

I encourage you to use this writing prompt at least once a month. Spend, ideally, 15 minutes, just writing whatever comes to mind. It's really helpful and it costs about 100 or more dollars less than seeing a therapist. (This is not to say that I don't value therapy, au contraire. My late husband was a damn good therapist and I believe that every adult can benefit from psychotherapy, whether you've suffered a big and untimely loss or not.) Just find yourself a quiet place where you can take 15 minutes to write without any editing or criticism. Sometimes writing the prompt down again if you are stuck can help keep your pen moving along and keep your thoughts flowing. You can even write ridiculous nonsensical words. Just keep writing.

TODAY MY LOSS FEELS:

I have been using this writing prompt myself since Ken died five years ago. At first, it would elicit all kinds of sadness, despair, hopelessness and exhaustion. Then, occasionally, glimmers of hope would show up amidst the sadness. Or, repeated themes would emerge. Or I might see an area where I needed and had to ask for help. Sometimes an idea for a new goal or a path toward change presented itself. Lately, there's hope, gratitude, and even new happiness in there. Using this prompt regularly can show that you are making progress, or show that you are stuck, or show that you need help, or show that you are ready to try something new.

TODAY MY LOSS FEELS:

Awareness. It's all about awareness: knowing where you stand in the present when you hold yourself up next to the big wall that is the loss of a spouse. Maybe the wall never gets knocked down completely. Maybe you don't want to knock it down completely, leaving some of it as a memorial to the person you lost and to the part of yourself that's been lost. But, probably, most of us don't want a big old wall of loss blocking off the rest of the life we get to live. A little awareness can help keep you moving on through, like a hurdler.

Today is February 10, 2011.

TODAY MY LOSS FEELS:

Distant, distant. And present, present. Like fuel that can take me anywhere I want to go. Unbelievable, still, unbelievable. Not so scary anymore. Like its made me so much more aware of my own mortality and of how short life is. That combined with turning 50 this year...it makes me fear the seeds of illness that may be imbedded in my own genetic makeup, cancer, heart disease, ugh. I don't want to be sick. Lately I'm just so incredibly happy to be healthy, and that my kids are healthy. Grateful to be alive. Really, I feel pretty darn satisfied with everything else. I feel, even, lucky. Whoever imagined I could feel lucky again?

TODAY MY LOSS FEELS:

Like a new path that will take me somewhere interesting, towards something that matters deeply to me. I've become a children's grief support group facilitator at Willow House in the Chicago area. It is so completely and utterly rewarding to feel that I have something to give to others who have lost a loved one. I am so grateful to write this blog and to hope that I may help someone with my words, in the same way that others who are writing help me.

TODAY MY LOSS FEELS:

Like my greatest worry is for my children and how losing their father so young will affect their lives, for the rest of their lives. Will they be wounded in ways that can never be mended? In ways that will makes their lives unhappy? Or will it fuel them in some way toward a good and happy life? I hate, hate, hate, hate, hate that my children lost their father. I hate it so much more than the fact that I lost my husband because I feel like at least I was an adult, but they were just young and innocent children. HATE IT. What if I can't help them? The older they get, the more I worry.

TODAY MY LOSS FEELS:

Like it's your turn.


TODAY MY LOSS FEELS:

Less.

I expect less now. Less of just about everything. I can live in a smaller house, work in a smaller job, have less love, understand that my body will fail me eventually, realize that I cannot control the fate of my children.

I can be happy and at peace with less, especially when there is an absence of crisis. I am almost to the place where I think it's shameful to complain about anything at all when you're simply -- healthy.

Acquiescing to loss feels like a fist tightening inside me squeezing anger inward, releasing spasms of contentment and discontentment simultaneously. I nod my head. I am happy with less. I shake my head, no.

The closer and closer and closer I creep to feeling acclimatized, OK, feeling better, feeling contentment, despite your eternal goneness, there is an accompanying relapse of disbelief. Can this be true? I am happy and without you?

It feels good and wrong to be satisfied this way. It's satisfaction skating on shattered ice. If I fall right through, I won't be surprised.

I wish it was spring, these mountains of snow melted overnight. Just one green shoot is all I need.


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What does LESS mean to you? Anyone who's suffered a major loss lives with less. What's it like? Spend 5 minutes writing about LESS.

How To Love a Dead Husband, Five Years Gone

The purpose of this blog, The Heartbreak Diary, is to encourage people to write about their loss as a part of their recovery plan. Today's exercise asks you to create a brief, bullet-point list of how to love your dead spouse. Depending on your own unique circumstances, the lists will differ from person to person. I'd love to see your list! So quick...without too much thinking...give me fifteen ways to love the one who died.

Here's mine:

1. Think about him often.

2. Tell stories about him to anyone, even strangers.

3. See him in your children and then tell the children what you see.

4. Learn from your relationship, and even if it was an excellent one, as ours was, pledge to do even better the next time, if you're lucky enough to have a next time.

5. Really live your life and try to leave behind self-doubt, guilt, anxiety and fear. Live for him. Live for the life he had cut short. Live in honor of him. Live as well as you can so that you can teach his children that life is great (even when you lose big.)

6. Laugh alot.

7. Honor your good health, mental and physical. Don't take your sound body and mind for granted. Exercise your body, your mind, and your emotions. (One way to exercise your emotions is to write about them.)

8. Remember how he loved you and love yourself that way.

9. Write about him.

10. Listen to music he loved. Read books he loved. Do activities he loved.

11. Honor his values.

12. Love his parents and siblings and other relatives.

13. Try to get something positive out of a loss this huge. Try to live a better life.

14. Love life.

15. Remember your love and let it guide you to better days.

An Exercise Worth Repeating, Regularly

I believe fervently that writing about one's deepest and most basic feelings is one of the simplest actions you can take to keep your life moving forward, to avoid getting stuck in unhealthy emotional spaces. In fact, that's what this entire blog is about: sharing feelings about loss in words to both move myself forward, and perhaps inspire others to do so as well.

(It's no surprise to me that so many people are out here writing blogs since they've lost their spouse. In fact, I'd wager than those who are writing about their losses on a regular basis are healing up quicker than they might be otherwise.)

Every now and then I'll post one of these blog entries on my Facebook page. I can't help wondering if those who have never had a spouse die young are surprised by the fact that I'm still writing about his death almost five years later. Do they think I'm stuck? Do they think I just can't "get over it"? Well, I believe the exact opposite is true and as I write I move on through different aspects of grief.

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Here's a really simple exercise I like to repeat every once in a while to see where I currently stand in relation to my loss. There are a lot of different ways you can lead into this but it starts with a simple prompt like:

Today my loss feels like:

OR

What is most interesting about my loss now is:

OR

What I'd like to say about my grief today is:


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What I'd like to say about my grief today is:


--That even though this time of year is the time that complications from Ken's second stem cell transplant were sending him on a steep and scary decline, I actually had a really great Thanksgiving this year that didn't find me dwelling on what I didn't have, or feeling full of sorrow. I felt pretty joyful.

--I am happy again, but in a different way, in a more measured away, in a holding back and careful way.

--It makes me so much more able to wait and see, to feel discomfort, to embrace uncertainty.

--I'm kind of afraid to need someone again the way I needed my husband.

--It sure feels better with a new man in my life.

--I believe that if you can overcome an intense loss, you can overcome just about anything. I feel somewhat invincible. And I find that weird, because I've been so leveled by loss.

--It's so heartbreaking that Ken couldn't be there with us at yesterday's Thanksgiving meal...it's so heartbreaking that he can't do anything with us anymore...and at the same time, he is so present for all of us. You have to figure out how to live with the loss. Why is it so hard when it's such a basic element of what we all must eventually encounter? Why are we so flummoxed by death?


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Your turn. You and loss. Today. Write about it. Don't think too hard. Just a few sentences.

I Laughed at My Husband's Funeral

I remember laughing at my husband's funeral.

Did I hate him? Am I a callous, unfeeling, spiteful woman? Was I waiting for my chance to cut him loose?

No.

I loved him. I was happy with him. I wanted to grow old with him. I had placed him on a pedestal as my perfect husband and he rarely disappointed me. His death was like a roadside bomb on our compatible, peaceful path -- a path that was supposed to trail off into our future. As Ken descended into illness, and then to death, that bomb obliterated my ability to feel the horror of his impending then permanent disappearance. And so, I laughed, because it was surreal, I laughed because it was absurd, I laughed because I couldn't believe it was happening to me. Mostly, I laughed because I wasn't yet ready to feel the pain that if experienced before it's time, without being meted out in little pieces, would take me down and leave me flat.

I found myself at his memorial service with 500 others, flanked by my six-year-old son and my ten-year-old daughter, saying a very public good-bye, one of the countless good-byes to come over the years ahead as we slowly come to terms with his death, as I came to understand that he was gone, he was dead, and our life together was over. We married with just 17 close family members around us; I had to say good-bye with hundreds in attendance. I couldn't feel it. I couldn't grieve so openly, so publicly. So I laughed. (Probably, I didn't laugh all that much, but any amount felt inappropriate and out of place.)

When you are closely related to the one who dies, you have the honor of sitting in the front row for the funeral, best seats in the house. But your front row seats don't allow you to see everyone else behind you in rows -- the bigger picture: the neighbors clustered together, the friends from out of town, work colleagues, old girlfriends, little kids, clients, friends from old neighborhoods and college days: an entire world of grief. You can't grasp the whole picture the way people in the back row can. All I could do was hold on to my kids, and hold on to every word spoken by the seven eulogists, as if by hearing their tributes to Ken, I could pretend that all that goodness they spoke of was still right there in front of me too. People said there wasn't a dry eye in the house. Well, they weren't looking at me. I just wasn't ready to lose it, and I certainly wasn't ready to say good-bye to him. I guess if there were ever a time I needed a good laugh, that was it.

The rest of the good-byes would be much more private: going through his clothes, cleaning out his office, spreading ashes, holidays without him, birthdays without him, our children's milestones with him, half a bed stacked with newspapers and books, lonely days and nights and hours and minutes of remembering and of holding on and letting go over and over again. It is easier to grasp on to my feelings in these more private moments, little bits at a time, at my own pace.

Some losses are just too big to feel. What I found though, was that I could write about my feelings more than I could actually "feel" them. I could purge some pain on paper without having to dump it onto anyone else. I could admit thoughts in ink that were too hard for me to float out in public. I could read my words and find out what was going on inside me. The numbness I felt on the outside had words that went along with it, and the words were filled with emotion. Sometimes I would cry while writing them down. Often, I discovered plenty of hope mixed in with the sadness, ribbons of strength swirling through my enormous sense of defeat. Perspective and humor were there even in truly dark times. I could tell that though my loss was enormous, all was not lost. I could tell, because that's what came out in writing.

So, this is a call to writing about how you feel as a regular activity: writing as an exercise in releasing, understanding, and coming to terms with emotion. As runners like to say: "all you need is a pair of shoes" and after a few minutes of running, you release endorphins which flow through your body and make you feel happy. I say: all you need to write is a pen and paper, or a computer, and after a few minutes of writing about how you feel, you can make real progress in understanding your own life so that you can move forward and grow.

I may have laughed at my husband's funeral, but when I wrote about how it felt to lose him, I found the words to transcend grief.

Writing Works. Writing Heals.

Whether you practice the following disciplines or not, we all know that activities like aerobic exercise, meditation, and yoga are good for us. Maybe you run daily, or maybe once in a while. Maybe you meditate on a regular basis, or perhaps just when you feel really extra stressed out. Maybe you have a daily yoga practice, or perhaps you just get into the downward dog on occasion, or stretch before bed. All of these practices are healthy. They contribute to wellness. You don't have to be a championship runner to run. You don't have to be a monk to meditate. Likewise, you don't have to be a professional writer to write.

Writing can be one of the tools in your toolbox for building a better life. For me, writing is a way to transcend loss. To find meaning in my life. To open a path that wasn't always cleared. It helps me make sense of who I am now and where I am heading.

Reading back through my latest journal, I found the following entry from late March 2010. It shows me how far I've come in relation to the profound loss of losing Ken. (My husband had been dead then for four years and two months. I have been writing about this loss for years now, including writing about his sickness for years before that.)

This piece of writing shows me that I am on a precipice of something new. I am moving to a different phase of the grieving process. I am recovering. I am feeling better. I am changing.

Here's the entry:

What the loss of you feels like today:

It feels old and tired, on it's last legs, out of breath, sagging, ancient, exhausted.

It feels boring, a waste of time, a weight on my shoulders.

It feels like a broken record going round and round on an old stereo, in an empty room, with the door locked and there is no key.

It is colorless, soundless, weightless, invisible, powerless.

It has been done before, overdone, redone, reworked.

It feels like ancient history brought to my door here in the present.

It feels unescapable, unshareable, unspeakable, boring.

It feels like a hangover.

It feels like something I need to shake off, shrug off, lose, get rid of, eliminate.

It feels like a curse.

It feels like a blanket wrapped around my face.

It feels like a path to another world, another life, a way out, an exit, a prompt, a stimulus plan, an inspiration, a wake up call.

It is palpable.

It is a work of art.

It is the most significant event that has ever happened to me.

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Ask yourself: How does my loss feel today? Ask the same question in six months, in a year, in two years.

Ask yourself now, and find out the answers by writing them down.

My Loss Is Like A Vacuum Cleaner, Sucking Me Dry

I've noticed that I often compare my life since losing my husband to living on an alien planet. Where the hell am I? How am I ever going to build a new life here in this strange place? It's so damn empty.

What metaphors do you use when thinking about life after loss? Is your loss like a nightmare from which you can't wake up? Is it a black hole sucking you down? Does it look like a stark, white, empty room? How about a dark and tangled forest? Was it your last chance for happiness? Did you win the lottery only to have it taken away? Is it a car crash?

No need to be original or avoid cliches here. This is just fun and games in the medium of loss. Toss enough words around, change will happen. You'll move. Progress will be yours. Get creative with your sorrow, it's all yours.

I've assigned a certain mood and personality to my loss, and its shaping my world right now. So I think it's worth writing it out to see where the idea takes me. Give it a try.

My loss is like..........

My loss reminds me of........

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My loss reminds me of an alien world where I have arrived alone, surrounded by unfamiliar people and places. I didn't want to come here. I arrived forcibly, against my will. I don't understand the language or customs; I wonder if I ever will.

I miss my home planet. Even though I once took elements of that old life for granted, I like to think that if I ever had the chance to go back there, I would be blessed with a whole new outlook. But I'll never get to go back. I'm stuck here in this new world. The air doesn't suit my lungs. It's too hot, then too cold. I am uncomfortable. Over time, I need to find a way to love it here because wherever I am, I want to like my life. I must adapt.

The hardest part of living here is getting used to the pervasive sense of loneliness. The darkness. Even that can be conquered. I will keep searching this barren place because I know there is beauty here too. I've already experienced it from time to time. After the destruction that occurred on my home planet, I find myself braver and more willing to explore this new world than I might have been had the loss never happened. What could happen here that I can't handle?

They say take-offs and landings are the most dangerous parts of any flight. I made it without crashing, without everything blowing up. I survived. I'm alive. I get to keep on going.

Loss Can Make You a Little Crazy!

Writing about loss isn't about dwelling in pain or staying stuck. It's about releasing deep feelings so that you can move forward. I write this Heartbreak Diary of my own publicly, to encourage others to write about their feelings. My goal is to introduce as many people as possible to the idea that WRITING ABOUT FEELINGS IS HEALTHY. It's not necessary to write a public blog, or even share your words, although if that feels good, do it. Writing about feelings is simply an effective, free, easy method to improve both emotional and physical health. Your body needs exercise. Your emotions do too. Write it out...you'll feel better.

Loss has made me do some crazy things. In trying to regain balance, I've teetered, sometimes too far in one direction or another trying to find a steadier path. Today's exercise is called "WHAT WAS I THINKING!!!"

Has your sense of loss or struggle ever driven you to do crazy things? Has it put you off kilter? Have you tried to right yourself using less than balanced methods? Have you had unrealistic expectations? Have you tried some crazy shit? I bet you have. (Or if you haven't, maybe you should!)

WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!!!? Write about it now.

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What was I thinking when I left my young children with a babysitter, took off for the weekend a year after my husband died, drove four hours from suburban Chicago to rural Southwestern Wisconsin, imagining that a divorced organic foods activist that I met on JDate, who lived on a remote farm with two cats and life restrictions caused by environmental illness could be my next great husband?

What was I thinking when I imagined that tall, handsome "Ben", who confessed early in our relationship that he often "flamed out" on relationships quickly, that his father was married six times and possessed no moral compass, and who protested all too frequently that he "did not want to run away" from our relationship, could be my next great husband?

What was I thinking when I imagined that a law school professor who talked bitterly of his bad 20 year marriage, and spoke disparagingly of his own grown daughter, could be my next great husband?

I'll tell you what I was thinking....I was thinking: I had it so good with my great husband that when he died I couldn't imagine how I would live without all the good energy, spirit, intention, and love that he gave me on a daily basis, so in my struggle to survive my loss, I had to pretend it would be easy to do it all again, and quickly.

That's what I was thinking.

Now, what were you thinking?

What's too painful? Write about it.

I don't think anyone would argue that there are certain activities known to be good for your health, like aerobic exercise, yoga, meditation, swimming, or stretching. I'd like writing to be added to the list. Research has shown that writing 15 minutes a day, about how you feel, promotes mental and physical well-being. If you've suffered a loss, it can be really cathartic to put your sad, angry, bitter, resentful, mournful, disbelieving feelings into words.

And who would argue that sometimes doing healthful activities can be painful? Ever run a 5K? Ever tried standing in the warrior pose for a couple of minutes? Ever stretch out your hamstrings? Ever try to sit still and meditate for 20 minutes? Ever do a series of squats and lunges? All of these activities can be pleasurable as well as so difficult you can't wait until they're over and you can go lie down. But keep it up despite the pain and you get toned muscles, healthy lungs, a mind that knows how to be at peace.

Writing is no different. Fifteen minutes a day of writing can be a breeze or it can be painful. Either way, it's good for you. It's like exercise for your emotions. They need fresh air too. Open up. Let them out for god's sake.

This brings me to today's topic: What's too painful? Are you out of work? Did your spouse die? Is your knee in such bad shape you can't play tennis anymore? Have you lost your great body? Did your boyfriend dump you? Has your son stopped calling since he left home? Do you never get invited anywhere? Is your mother immoral?

Think about it. What's too painful to admit? What feelings hurt? Write it down. Putting your feelings on paper gives them shape. You can make a story out of how you feel. You control the story. You can change it.

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What is too painful? It changes over time but I guarantee that whatever it is that's too painful to bring to your conscious awareness deserves some attention and respect. Sometimes respecting your pain is letting it hide for a while, only sneaking a look occasionally in the cover of darkness. If your pain is holding you back or causing you physical discomfort or making you feel uncomfortably sad, it might be time to open up a bit and let some of it out.

When my husband was first diagnosed with cancer in 2002 it was too painful to imagine that he might die. Being hopeful was best, by far.

After he went through a grueling six months of chemotherapy and his cancer went into remission, it was too painful to think that it might come back.

After his cancer came back, it was too painful to think about our bad luck, so I spent a lot of time trying to tell myself how fortunate we were regardless or our bad luck.

After Ken had his first stem cell transplant, it was too painful to think about the toll this disease was taking on our young family, so we tried to live as normally as possible. Normal life was receding, but it was too painful to let it go.

After Ken's cancer returned yet again, it was too painful to give up. So he went to Texas for a second and very high risk stem cell transplant.

After the second transplant Ken lived in his hospital room for six months with a series of complications and bad news. It was too painful to believe that after so many years of trying so hard, and being such a good patient, and remaining a loving, stable, and good-natured force for those he knew and loved, it was too painful to believe that he might still die anyway.

After Ken died it was too painful to look at families that had one mother and one father; to see intact families together; to watch fathers playing with their children; to look at happily married couples.

A year after Ken died, it was still too painful for me to accept that my happy married life with him was over forever, so I began dating, believing that the best thing I could do for myself would be to try to quickly replicate the life I had just lost.

Today,

I understand that I was incredibly, amazingly lucky to have found Ken Jacobson in this big, wide world, and that when I found him I loved him and he loved me back. I am moving beyond pain to an appreciation for just how charmed I was for fifteen years of my life so far to have known Ken, to have been his wife, to have had children with him, and to have raised those children with him for a little while.

Describe Your Loss in Words

Writing about emotional upheavals has been found to improve...physical and mental health...to reduce anxiety and depression, improve grades in college, and...aid people in securing new jobs.

from "Opening Up: The Healing Power of Expressing Emotions" by James Pennebaker, Ph.D

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Writing has always been the way that I navigate through life. I naturally turn to a blank page to express my thoughts and emotions about significant events. Once these thoughts are on paper, they function as a way of organizing my internal experience; my own words become a personal map that indicates which direction I'm heading, and which route I might take to reach my destination.

I like to say, "Write it out, you'll feel better." And I mean it, at least over the long haul. Sometimes after writing it out, I feel a little worse for a while. But I do believe that when we write our truth, no matter how painful, we can move forward to new joys and new hope. I am writing my way through loss for everyone who has lost a part of their dream, but still believes there is more happiness out there and is willing to embrace it.

Almost four years have passed since my husband died, and I have just "gotten" it. His life is over. My life with him is over. I have spent the last few months coming to this realization through my writing. It has taken me more than three years to be willing to really look deeply at my loss, to more fully acknowledge it. Everyone is different and moves at a different pace.

You might try some of the following sentence completion exercises to see where you currently stand in relation to your own loss. If you do these same exercises in a few weeks or months, your responses will likely be different.

What moving forward means to me now:

1. Not being defined solely by loss, although losing my husband has become a part of who I am.

2. Being willing to take on new challenges

3. Accept that a new degree of loneliness has become part of my life for now

4. A sense of grounded-ness

5. A greater appreciation for the good I have

6. Acquired strength

7. A better ability to separate what is worth worrying about and what isn't

Life Before My Loss Was:

(Old Life)

marriage

a partner

love

a sense of security

connection/attraction

a sense of rightness and solidity

theater, symphony, dinners out with my guy

hiking and biking

travels to look forward to with my husband

a father for my children

raising children with two parents

someone who is always there for me

Life After My Loss is:

(New Life)

me and the kids

the house

the bills

the unknown

a future alone?

helping others through their loss

insecurity

envy

understanding

appreciation for being alive

gratitude

strength

a commitment to writing

My New Road Looks Like This:

It's long, and I'm on my own.

I'm pushing and pulling at myself to keep going.

I'm scanning the horizon for someone to join me.

I'm open to interesting, new opportunities.

I want to rediscover the love of the unknown that I had when I was younger.

I can't see the end of the road, and I have faith in life's goodness.

I'm committed to a good journey, even if it sometimes gets difficult.

I enjoy having fun and meeting new people.

What Have You Lost?

It has taken me about this long, three and a half years, to be willing to look more closely at WHAT I LOST. After Ken died, and during his illness, I worked very hard to stay strong, and this meant and still means only tolerating the reality of my loss in small pieces. It was easier for me to tell myself and others that even though I had lost big, I was still better off than many others. Viewing myself as fortunate despite my pain kept me from falling to my knees when I had children who weren't all that much taller than my knees. Now that my kids are bigger, now that time since Ken's death has grown longer, I am more capable of acknowledging the magnitude of losing Ken.

What does your loss look like? Does that sound like an obvious question? Understanding your losses, acknowledging them, and giving yourself credit for surviving them, can help you move forward. Writing about your loss is a powerful tool for recovery akin to exercise, or meditation, or talking to a supportive friend or therapist. It is a tool you can use to improve your life. It can free you from the heaviness of pain so that after spending 10 minutes or 30 minutes or an hour a day writing about matters of deep importance to you, you can move on with your day, your goals and your plans. Making your thoughts visible, makes your own wisdom available to you. Devote 15 minutes a day to healing your loss through writing. Keep a Heartbreak Diary. Write it out. You'll feel better.

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Can you "play" with the concept of loss? I think so. What does your loss look like? Describe it for one full minute, whatever comes to you, sensical or non-sensical, let's go:

My loss is a wall that cuts me off from the rest of the world.

My loss is a red light flashing on my head that screams: "Look at me, I'm a widow."

My loss makes me feel unlucky, unhappy and lonely.

My loss is a dream that more and more becomes my reality, but it takes a long time to wake up to this new life and accept it.

My loss won't break me, won't kill me, won't beat me down.

Let's "play" a little more. The flip side of loss is gain. What have you gained through your loss? Give it another minute and see what you come up with:

I've gained a sense of fearlessness because I know that loss can be managed.

I've gained a sense of resignation -- Aha! Life can be very cruel and there's nothing I can do to change that. I have to accept that.

I've gained a willingness to tackle more challenges because I have to, because it is necessary, because I want to.

I've gained a large, encompassing sense of peace.

I've gained a better perspective.

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I get it now.
You are really gone.
Grasping your infinite absence:
Like trying to understand
We're part of the Milky Way
While we stare at it overhead
On the darkest of nights.

You aren't coming back to me ever
Even if I hold your memory like a baby,
Even if I never stop writing you onto these pages.

And you are never leaving me either.
I can't write you out of me
Or find you when I pin my hopes
On the wrong guy over and over, I try.

You're staying here
Where you entered,
Where you launched
The gentlest, most peaceful takeover in the history
That continues word by word.

In the darkest night I am
Always alone now.
You are everywhere and nowhere.
I am lost in your magnitude
As I have been since the day
You crossed my threshold
And the night you crossed yours,
Never and completely disappearing.

How to Tell if You Might Benefit from Keeping Your Own Heartbreak Diary

1. Your friends look off uncomfortably into the distance as you describe the barren reality of your life, again.

2. Your feelings chase you around without stopping, wake you up early, or prevent you from sleeping.

3. You've lost big or you're a big loser, take your pick.

4. You're trying really hard to accept the way your life has turned out but you're still not quite there.

5. You believe that the only one who cam make your life better is you.

6. You want to know the answers that only you can give yourself.

7. You believe it's possible that your own words and thoughts when expressed have the power to change your current circumstances.

8. You just need a place to bitch. You realize that a blank page may be a lot more forgiving than your friends and relatives.

9. You've lost a spouse, a child, a parent, a job, your confidence, your home, your income, your dream, your pet or your center and you'd like to feel better than you do right now.

10. You'd like to try what research has proven to be true: expressing your feelings in writing, (even if no one ever reads your words, even if you throw out the pages after you write them,) can improve your health and well-being.

You can write your way through loss to a better place. Want to give it a try?

Writing as Medicine

Why oh why should I continue to write about the effects of Ken's death on my life?

After all, it's been three and a half years already. Isn't it time to live in the present, to launch purposefully out into the future? Wouldn't it be better to just stop thinking about it? Isn't it time to just MOVE ON? Turns out, I have no idea what moving on means. I put one foot ahead of the other. I have moments of joy and glee and good humor just like the next gal...maybe even more than the next gal, depending on who she is. I turn the calendar at the end of every month. I make goals and accomplish them. I am open to the goodness that exists. Yet still, I am compelled to keep on expressing my feelings about losing my husband.

Writing, as it happens, is an effective, useful way to recover from a personal trauma. Dozens of studies conducted over many years by James Pennebaker, Ph.D, a research psychologist from Southern Methodist University, have shown that writing about your troubles can improve your health and emotional well-being, reduce anxiety and depression, and even heighten your immune function. Proven: writing can help you heal.

I have written steadily about Ken's death, and before that, his four-year illness, since 2002. Our children were just three and six years of age when he was first diagnosed with cancer. He went through multiple rounds of treatment including two stem-cell transplants, one of them requiring that he live in Texas for six months with me going back and forth between a critically ill husband and my two small chidren back in Chicago. At the end of all that treatment, he died from complications due to his transplant. Despite this huge, on-going, long-term, major stressor, I have remained remarkably healthy. I believe that writing out my pain, keeping a Heartbreak Diary, is one of the primary reasons I have stayed so healthy after losing so big.