Tag Archives: grieving

Aging, death

Write Your Damn Will Today

When my husband died, the last thing I wanted to think about was his will. Grieving is a full-time job. Because Tom had prepared his will years earlier, I was spared one of the most brutal complications that can follow the death of a loved one. I’ve heard other widows describe the nightmare of sorting through estate issues without clear guidance—families fighting, assets frozen, legal battles that drag on for years and compound their already devastating loss.

Writing a will is an act of love. It’s a final gift of clarity and protection for those you’ll leave behind.

I know what you’re thinking: “I’m too young” or “I don’t own enough to need a will” or “It’s probably complicated and expensive.” But the fact is, if you own anything of financial or sentimental value, even if it’s just a crappy car, a small savings account, or a family heirloom necklace, writing down your wishes about who gets what will help those you leave behind. And no matter how young you are, I bet you can think of someone your age who died suddenly (and maybe without a will). Finally, it’s not as hard or expensive as you think—keep reading and I’ll tell you about a free and easy way to create a will.

Most importantly, get it through your head that having a will isn’t about you—it’s about the people you love.

If you die without a will, your loved ones will have to deal with additional stress during an already difficult time. If there’s no will, they may have to work through extra legal hurdles, family conflicts, or second-guessing whether they are doing what you would want. You may think no one would want your stuff, but I know families that have fought over cars that don’t run and neckties that nobody liked—not to mention a herd of cattle that a bunch of city slickers went to court over.

The best news is that for most of us, writing a will is relatively simple and affordable. While complex estates might need legal guidance, a basic will is perfectly adequate for most people. Having a simple will is infinitely better than having no will at all.

Recently, I helped someone write their will using FreeWill, an organization recommended by the AARP. I was amazed at how simple it was. The whole process took less than 30 minutes, and yes, it was completely free. The website walked my friend and me through every step, explaining legal terms in plain language and helping them think through important decisions.

The site generates a legal document that you just need to print and get signed by two witnesses who aren’t beneficiaries in your will. In most states, you don’t even need a notary (and the site will tell you if you live in a state that does need a notary).

So, you have no good reason to put it off.

Today, right now, take 30 minutes to write your will. Do it while watching TV or during your lunch break. Do it because you love your people. Do it because it’s free and easy. Do it because having witnessed the chaos of no will and the clarity of having one, I can tell you that this small act makes a world of difference.

Don’t wait until it feels urgent.

Once the will is written, talk to your loved ones about it. Even better, talk to your loved ones before or while you write your will. Make it a family activity. You may be surprised to find out who would love to have your vintage tea cups or the old trombone in the basement.

When we avoid difficult conversations about death, we often create more pain later.

Elizabeth Kleinfeld is a disabled widow who blogs about grief, disability, Buddhist life, and joy. Sign up for her free monthly newsletter here. 

grieving

Different not Worse: My First Christmas Alone since My Husband Died

It’s my fourth holiday season without Tom. Facebook’s “On This Day” feature has been particularly aggressive lately, serving up memories of holidays past like a relentless digital ghost. Here’s Tom and me at Christmas dinner with family. Here we are making latkes with friends. Here we are camping in Death Valley. Each photo is a reminder of not just what was, but what isn’t anymore.

I’ve always loved celebrations, even ones that aren’t technically “mine.” Growing up, I got to experience a mix of traditions—mostly Catholic until my mom died when I was 12, with a dash of Hanukkah from my father’s Jewish side of the family. What I learned from this blend wasn’t so much about religious significance as it was about the joy of gathering, the pleasure of good food, and the warmth of giving gifts. Even now, as a Buddhist adult, I’ve kept these celebrations alive in my own way, decorating a Christmas tree and hosting an annual latke dinner, creating my own meaning from these inherited traditions.

This is the first year since Tom died that I’m alone for Christmas. My daughter, stepson, and mother-in-law are all traveling. I keep telling people I’m fine with being alone—after all, December 25th is just another day when you strip away the cultural expectations. But there’s something undeniably hard about being alone on a day when it seems like everyone else is gathered with family. Especially when my own memories of the day are so vivid and happy.

Yesterday, I visited a hospice patient who’s unlikely to see New Year’s. We didn’t talk about the December holidays—I’m not even sure if she’s aware of them or if she cares about them. She wanted to talk about dying and what I knew about it from talking to other hospice patients. It was a good reminder that December 25 is not in and of itself anything special. I know her adult children feel like they should be with her on Christmas. They’ve decorated her house with a tree and replaced all the usual kitchen towels and potholders with red and green ones.

But grief and dying don’t care what the date on the calendar is. None of the holiday traditions can outweigh them. The tension between what dying people and grieving people feel and the insistence around them that this is “the happies time of the year” can make their grief feel even more isolating, as if they’re the only ones not participating in the mandatory joy

When I tell people I’ll be alone for Christmas, they immediately try to fix it. “Come to our house!” they say, or “No one should be alone on Christmas!” I appreciate their kindness, but sometimes being alone is easier than being the widow at someone else’s family celebration, watching their intact family traditions and trying to smile through the stomach-punch of grief that hits when someone makes a comment I know Tom would appreciate or a dish I know he would love is served.

I’ve noticed some folks in the Facebook Widow groups answering the question about whether they’ll be alone for the holidays with “I’ll be with my dogs,” “I’ll be with my cats,” or even, “I’ll be hanging out with my plants.” I love the way they are pushing pack on the idea that you’re alone if you’re not with other humans. And this reminds me that I won’t, in fact, be alone on Christmas: I’ll be with my two dogs, who are very cuddly in the winter.

Sometimes the kindest thing we can do for ourselves during the holidays is to accept that they’re going to be different now. Different doesn’t have to mean worse. This year, my Christmas plan involves Chinese food, snuggling with my dogs, and zero obligation to make conversation. That actually sounds pretty great.

I might spend some time looking at those Facebook memories, letting myself feel whatever comes up. I might text friends who are also alone or grieving. I might watch terrible holiday movies or ignore the holiday completely. The point is, I get to choose.

For others navigating holiday grief, whether it’s your first season without your person or your fifth, I want you to know that there’s no right way to do this. If you want to maintain all the old traditions, do it. If you want to create new ones, do that. If you want to pretend the holidays aren’t happening this year, that’s fine too. The only rule is to be gentle with yourself.

Elizabeth Kleinfeld is a disabled widow who blogs about grief, disability, Buddhist life, and joy. Sign up for her free monthly newsletter here. 

Aging, death

Don’t Inflict Your Toxic Positivity on a Dying Person

One hospice patient I visit lives with her daughter, Sarah. A visit with this patient is a visit with Sarah, as she almost never leaves her mother’s side.

Every time I visit, I see her mother’s decline: her shoulders a little sharper beneath her pajamas (the only clothes she wears now), her cheekbones more prominent, her energy more depleted. But every week, Sarah insists cheerfully that her mother is just having a rough day and will be better tomorrow.

On my most recent visit, Sarah hovered anxiously over her mother, who sat at the dining room table nursing a cup of coffee. Sarah arranged organic fruit on a plate and put it in front of her mother, explaining to me how careful she is to make sure all the food her mother eats is natural and organic even though she has trouble affording the more expensive groceries. The health benefits are worth it, she said.

While Sarah chattered about future plans, her mother’s eyes met mine across the table. She was tired. The contrast between Sarah desperately clinging to optimistic fantasies of recovery, meticulously monitoring every morsel of food, while her mother quietly surrendered to the inevitable was stark. When Sarah left the room for a moment, I asked her mother what she wanted. “I want to make Sarah happy,” she said softly, and then, “But I don’t think I can.”

I wanted to scream at Sarah, “Your mother is dying! All the organic food in the world won’t change what’s happening! She needs your support and love right now, not a special diet. Stop focusing on the food and start focusing on being present with her while you can.”

But I also understand where Sarah is coming from. I inflicted my own toxic positivity on my husband after his stroke and it took conscious effort to change my behavior. Once I started making that effort, I could see that it was what we both needed. Our conversations became more authentic and vulnerable when I accepted that sometimes things just sucked. I think it was a relief to him when I acknowledged that and let him grieve what he lost with the stroke.

When you visit with someone who is dying, it’s natural to want to find something positive to say. Maybe you’ll be tempted to talk about new treatments on the horizon, or remind them how many people beat the odds, or suggest they just need to stay positive. Please don’t.

Dying people don’t need our forced optimism. They need our presence, our willingness to sit with hard truths, and our acceptance of their reality.

Toxic positivity—the pressure to maintain a positive outlook at all times—can be especially harmful to someone facing death. When we respond to their dying process with “Stay positive!” or “Don’t give up hope!” we’re essentially telling them their feelings about dying are wrong. We’re asking them to perform optimism for our comfort.

Sarah tells me her mother loves my visits and I think I know why. When I show up, her mother can talk about her fears and sadness without being interrupted with a reminder to smile and be grateful. With me, she can discuss practical end-of-life planning without being admonished to “keep fighting.”

It’s ironic that Sarah wants to be closer to her mother in these last days or weeks or months, but by trying to force positivity into every conversation, she’s shutting down authentic communication. When we make space for someone to express their full range of emotions about dying—including fear, anger, and sadness—we often create moments of genuine joy and connection.

Being with someone who’s dying requires us to examine our own relationship with death and our own emotional limitations. If you find yourself constantly redirecting conversations toward the positive, ask yourself: Who is this serving? Am I trying to make them feel better, or am I trying to make myself more comfortable?

I’ve found these phrases to be particularly helpful for conversation that doesn’t hinge on the assumption of positivity:

  • “I’m here to listen, whatever you want to talk about.”
  • “What do you need right now?”
  • “It’s okay to feel however you’re feeling about this.”
  • “Tell me more about what you’re experiencing.”

Dying is a normal part of life. When someone shares their dying process with you, they’re inviting you into one of life’s most profound experiences. They don’t need you to fix it or brighten it or reframe it. They need you to witness it, to acknowledge it, and to accept it alongside them.

Elizabeth Kleinfeld is a disabled widow who blogs about grief, disability, Buddhist life, and joy. Sign up for her free monthly newsletter here. 

Aging, caregiving, death, failure

Honoring Dignity until the End

I learned after my husband had his stroke how important it is as a caregiver to respect the dignity of the person you are caring for. My husband was still the amazing person I fell in love with—strong-willed, take charge, and unwilling to suffer fools. The challenges he faced after his stroke were often at odds with the traits I admired about him and that led to struggle for both of us. I had to learn ways to honor the man who was used to being in charge while we both adjusted to him not being able to be in charge the way he used to be.

I messed up all the time. One thing I never did stop doing that drove him nuts was using the word “remember.” His memory took a serious hit with the stroke and he hated that he couldn’t remember many things. Even though I knew that, I defaulted often to saying things like, “Remember, your OT said to always start putting your shirt on with the weak arm first.” I could have said the sentence without “remember” at the beginning and it wouldn’t have bothered him, but I forgot that more often than not and it irked him. Sometimes he would snap, “No, I don’t remember! I had a stroke!” out of frustration.

These moments taught me something profound about dignity: it’s not about being perfect in our care, but about acknowledging the humanity in our imperfection. My husband’s frustration wasn’t just about my use of the word “remember”—it was about his right to feel frustrated, to express it, to still be the person who could tell me when I was driving him crazy. That was dignity, too.

We were both learning how to navigate our situation, all the way up until the moment he died. Sometimes we both managed it well, but sometimes one of us managed it better than the other and had to show grace for both of us. Sometimes that was me and sometimes it was him.

My point is that my husband’s dignity remained intact until he died. Dying people are living people.

Now in my hospice work, I see similar dynamics play out. Well-meaning family members or healthcare workers slip into patterns that diminish the dying person’s dignity, often without realizing it. They’ll discuss test results over the person’s bed as if they’re not there, or use that sing-song voice normally reserved for small children and pets. I recognize it because I’ve been there, uncertain about how to act around someone whose capabilities have changed.

But what I learned from my husband serves me well now. When I interact with a hospice patient, I carry with me the understanding that this person, no matter how unresponsive they might appear, is still living their life. They’re still accumulating experiences, still processing emotions, still being themselves. Just as my husband was still himself, even when the stroke changed how he could express it.

I’ve developed what I think of as a dignity practice. I announce myself when I enter and leave a room, speaking directly to the person: “Hi Sandra, it’s Elizabeth, the hospice volunteer.” I ask permission before touching anyone or their belongings. I maintain privacy during personal care, narrating what I’m doing like I would want someone to do for me. These aren’t just polite gestures—they are acknowledgments of personhood.

Sometimes family members look at me strangely when I talk to someone who hasn’t responded in hours or days. One patient’s daughter told me, “I don’t think she can hear you,” and I said, “Sharon, I think maybe you can hear me,” and continued talking to her. Even on his hardest days, my husband was still there, still himself, still deserving of being treated like the capable, complicated person he’d always been.

Dying doesn’t erase personhood—dying distills it to its essence. Just as my husband’s stroke didn’t make him any less the man I married, terminal illness doesn’t make someone less themselves. Our job is to honor who they are until the very end.

death, grieving

My Choice to Respect My Dead Husband’s Privacy

After his stroke, Tom spent hours at a small black desk facing our porch, a compromise when his wheelchair made actually getting outside too difficult. The desk became his command center, gradually accumulating the tools and supplies for his unlikely new hobby: knife sharpening. Who else would take up knife sharpening after a stroke? That was pure Tom, finding a quirky way to adapt to his new circumstances while still expressing his need for a little danger.

His approach to organization hadn’t changed with the stroke. The knife sharpening supplies sprawled across the desk, spilling onto nearby surfaces. Tom had never been known for neatness. One of my favorite stories about his disorganization involves him having a pile of papers on the dashboard of his van that was so tall he could barely see over it. He finally got motivated to dump the pile of papers only to realize later that—oops—the pile had included a money order.

The stroke had left him with Left Neglect, unable to process any sensory input from left of his midline. We found workarounds for reading and writing, but computer use proved especially challenging. Eventually, his laptop migrated to the left side of the desk—the forgotten side—and disappeared under layers of papers, books, and sharpening supplies.

After he died, I moved the knife sharpening equipment to the garage, where it still makes me smile, remembering his dedication to this improbable hobby. I kept his journals and books and look through from time to time. His left neglect shows up in the pages where he started writing in the middle and continued to the right margin. He annotated some of the books he was reading, but the notes are clustered only on the right-hand pages.  

The laptop stayed hidden in a drawer until last week, when I suddenly noticed the desk had drawers at all. Four years untouched. What might it hold? Pre-stroke emails, photos, browser histories—windows into who my husband was before his stroke. I plugged the laptop in and heard it whir to life but then I sat with my hands hovering over the keyboard for some time, trying to decide if I really wanted to know what was on the laptop.

I guessed incorrectly at the password and stopped.

I could keep guessing at the password. But I’ve handled all the practical matters of his life and death—the financial and legal matters have been settled. I have all the records and paperwork I need. What remains on that laptop belongs to him, to the private space of his thoughts and interests that existed separately from our shared life.

Tom was a man who valued his privacy. Before his stroke, we gave each other ample space for hobbies and friendships that belonged to only one of us. We were never a couple who did everything together and we valued our independence as much as we did our relationship as a couple.

Tom lost his independence completely with the stroke. He took that loss with incredible grace, but I watched how hard it was for him to need help with everything from getting dressed to using the bathroom. Now, 3 ½ years after his death, I can honor his privacy by leaving his laptop unopened. While part of me is curious about what I might find there, a deeper part knows that respecting the boundaries he valued in life is a way of honoring his dignity even after death. The laptop will stay in the drawer, holding whatever secrets it contains.

grieving

Election Grief: When an Election Breaks Your Heart

When folks ask how I’m doing since the election, I find myself saying, “Hanging in there, all things considered.” And by “all things considered,” I mean watching over half the country vote for someone who thinks it’s okay to mock disabled people, treats sexual assault like it’s no big deal, plans to legislate from an antiquated concept of sexuality, and dehumanizes people who have made epic sacrifices to be here. Just like after my husband died, I dread being asked “how are you?”

This kind of hurt feels surprisingly like other kinds of grief, and that makes sense. Just like when someone you love dies, the election of a candidate who mocks your values and rejects your humanity can mean the loss of a dream. The future will not look the way I hoped. Things I thought I could count on now feel uncertain.

Folks often think of grief and disability as purely personal experiences, but when we live in a world that expects us to bounce back from loss in a few days of bereavement leave, or navigate buildings with no ramps, or explain our access needs over and over, those personal experiences bump up against political realities. Every time someone has to choose between keeping their disability benefits and accepting a job offer, that’s political. Every time a grieving person has to fight with insurance companies while planning a funeral, that’s political.

When we have to justify our need for accommodations or defend our right to grieve differently, we’re dealing with systems and structures that were built without us in mind. And the ways we respond to those factors is political. When we share our stories, when we advocate for change, when we refuse to squeeze our experiences into society’s too-small boxes, we’re doing political work. We’re saying, “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with us. There’s something wrong with a world that doesn’t make room for grief and disability as normal parts of human life.”

I’m treating my election grief similarly to how I treated my grief after my husband died:

  1. Acknowledging the sadness. The heartbreak is real. Belittling myself for feeling it won’t make it go away. I am turning toward my grief rather than away from it, practicing everything I learned from Doug Kraft about gentle strength after my husband’s stroke. I am feeling my feelings, even when they hurt like a gut punch. This is doing the work of grief. It’s not time that heals, it’s doing the work of grief.
  2. Connecting with others. I joined support groups and met other widowed people. In the aftermath of an election, this might look a little different. Last week, I attended an event for a visiting artist on campus that had nothing to do with the election, but it provided an opportunity to connect with colleagues engaged with art. I also attended an online meeting of the League of Women Voters, which let me connect with other people specifically around the election.
  3. Taking good care of myself. Sleeping, staying hydrated, and exercising are important, but setting and holding boundaries, especially as the holidays approach, is important. It’s been useful for me to reflect on how I want to engage with people who voted differently from me. I love them, but that doesn’t mean I have to spend time with them or tolerate offensive conversation or behavior. I can decline invitations, leave the room, or take myself home. I cannot change other people’s minds, but I can control how I respond to them.  

    I’m also holding boundaries around my news consumption: I do not check the news for the first hour that I’m awake. This helps me start the day thinking about my goals and priorities so that when I do check the news, I can see things within the context of what’s important to me, rather than the other way around.

Like any grieving process, grieving the results of this election won’t be linear and it won’t look the same for each of us. Give yourself and others grace. Keep putting one foot in front of the other. Sometimes the most radical thing we can do is to keep showing up.  

grieving

When will I feel normal again?

Whenever I meet someone who is newly widowed, they ask when they will feel normal again. I remember asking that question of my new widowed friends, too. We all want to know how long it will take before the crushing pain in our hearts cools lets up a bit. I worried during the first year that I would die from heartbreak and I see other widows posting similar sentiments in the Facebook widow groups I belong it.

This journey is different for each person, but for me, around the three-year mark I started to feel kind of normal. I still felt grief but it was no longer overwhelming. I’m almost 3 ½ years out now and yes, I still miss Tom horribly, but I’m so used to him being gone that missing him is just part of my routine.

In the early months, grief was all-consuming, filtering every of life. Even basic tasks like cooking, getting dressed, and answering email felt impossible, and work held no meaning. Simple objects like Tom’s last glass of grapefruit juice in the fridge or clothes that still carried his scent became precious artifacts. I couldn’t bear to think of moving them, much less getting rid of them. Every day I was pushing through thick brain fog.

Around the six-month mark, there was a pattern of waves—intense periods of mourning followed by calmer stretches where the brain fog lifted slightly. I was able to take some small steps forward, like giving away some of Tom’s clothes and dismantling the makeshift bedroom in the living room and moving back down to our old bedroom. Every “first” without Tom—holidays, birthdays, traveling—brought fresh waves of grief.

Over the course of the second year, those waves continued, but the calm stretches got longer. I’ve heard many people say the second year is harder than the first, because the numbness of the first year has faded but the pain remains. That feels true for me. Those calm stretches got longer, but when the fresh waves of grief hit, they hit hard. During the calm stretches, I began feeling engaged with work again and did some entertaining. During the grief waves, I was completely flattened. I tried to imagine going rafting, for example, and just felt sick at the thought.

During the second year, I worked to develop new routines around my new life as a widow, which meant letting go of routines I loved that were built around my life with Tom. I still miss the old routines. For example, getting him out of bed after his stroke was a complicated procedure, so we learned how to enjoy our coffee together before he got fully out of bed; I helped him sit up and swivel around so his feet were on the floor, then I brought our coffee into the bedroom area of the living room and he drank his coffee while he was sitting on the edge of the bed and I sat at his feet while we discussed the upcoming day.

Letting go of that routine after he died was tough. I kept the bed in the living room for months after he died and sometimes sat on the floor to drink my coffee, in the same spot where I had when he was alive. After I moved back to our bedroom in the basement, I experimented with drinking my coffee in different rooms and during different activities, like reading or puttering around the house. I drank my coffee outside. I tried switching to tea.

At about 2 ½ years out, my morning coffee routine stabilized into one I still observe today. I journal and talk to the dogs while I drink my first cup of coffee. Talking to the dogs kind of takes the place of talking through my day with Tom. It’s a nice way to begin each day, feeling connected to the dogs and myself (through the journaling).

By three years out, grief had become a familiar companion rather than an overwhelming force. The pain hasn’t lessened, but the ability to carry it while living fully has grown stronger. Dreams of Tom have become frequent, offering new ways to feel connected to him. Grief no longer filters every experience, but it’s always there, laying at my feet like a sleeping dog.

I have been told over and over that time heals grief and every time, I call bullshit. Time does not heal the grief. I have worked hard to get where I am, with regular therapy, multiple support groups, and tons of reflection through daily journaling. I’ve had the help of many friends and family members who have been unwavering in their support. I have not “gotten over” Tom’s death by any stretch and I don’t intend to. I love him as much now as I ever did—if anything, my love for him has grown stronger over time. I have reshaped my life around Tom’s absence, missing him, honoring him, and accepting that I won’t see him again in this lifetime.

For me, that’s how “normal” looks, and I like it.

caregiving, grieving

Accepting “I Did the Best I Could” is an ongoing process

Accepting that I did the best I could when my husband had his stroke is an ongoing process. I often find myself thinking, “yes, I did the best I could,” followed by “my best wasn’t very good,” and then I dwell on that second thought.

Of course I would be a better caregiver today than I was when Tom needed me. I know so much more now about holding space than I did then. I am better rested now without the exhaustion of around-the-clock caregiving. Without the constant worries about Tom’s pain, his mental health, and his prognosis, I can now reflect and make decisions at a more leisurely pace.

And oh, yeah, my caregiving all took place during a pandemic, which made it difficult or impossible for many friends and loved ones to help out.

Still, while I generally feel pretty good about how I showed up for Tom, there are times when I am reminded that acceptance isn’t a one-and-done thing but rather something I need to do over and over and over again.

I have spent the last week accepting again that I did the best I could.

Last week I read Summoned by a Stroke: An Homage to Love, Relationship, and Living Life Fully, Judy Friesem’s memoir of life with her husband Kim after he had a stroke. There are many similarities between Kim and my husband Tom. Like Tom, Kim had a massive stroke on the right side of his brain, leaving him paralyzed on the left. Like Tom, Kim exhibited incredible grace and acceptance of his new reality.

But I saw many differences between Judy and me. Judy seemed to have much more insight than I did into what Kim was thinking, feeling, and needing. Where Judy is generous, I was narrow-minded. Where Judy seemed to intuitively know what Kim needed, I had to figure out Tom’s needs by trial and error. Even when Kim couldn’t speak or write, Judy was able to communicate with him, while I sometimes overlooked basic niceties or argued with Tom or thought I knew better than he did what he wanted.

I know, I know—Friesem’s book is an edited version of what happened. I know she had imperfect moments. I know she struggled. I know this, and yet, I found myself thinking as I read, “I wish I had been half the caregiver she was.”

I did the best I could at the time . . . and I hate that I couldn’t do better at the time.

In this current round of accepting that I did the best I could, I am finding that talking to myself in the second person is more effective than reminding myself I did the best I could. I talk to myself, saying. “You did the best you could,” or “Give yourself some grace—you were operating under terrible circumstances” or “Tom loved you and appreciated everything you did.”

I think using the second person puts a little space between who I am now and who I was then and makes it more possible for me to feel compassion for that past version of me.

That space also allows me to see the distance I’ve come since then. My listening skills, in particular, are so much better now, and while I wish Tom could have benefitted from them, I know he’d be proud of having taught me to listen.

“Another lesson from Tom DeBlaker,” he would say with a wry smile, and I would hug him and bury my head into his shoulder.

grieving

Sharing Grief (and seeing fire starting as an act of love)

I have been very up and down with my grief the last few months. The three-year anniversary of my husband’s death was less awful than I expected, but then I was a bit blindsided by hard grief a month later. The last few weeks have felt less tumultuous and I’ve noticed a kind of tender sweetness in my grief.

A couple weeks ago, I traveled to Sweden with my sister and my 13-year old nephew. They both knew my husband well and Tom came up in conversation regularly. At one point, my nephew began reminiscing about some of his favorite adventures with my husband. He mentioned a video message Tom had sent him just a week before he died.

I had forgotten about that message. My then 10-year old nephew had been at our house and we had set up an obstacle course in the alley for Tom to go through in his new motorized wheelchair. My nephew had asked if he could try the course in the wheelchair and Tom said yes, but then before that could happen, Tom was exhausted and went in for a nap. Hour later, after my nephew had left and Tom had napped, Tom told me he felt bad that he had not followed through on his promise that my nephew could ride in the wheelchair and he asked me to record him apologizing. I did, sent the video, and completely forgot about it.

When my nephew mentioned it a couple weeks ago, I asked him if we could watch it. He immediately called it up on his phone. Hearing my husband’s voice and seeing the exhaustion on his face was a little shocking—I had forgotten both how ragged he was at the end and how responsible he felt toward my nephew. I was overwhelmed with love for Tom, seeing his attention to my nephew even in the face of his own profound exhaustion and struggles. And I was filled with love and compassion for my nephew, who had this video easily accessible, indicating that he watched it regularly. Even after death, my husband made this boy feel loved and seen.

My nephew and I were quiet for a few minutes after we watched the message, neither of us saying anything. In that silence, we connected over our mutual loss and love. Sharing that moment with my nephew made me feel so close to both him and my husband. My nephew and me, together in silence, lost in remembering, missing, and grieving—it was deliciously sweet and sad. I said, “I miss him so much,” and my nephew said he did too. That was all the discussion we had, but in the silence we shared, there was rich and deep communication.

A few days later, my nephew was with me when I scattered some of Tom’s ashes under an old pine tree in one of Stockholm, Sweden’s many nature preserves. I think Tom would appreciate the bed of pine needles and nearby clear lake. On the hike out of the preserve, my nephew told our guide that Tom was “the kind of uncle who lets you set things on fire in the garage.”

Hearing how others remember my husband fills me with love, for him and for them. Setting things on fire in the garage may not seem sweet, but I remember Tom planning before my nephew’s visits to have certain flammable items available and others tucked away. He had safety protocols in mind. Setting things on fire with that boy was an act of mentoring, trust building, and love. Sometimes my husband’s sweetness showed up as setting things on fire. Sometimes it showed up as making a video apology for not sharing his wheelchair.

One of the best reasons I can think of to keep talking about our dead loved ones is that it strengthens our relationships with the living. Knowing that my nephew still vividly remembers setting things on fire with my husband and keeps the video apology makes me love my nephew even more. We share a deep love for Tom, we both feel shaped in some way by him. There’s a hole where Tom was for both of us. Neither of us is alone in our grief.

grieving

Help Your Loved Ones Follow Your Wishes: make a will + advance directive and have the difficult conversations

From the moment my husband’s stroke started, I had to make decisions for him: call 9-1-1, consent to him being transported to another hospital from the original one the ambulance took him to, authorize surgery to remove part of his skull to allow his brain to swell without causing more damage to his brain, and on and on. When he didn’t wake up after his final surgery, a year after the stroke, I had to make the decision to remove him from life support. After that, decisions had to be made about cremation and a celebration of life.

As difficult as all of this was, it would have been significantly more awful if Tom and I had not talked at length before I had to make those decisions about what we each wanted in the event that we couldn’t make our own decisions. We had wills and advance directives drawn up years before we needed them. The advance directive allowed me to make medical decisions for him; the talks about what we wanted allowed me to know with confidence when to say yes to care and when to decline it; and the will allowed me to respect his final wishes in terms of who got what and what kind of memorial service he would have wanted.

You may know that you need to have a will and advance directive, but you may not know how to get started on them, or you may worry that hiring a lawyer to do them will be too expensive. You may not know who to designate to make decisions for you in an advance directive. You may not be sure who to have the conversation with about your final wishes.

That last question may be the toughest because not only do you need to decide who to talk to, you also need to think through what you want and who might be making decisions for you. That’s a lot. You may not want to think about those things, and I get that. It may help to frame it in terms of making things easier for others. When you are able to specify what you want and share that with loved ones, you’re making their lives easier because in the event that they need to make decisions for you, they won’t have to guess at what you would want, which can lead to guilt and regret.

To help you think through what you want, I highly recommend the Five Wishes guide to end of life care. Not only is the guide set up to walk you through the difficult questions, once you complete it, you will actually have a legal advance directive—no lawyer required. A hard copy version is $5 and a digital version is $15.

As far as who you designate to make decisions for you, most people select a significant other, a sibling, or an adult child. You’re not limited to those, however, so you could choose a friend, a spiritual advisor, or someone else. Talk to that person about what you want and answer any questions they have.

If you anticipate that friends or family may object to decisions the designated person makes, it’s ideal to talk to those folks and assure them that the designated person knows what you want. If that isn’t possible, the next best option might be to tell the designated person what kinds of objections to expect.

When it comes to writing up a will, if you have a simple estate, no minor children, and don’t anticipate people contesting your will, you don’t need a lawyer. Laws differ from state to state, but in Colorado (where I live), a will is considered legal and binding as long as two witnesses have signed it OR you’ve had it notarized. This website will walk you through the process.

The #1 most important thing is to have these conversations and make these documents BEFORE THERE IS A NEED FOR THEM.