Widowhood ain't for sissies. And I'm a sissy.

I just wanted to announce to my three faithful audience members, that I will be taking an indefinite 'sabbatical' from this blog, (and knowing me, which I'm pretty sure don't any more, "indefinite sabbatical" could mean 24 hours, could mean forever). I thank you from the depths of my being for your unwavering love and support. I am, have always been, will forever be nothing if not so full of gratitude and love back, for that, for you. But I'm discovering that it's just too damn much work, to share this f'n journey with "the world," far too much than I'm willing to invest in, right now.

The first oh, maybe eight or nine months since Bob died, I barely remember, but the fog is sort of starting to clear and now, I just kinda feel like I'm circus freak on display, which is kinda what a blog is, quite frankly, but that circus freak blogger should also be entertaining, enlightening, interesting, insightful, intentional, have a purpose and often funny and/or witty—I am here to say I feel none of that. At. All. My world is still pretty narrow. Very few things really amuse me. I still cry. A lot. I'm not being true to it—the f'n journey—to me, to Bob, or to those who have been so sweet and faithful in traveling with me on this ugly road. I just can't keep up with all the twists and turns of this f'd up ride; I can't be honest because it still feels thisclosetoinsanity, this road I'm on, and even though the world loves a train wreck, I don't want to be it. I still feel so assaulted, so insulted by the world (and vice versa), continue to encounter endless new incidents and situations that literally stop me dead in my tracks—case in point, got a letter from the esteemed U of M Medical Center/Fairview today—the little shop of horrors that was the main setting of our year-long nightmare, before coming home to hospice, where we started a new 4 month nightmare, under the care of Fairview hospice, until Bob died—the letter is addressed to Bob, and I quote: University of Minnesota Medical Center, Fairview is interested in following the progress of former patients. It has been some time since you were seen in our hospital. We are interested in your care and with the progress you are making. Would you please give us a brief report of your health status and also answer the questions that follow . . .

All of these little encounters, incidents continually drive the point home: Bob is dead. I am a fucking widow. HATE that word. hatehatehatehate it. I've tried reasoning with it, tried embracing it ('member my really cool {dilusional} idea about making widows trendy, like pregnant women now are?! Yeah, me either), tried "not caring" about it, tried to come up with a new name—I've started calling myself Warrior Princess! (yes, with an exclamation point, because Bob always signed his signature with an exclamation point at the end—his abbreviated way to literally exclaim that "life is an emergency!"), but, there's that faking again . . . just a coverup. Nothing fits. Speaking of new names, I've seen this floating around facebook now and then: A person who loses their partner is called a "widow," a child who lost a parent, an "orphan," but there is no word to describe a parent who has lost a child because the loss is like no other. Please post this for one hour, I'm pretty sure I know who will . . . I could go on and on why I loathe this thing—I "get" what it's "trying" to say, no clarification needed there—the main point is that someone wrote this (and others continue to post and repost and repost) with the intention of creating a conflict, of creating divisiveness . . . so not fair, so not right, to compare or rate losses, to take sides, drawing a line in the sand between the has and has nots . . . people fight hard to eradicate the world of labels, of things that divide. Please, take my label. I'd rather not be defined by one ugly little world and all the ugly little connotations that go with it. But I also get that whomever created this concept likely did so in the depths of deep grief, out of a feeling of being so lost, more alone than he/she has ever and will ever feel, an identity stripped but badly wanting one back, a huge, gaping, gasping hole in their heart, in their soul that they are trying hard fill by making others understand that immense, consuming loss and pain that comes with the full meal deal, desperately wanting to make that lost person matter and live forever in everyone's minds the way they live for the mourning, wanting to lash out at everyone who has not ever experienced something like what they are going through, their world suffering a seismic shift that is going to take a long time—forever—to become reoriented within again, if ever, the wanting so badly to be seen and heard but there are no words, but even if there were, no on sticks around to listen or see, everyone else has long moved on, leaving you behind to figure the shit out for yourself . . . all of that, I so get . . .

And, it's because of all that "getting," that I feel I need to close shop for now. And it's because of the divisiveness, as well. I'm tired of going onandonandonandon about how alien my world is. I don't get it, how the hell can I expect anyone else to? I am offended if anyone even tries. I'm offended if no one does. Back and forth, round and round, up and down . . . all of this is far beyond what I'm capable of sharing so openly right now. I've given it the old college try, but am less than pleased with my efforts. But I'm also (kind of) confident that things will get better and am taking many, many teeny, tiny steps toward that pin-poke of light. But it will take time. And lots of work. And right now, it feels like private work. Who knows? Maybe tomorrow, my PMS will have subsided, and I'll want to start writing here again, but for now, I really need a break (and I know y'all are saying, "Break?!? You're not even f'n' working, woman!!" I can hear you).


Perhaps in the not-so-distant future, I'll feel it's worth the immense effort to start this up again. Or not.

Until then, don't worry about me (god, does that sound awesomely, melodramatically narcissistic!). I have my little Otto-man, twice a day, all day to make me laugh big. I am going to be getting certified to teach kettlebells in a month. I'm keeping busy (i.e.: therapy twice a week—it's like a part-time job—they should be paying me for the rich material I'm providing for their professional journals . . . class one night a week (maybe a summer class in there), lots of reading, lots of quiet time, lots of family time, which makes me feel like I'm wrapped in the biggest, warmest blanket, ever. I know many of you have tried to reach out to me, continue to do so, with lunch offers, whatever, and I'm sorry that I haven't made a big effort to reach out back. Please forgive me and keep trying. Or not. Either way, I "get" that, too . . .

xxoo jen