Finding Monica

Who are you? I've literally asked myself that question a thousand times over in the last almost three years. I've even had the The Who song (the one that is theme song on the TV show CSI) stuck in my head for months. You know the one: Well, who are you? Who are you? Who, who, who who? I really wanna know? (you're welcome for the ear worm, by the way).

When Dan died my whole world was turned upside down, and for a while, I felt like I'd lost myself.

I had so many unanswered questions. How would I support my children? Where would we live? What was I going to do with the rest of my life? Who am I? Fortunately some of those questions were answered within a few days but two critical ones remained:

1. What was I going to do with the rest of my life?
2. Who am I?

I really had no idea what the hell I wanted to do with the rest of my life. But I did know one thing with utter certainty:

I did not want to spend the rest of my life as Lieutenant Colonel Bobbitt's widow.

Of course I will always be Dan's widow but that is not WHO I am, and it's certainly not WHAT I do (which is a good thing because I'm actually a pretty mediocre widow and when I do something, I usually don't do it by half measures.)

I am so much more than what I have lost. I am not just Dan's widow as I was not just Dan's wife.

I am not what happened to me.

Do you remember who you were before the world told you who you should be?

I do. And much more importantly I know who I am now. And who I am is who I want to be.

Widowhood forced me to evaluate not just my life, but who I am fundamentally as a person. I have gotten to know myself really well over the last few years. The good, the bad, the ugly. And as it turns out, I actually like myself, and I'm proud of the woman I have become.

Inside, I'm still Monica but I'm a different version of her then I was three years ago. This is the Monica who knows all too well that life can change in one tragic moment, and so she no longer takes anything for granted. This one is more grateful and more compassionate. This is the Monica who loves fearlessly and fiercely. The one who says what she thinks (okay that hasn't changed, I just do it much more publicly now.) The one who isn't afraid to take risks or to try new things. The one who refuses to live life with regrets. This Monica is much more self assured and confident. She knows not only who she is but where she wants to be and what she wants to do with the rest of her life.

This is the gift widowhood has given me.

It has given me Monica.

None of us could possibly say we are exactly the same person as we were when we were say twenty, before life happened. I know I can't. I'm definitely not the same person I was back then. Before I became a wife. Before I became a mother. Before I became a widow.

Once upon another life, I wanted to be a counselor. I went to university, wrote my thesis, graduated, and then I got married. Dan finished his training and we moved to a military town with no university nearby. And that was that. As is sometimes (often) the case, my career aspirations were put on hold for Dan's military career. I always planned to go back to school, eventually. But of course eventually never came, as it so rarely does. Postings, children, deployments, there was always a reason not to start, and eventually, with each passing year, my desire to be a counselor faded away. I've never once regretted that decision. I was actually happy I could stay home with my kids, I liked being there for them when they came home from school, I still do (except for when they come home cranky). In a life that was often fraught with upheaval, I was the one constant in their lives. But now they are starting their own grown up lives. Next year my baby will go off to university and I will be an empty nester, starting another chapter of my life.

It took me a while but I finally figured out who I am and what I want to do with the rest of  my life

Eventually is finally here. Next week I start my first university course since I graduated many moons ago. Not in counseling, I ruled that one out. It takes a very special kind of person to be a counselor and I know that's not me. Counseling clients day in and day out is emotionally intense. I'm not sure I would ever be able to leave all of that sadness at the office door. I am taking a psychology course though, in human resilience and when VAC sorts out my paperwork, I will start my certificate in creative writing.

Because as it turns out, what I really want to do with my life is exactly what I've been doing for the last year. Writing, speaking, advocating.

Funny how the answer was staring me right in the face the whole time.

I love people. I love talking to them and hearing their stories. I love being able to help them find perspective for their problems. I love giving back. I am so fortunate I've been given an opportunity to do all of those things.

And as for the other question.

Who am I?

I am a mother, daughter, sister, friend, military widow, writer, speaker, blogger, advocate, student. I am all of those things and so much more. And most importantly, I am exactly who I have chosen to be.

I am Monica.

"I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become."~ Carl Jung

The Things We Need To Say

When I was a kid, my mom would always tell me that time goes by a lot faster when you are older. I would always laugh (and probably roll my eyes) and tell her she was wrong. Then of course, I grew up and had kids of my own. And suddenly one day I realized that what she said was true. Time really does go by faster when you are older. Go figure, my mom actually knew what she was talking about. As painful as it was to do, I picked up the phone and called her and told her as much. I'm sure she didn't stop grinning for a month.

Even though I knew my mother was right, I didn't truly appreciate the value of time until after Dan died. It was then that I realized I had spent most of my adult life waiting for time to pass. Waiting for the next posting message. Waiting for the course to be over. Waiting for deployment to end. Waiting for the house to sell. Waiting for the kids to be out of diapers. Waiting for them to start school. It's very sobering when you realize you've spent most of your life waiting for your time to be gone.

Time that I will never, ever get back.

Sometimes you never realize the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.

I write (and speak) about time a lot. Because it is one of the most important lessons I've learned in the last two years: to never take my time for granted. 

It's so easy to get caught up in the day to day stresses of work and raising families, in the waiting, that we lose sight of this valuable lesson. Sometimes even I slip and forget, until a harsh wake up call reminds me. When my neighbour dies of cancer at 61. When my friends lose a friend to a heart attack at 49. When my friends' daughter suffers a sudden, life altering illness. All tragic reminders that life can change on a dime and that we can never, ever take it for granted.

The trouble with time is you always think you have more. Until you don't.

The other day I posted a link to an article on my Facebook page:

• I love you
• I'm sorry
• I understand how you feel
• I believe in you
• I'm scared
• No
• Thank you

Such important things to say, but things that many of us struggle with saying. Often we put off saying them because they are difficult to say. It's hard to admit we've been wrong or that we're scared. It's hard to say no. Or to tell someone that we love them.

I've said these things more over the last two years then I ever have before. Because I am very mindful that I might never get the opportunity to say them again.

The truth is I am scared sometimes. Scared of that god damn snake I stepped on when I was walking the dog (seriously 3000 acres of dykes and I put my foot down on a snake. It was dead, incidentally. I'm not sure if it was from me stepping on it or not). Scared that I might spend the rest of my life alone in this big old house. Scared that I will mess everything up.

I've never been a widow before, I've never been a single mother before, I've never even really had to date before. And well, you don't know what you don't know. Often, I don't know what I'm supposed to say or do. And sometimes I end up saying or doing the wrong things. But I have learned it's okay that I make mistakes, we all make mistakes. And it's okay that I don't have all the answers, I'm not supposed to. No one does.

Fortunately, I have the most amazing friends, friends who are always there for me, even when I screw up. I'm so incredibly thankful for you. I actually don't know what I'd do without you. I can't thank you enough; for always being there for me, for always listening to me natter and for being my shoulder to cry on, and also for kicking me in the ass when I need it the most.

My three kiddos have heard me say all of these things (and more) many, many times. We discuss them a lot. They know that I actually don't know what I'm doing sometimes (well, a lot of the time. I just make it up as I go along). They also know I do the best I can until I know better and then I (try) to do better. They know because I'm honest with them. Because we discuss it. And yes sometimes our discussions even illicit some eye rolling (it's okay K, if we're lucky someday you will be able to call me to tell me I was actually right, and I was, of course). 

And I tell my kids I love them every, single day.

These are things we all need to say, while we can, before it's too late.

I don't want to spend the rest of my life wishing I had told someone how much they meant to me. Or how much I appreciated them. Or how much I missed them. And that should also be on the list.

• I miss you

The people we care about need to know that we feel their absence when they aren't with us. We can't always be with our people, especially when we live in different provinces (or countries) but we can let them know we miss them. And how much we value the time we do get to spend with them.

It only takes a few seconds to send someone a message to say thank you or to tell them that we love them, or that we miss them or just that we are thinking of them. And yet often we don't make the time. We don't pick up the phone to call because we are just too damn busy, with work and life. We'll do it tomorrow.

Only, sometimes, there is no tomorrow. And you didn't say the things you needed to say.

Instead, you are left with a lifetime of regret.

The very last text I sent Dan was "Eaves trough is up!"

Not I miss you or I love you.  Because I didn't know that would be the very last thing I ever got to say to him. I thought I had all of the time in the world to say all of the things I needed to say.

The trouble is you always think you have more time to say the things you need to say. Until you don't.

I'm sorry (the garage is a mess). Thanks (for putting up with me for all of these years). I miss you.

The eaves trough is up.

It takes two seconds to say I love you.

Say it as often as you can while you still have the chance.

Because you never know when that chance will be gone.

It only takes two seconds.

I love you.


"The regret of my life is that I have not said 'I love you' often enough"~ Yoko Ono

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You Only Regret The Chances You Didn't Take

I was out for my walk this morning when one of the old gaffers from the neighbourhood stopped so his dog could meet Ginny. Of course we ended up chatting for a while, well actually more than a while, because you know me, no conversation is ever brief.

It turns out he'd been meaning to say hello to me for weeks, in fact he'd even tried to catch up to me a couple of times when we were out walking, but apparently "for a shorty" I walk fast (that's what happens when you are being dragged by an 80 pound black lab). Some of the neighbours had told him who I was (it's like living in PMQs, only with retirees, everybody knows everything). He told me he often sees me out with the dog, and I always seem so happy. Apparently he didn't see me the day Ginny dragged me into the muddy ditch, I wasn't so happy that day.

As we were talking he told me a little bit about himself, and I discovered we have something in common. He's a widower. His wife of 53 years passed away three years ago, so he "can kind of understand what you've been going through. But it warms my heart to see you out there, living life. Life's too short to waste being miserable". Amen to that my new friend.

He moved to the neighbourhood last year too, "all the way from BC." Turns out he moved for "a girl" (he blushed when he told me). She lost her husband around the same time he lost his wife, and they'd all been friends, and "well you know, we decided why the hell not, we like each other, so I packed up and I followed her here, it was the best decision I ever made. You only regret the chances you don't take, you know. But I don't think I need to tell you that, you don't seem like the kind of person who will live life with many regrets. Something tells me you are going to have a wonderfully, happy life."

And there I am, on a Monday morning on Main Street in Wolfville, getting a hug from an old gaffer I've just met, crying because he's just so sweet and I'm once again reminded of how fortunate I really am. I wish all Mondays could start like that.

I've thought about our encounter a lot today. He's right, I really do try to live life without regrets. I make the most of every opportunity I'm given because I know I might never get that chance again. When I look back on my life, I don't want to say, I wish I had, I want to say, I'm glad I did, even if things didn't always work out. And sometimes they won't, and that's okay. At least I'll know I took the chance. Because like my old gaffer said, in the end, you only regret the chances you didn't take.

“IN THE END… We only regret the chances we didn’t take, the relationships we were afraid to have, and the decisions we waited too long to make.”~Lewis Carroll