The Last Goodbye

Three years ago today, I kissed my husband goodbye for the very last time. He was on his way out the door for a six week exercise in Wainwright. Ironically, if he'd been deploying, I would have driven him to the base, but this wasn't a "real" deployment, it was just a routine training exercise so he drove himself to Y101. He'd been on countless exercises in the past. It never occurred to me that anything would happen to him while he was gone. Because what could possibly happen in Wainwright, besides a head cold?

Early that morning as I said goodbye, I had no idea I would never, ever see him alive again. I was blissfully unaware of what fate had in store for us twelve days later.

The truth is, we never truly know what the future will bring. When we say goodbye to someone we love, we don't know if that will be the very last time we will see them. When I said goodbye to Dan that morning, I had absolutely no idea that the next time I saw him, he would be lying in a casket in his DEUs.

In a casket. My husband.

"What are you talking about? He's only on an exercise!"

Only.

I sent him out the door that last morning with a kiss, and a bag of chocolate chip cookies Katherine had baked for him the night before.

"I'll see you soon babe. Tell the chilins I love them. And make them walk the dog."

The next time you say goodbye to the person you love, hold them a little bit tighter and give them an extra hug. Just in case. That extra hug might have to last you a lifetime.

Life is too damn short, don't waste it. Embrace it. Learn from it. Savour it. Savour each and every ordinary moment you get. Because you truly never know when you will no longer have any moments left.

This, I very much know to be true.

I'll see you soon babe.

Confessions From a Happy Widow

So apparently today is National Widow's Day. Honestly, I had no idea there even was a National Widow's Day, but I guess I shouldn't be surprised, there is a National/International Day for everything. Gin Day is my personal favourite.

National Widow's Day was created in the United States a couple of years ago (shortly before I became a widow) to encourage people to support and help out widows in their communities. One of the best ways we can support widows is to stop judging them. For the love of God and all that's holy people, stop the widow shaming. Just stop.

Many of our beliefs about mourning can be traced to Victorian England when mourning was governed by strict rules. In those days, widows were supposed to wear "mourning" for at least two years and they were not allowed to "enter society" for twelve months. Fortunately "widows weeds" are a thing of the past (thank the Dear Lord for that, I actually don't like black that much and those veils are just ridiculous) but the vestiges of those timelines still linger to haunt widows today.

When I was first widowed, I felt so much pressure to conform to that role. I felt as if I was expected to not just be a widow, but to play the part of widow: to spend the rest of my life as a negative, angry (military) widow, living a life devoid of any happiness or joy. Or love. Our society puts so much pressure and judgment on widows (widowers). How we grieve, how long we grieve, when we date, when we get remarried. The truth is none of those things are a yardstick of how much we loved our spouse. The widow that dates after six months doesn't love her husband any less than the one who waits ten years to date. The widow who gets remarried eighteen months after her husband died doesn't love her husband any less than the one who never remarries. The widow who visits her husband's grave every week doesn't love her husband any more than the one who hasn't been to her husband's grave in months (that'd be me). 

The Holmes-Rahe Stress Inventory ranks Death of a Spouse as the single most stressful life event (divorce and marital separation are numbers 2 and 3.) Widows (widowers) don't just lose the person they love the most; they suffer secondary losses as well: partner, co-parent, financial security, future plans, identity, sometimes even their (military) community, just to name a few.  These losses are compounded when widows find themselves facing judgment and criticism for not looking or acting like a stereotypical widow. As if there is any such thing. 

There is no one-size-fits-all rule for widowhood. We are twenty-three, forty-three or eighty-three. We have children. We don't have children. We have careers and we are stay-at-home moms. We lost our husband to cancer or suicide; in an accident or in war. They were plumbers, carpenters, doctors, and soldiers. We are the same and yet, we are all different. 

A few months ago someone actually told me I didn't look sad enough to be a widow. Because apparently I'm supposed to always have a perpetual aura of mourning (another memo I didn't get.) I didn't look sad that day because I wasn't. Sadness is a place to visit, not a place to stay.  I will always be sad Dan is gone but that doesn't mean I am sad. And that does not mean I can't have a joyful, happy life.

So just in case we haven't met, let me introduce myself. Hi! I'm Monica (the one in red.) I am the mom of three (almost) awesome children. I am a blogger and speaker and part-time university student. And yes, I am a military widow. 

Army Ball. April 22, 2017

And no, I don't look like a widow, I look like me (well without my glasses and with some fancy hair and makeup, I actually don't look like this most of the time, I have to be honest.) 

I look happy in this picture because I am happy.

As it turns out, I did not bury my happiness with my husband. I'm pretty sure I've already given up enough.

The Conversation You Need to Have

Shortly after my father was diagnosed with cancer, I found myself asking him what kind of funeral service he would like and where he would like to be buried. At that point in time we had no idea what his prognosis was or if his cancer had even metastasized (it has). But I'd read enough about lung cancer in the previous few days to know that this was a conversation we needed to have, sooner rather than later. In fact, it's a conversation we should have had long before he became ill.

Death is an inevitable fact of life, and yet it is a subject so many are reluctant to discuss. Most couples have no idea what their spouse's dying wishes are, let alone their aging parents. We avoid the topic because it's uncomfortable and because it makes us sad. No one wants to think about someone we love dying. Death is a very sobering thought. But it is also a reality we will all face at some point in time. If we are fortunate it is a reality that won't happen until we reach a ripe old age. But of course, most of us won't be that fortunate. Death rarely comes to take us gently in our sleep when we are 100. It often sneaks up on us when we least expect it. Sometimes it comes on an ordinary May morning when we are 43.

In truth, death is never gentle, especially for those left behind. It's excruciatingly painful, and it is an emotionally and physically exhausting process.

We can never be fully prepared for the loss of our spouse (or any other loved one) but there are some things we can do now that will help us when that day inevitably arrives.

First and foremost, make sure you have all of your legal affairs in order. This means having proper wills and powers of attorney. There is a business side to death, and it brings with it a seemingly never ending stack of paperwork. It will be much more difficult to settle your spouse's estate without proper legal documentation. And the last thing any grieving widow or widower needs to deal with is an estate that has gone to probate.

And you need to sit down and have that "just in case" conversation. It's not an easy conversation to have but it is vitally important.

I will always be grateful that Dan made me have that conversation before he left for Afghanistan.

He was very adamant about what he wanted for me and our children. He made me promise him that we would have good, happy lives if something happened to him (real happy, not pretend on the surface happy). And he made me promise him that I would not spend my life alone out of some misplaced obligation to him. In order for him to deploy and do his job, he needed the assurance that I would be okay, that we would be happy and that our lives would go on without him.

I had no idea at the time just how important that conversation would be.

That conversation was the prologue to this second chapter of my life. In essence, Dan gave me permission (not that I actually needed it, mind you) to move forward with my life without him; to be happy, to love and to eventually get married again. It is reassuring for me to know he would have approved of all of the decisions I have made in the last three years. When others question or criticize those decisions, I know in my heart I have honoured my promises to him.

Ironically, Dan and I never discussed funeral or burial arrangements, but I wish we had. In the days immediately following his death I had so many decisions to make. Burial or cremation? What kind of casket? Maple or oak; satin or polyester lining? Ceramic or steel urn? Open casket or closed?  A religious or non religious service? Would he be buried in the National Military Cemetery or in Nova Scotia? All overwhelming decisions to make when you are exhausted and grieving.  At one point in time I just wanted to scream, "I don't care, just put him in a God damned casket." The most difficult decision I had to make was where to bury him. It was important to me that he be buried with his comrades in Ottawa, but I also knew a part of his heart had always been in Nova Scotia, so I divided his ashes and buried him in both. I'm very glad I made that decision, though I know Dan would have shaken his head at all the extra fuss (and expense) the second burial caused.

This is why I recently found my self discussing funeral arrangements with my parents, I didn't want my mother (or my father, as the case may be) to have to make all of these decisions on their own, after the fact. It wasn't an easy conversation to have but it was absolutely necessary. Within a week or so of my father's diagnosis, I had all my parents' legal and financial affairs sorted out. I knew what kind of funeral they would like and where they want to be buried. It is a huge burden off of their shoulders (and mine) to have all of these issues resolved and out of the way. They don't need that extra stress. Living with cancer is stressful enough.

I was very fortunate that I had time to help my parents prepare. That is sadly too often not the case.

If you haven't had this conversation with your spouse (or your parents) you need to. As soon as possible. Death won't wait for you to get things done. So don't put it off thinking you have time. Because you really never know when you will run out of time.

Be brave enough to have a conversation that matters. Before it is too late.

It truly is the most important conversation you will ever have.

"It is the greatest wisdom, in time of health and strength, to prepare for sickness and death: he that really doth so, his business of dying is half done. ~ Richard Illidge

Happiness Is An Inside Job

Shortly after Dan died, someone told me I would never be as happy again as I was before he died (yes they really said that). Of course, I'm not the same happy as I was before he died (how could I be) but I am happy, it's just a different happy.

And just because I'm happy, that doesn't mean I'm not sad he's gone, that goes without saying.

But I'm far happier with myself as a person than I have ever been. The truth is, there were a lot of years when Dan was alive that I was desperately unhappy with myself.

For so many years, I struggled with feeling like I wasn't enough. I put so much pressure on myself to be the perfect military wife and mother. I spent so much time comparing myself to everyone else, and I always sold myself short.

They were so perfect, I was so far from perfect.

I wasn't thin enough or fit enough. I struggled with my weight for years after I had kids. I was so embarrassed by it that I hid behind big, baggy clothes. My kids barely recognize me in pictures from those years. I hardly recognize me, and not just because I was so much heavier (and frumpier) then, but because I was clearly so unhappy. Because I wasn't enough.

I wasn't organized enough. I was always behind on the laundry. I barely managed to plan meals day to day. And my house always seemed to be a disaster. Whenever my mother in law was coming to visit, I would spend the week before frantically cleaning and tidying because her house was always immaculate. I always worried it wasn't clean enough, never mind it was a 50-year-old PMQ with paint peeling off of the walls. Still not clean enough. I would drive myself and Dan crazy with it. And every time he would tell me. "It's not the Queen Mother coming to visit you know." Worse, it was his mother.

And I wasn't that mom. I wasn't the fun (though I am funny) mom. The one who organized all of the awesome play dates and parties. The kids birthdays would cause me massive amounts of stress every year (three birthdays in five weeks right after Christmas will do that to you). I hated birthday parties. I couldn't decorate a cake to save my soul. I made a Cookie Monster cake one year that looked so demonic I had nightmares for a week. And I didn't make amazing crafts and decorations for the kids' parties, they were lucky to get balloons and streamers from the dollar store. Thank the Dear Lord Pinterest and Instagram didn't exist in those days, or I would have driven myself right over the edge.  #isuckatcakedecoraing #ihatebirthdayparties  #pleaseshotmenow

And worst of all, I was just a stay at home mom. Just. We couldn't afford to buy a house or a second car. We didn't go on exotic vacations in Europe or the Caribbean. Our summer holidays were always spent visiting our families. There were many years we lived pay cheque to pay cheque.

Of course, while I was feeling like a failure for not having a career, many of my working mom friends were struggling with feelings of guilt for not being at home with their kids. The grass is always greener, but I couldn't see that at the time.

And they also were struggling with their own feelings of inadequacy. But I couldn't see that either.

I believed I wasn't enough.

And I was unhappy because of it.

It's taken me a lot of years, and Dan's death, to overcome my feelings of inadequacy. And to become truly happy with myself as a person.

Why is is we do that to ourselves? Why is it that we can't just be happy with who we are and what we have? Right now in this moment. Instead, it's: I'll be happy when_____.

Why is it that we think that in order to be happy we need more: a partner, a fancy car, an over-sized house in the trendiest neighbourhood? Or we need to be taller and thinner and more perfect as if there really is any such thing as perfect.

At the end of the day, none of those things will bring you real happiness, happiness has to come from within.

I will never bake fancy cakes. I don't live in a trendy neighbourhood, but it's lovely, albeit quiet. I don't really drive a fancy car but I love my Highlander. I might always be single (I'm not sure there is anyone out there who is brave enough to join this rodeo. Also, I do like to talk). I'm never (ever) going to talk less or not be an extrovert. I'm never going to be taller (damnit), and I might not lose any more weight. Someday I might learn to lead with my head and not with my heart, but I doubt it.

I am happy with who I am as a person. For the first time in my adult life, I can honestly say I am comfortable in my own skin; wrinkles, stretch marks, scars and all. I'm still not ready to embrace the grey hair yet though, give me time.

I love the me I have become and I am so proud of me. And I should be, I've worked damn hard to get here.

I am enough, in fact, I am more than enough.

I am perfectly imperfect.

And I am happy with who I am.


"Don't rely on someone else for your happiness and self-worth. Only you can be responsible for that. If you can't love and respect yourself-no one else will be able to make that happen. Accept who you are- completely; the good and the bad- and make changes as YOU see fit- not because you think someone else wants you to be different."~Stacey Charter

Just One More Day

My Dad has cancer, and not a good kind. Not that there are any good kinds of cancer, but there are earlier stage cancers, more treatable cancers. He doesn't have one of those kinds. He has inoperable cancer. Two words you never want to hear together. Inoperable cancer.

Late last fall he developed a cough that wouldn't go away, so he went to see the doctor thinking he had a chest infection. Instead he has cancer.

He's had it for a long time and had no idea. He's always been pretty healthy. He's not obese, doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, has low blood pressure. He has regular check ups with his doctor, and gets his blood work done twice a year. In fact the last time he got his blood work done everything was so perfect the doctor asked him why he was there. Only it wasn't perfect.

It never even occurred to him that he had cancer.

That's the thing, we never think it's going to happen to us. Until it does.

One day your dad tells you he's had "a bit of a cough". And then suddenly you find yourself sitting beside him as the specialist explains that the tumour is inoperable.

My dad wanted to put a new roof on the house this spring, and replace some windows. Instead he will be recovering from radiation and chemo treatments.

We always think we have time to do the things we want to do. Until we don't or we can't.

Last week someone said to me, "He's 75, he's had a long life," as if somehow that is supposed to be comforting. It's not. They are right though, he has had a longish life. And as he says, he's still got his feet on the ground, he's not going anywhere yet (take that freaking cancer). Which is good because I'm not done arguing with him. I consider myself fortunate to have had my dad for as long as I have. I, of all people, know that is sadly often not the case. But it's still not long enough, it's not nearly long enough. Not long enough for him, or my mom, or my brothers, or his grandchildren or me.

It doesn't matter how old we are; 27, 43, 61, 75. There is never enough time with the people you love.

We never ever think it's going to happen to us. Until one day you get a cough. You have a seizure. You find a lump. Your door bell rings. And your life is irrevocably changed.

So often we put things off, we'll get to it tomorrow.  I'll call dad tomorrow, I've just been so busy with work. I'll send her a message tomorrow, I don't have time today. Not today buddy, I'm too tired. We'll go to the park tomorrow, I promise. We'll go for a walk at the old farm next weekend dad, if it's not raining.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

We always take for granted that tomorrow is going to come. And if we are lucky, it will.

But sometimes we aren't lucky.

Sometimes there are no more tomorrows.

And you'll never get to keep those promises or send those messages. And you won't get the chance to say I love you.

Please don't put off until tomorrow what you should do today.

Pick up the damn phone. Call your father, and your mother too. Nobody is too busy for the people that matter to them. Nobody. Tell them you love them, as often as you can. They need to know. And thank your parents for putting up with you all these years (I really didn't mean to talk so much, honest). You wouldn't be the person you are today if it wasn't for them. And make time for your friends. Send your friend that message that you just haven't gotten around to sending. Nobody deserves to be treated as an after thought. Get your ass off the couch and take your son to the park. And go for that walk at the old farm with your dad, the fresh air will do you both wonders.

Today you still have a chance. Don't waste it.

Because you truly never know when you'll find yourself wishing you had just one more day.

Sometimes the morning really doesn't know what the day will bring.

Trust me on that one, I know what I'm talking about.

I love you Daddyo (just in case you forgot in the last hour).


"The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected."~Robert Frost

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

Another Year to Be Grateful For

As we sit here on the cusp of a New Year, getting ready to bid farewell to the old one, I can honestly say 2016 was the best year I've had in a while. Not perfect by any stretch, and not without it's sadness and challenges, but good nonetheless.

Last New Year's Eve I had absolutely no idea what the upcoming year had in store for me. I couldn't even begin to imagine the possibilities 2016 held, but I welcomed them all with open arms and without reserve. I was ready to tackle any challenge that faced me and to take advantage of every opportunity I was given. Little did I know just how far those opportunities would take me, literally and figuratively.

One day last January, out of the blue, I received a call asking me if I would go to Petawawa to share my story with some of the soldiers there. Without hesitation (I really do need a pause button), I immediately said yes. Of course, I had no idea that was to be the beginning of a new chapter of my life. As I stood there speaking to a battalion of infanteers, I couldn't help but wonder what Dan would have thought of it all. And then I could hear him saying, "You gave her a microphone and a captive audience, what were you thinking?" Actually I know he'd be pretty damn proud that I was able to find a way to use his loss to help soldiers and their families who are struggling. I can never put into words how much the response from all of the soldiers I have spoken to means to me. Since that day, I have had the honour of speaking several times. I have traveled across the country from Petawawa to Gagetown, Toronto, Kingston and Yellowknife. Yellowknife of all places. And in every single one of those places, I have been welcomed by old friends and new. I have met some of the most amazing, courageous men and women who serve our country. Men and women who have shared their stories with me. Men and women who inspire me every single day. Just as I have touched their lives, they too have touched mine. And they have become my strength.

When I first started writing this blog, I had no idea, of course, how my words would resonate with so many. Or that anyone would find me so inspirational. That's the thing isn't it? So many of us go through life never truly realizing the impact we have on others. I have been fortunate enough to get a small glimpse of the impact I have had on so many. And I am humbled by it. I am humbled by the widow who thanked me for telling her its okay for her to be happy (and it so definitely is), by the soldier who found the strength to not open a drink, by the one who called his mom to tell her he loved her after he heard me speak. I am humbled by every soldier and family I meet. I am humbled every single time I am asked to speak. I am humbled and I am incredibly grateful.

Grateful for the opportunity to make a difference and to give back. Grateful to those who believe in me, those who support me, and those who entrust me with their stories. Grateful that my story has inspired others. Grateful that I have given a voice to hope in the face of tragedy.

As I spoke in Kingston last month, I was overcome with emotion. So many dear friends were there to support me; friends from my very first posting as a young army wife, old neighbours, new friends. How very fortunate am I to have so many wonderful people in my life? I am so incredibly grateful for them and for the life that I had and the life I have. The life I have now is not the life I ever imagined myself having, but its a damn good one. And one I will never take for granted.

It is so easy to take it all for granted; our health, our people, our time. We are all guilty of that. But life is so very fragile. And often fleeting. 2016 reminded me of how tenuous it all is. This year a beautiful, gregarious young woman was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. My neighbour died mere months after being diagnosed with stomach cancer. A husband and father of three suffered a fatal heart attack while golfing with friends. All tragic, painful reminders to never take our lives or our health for granted.

The life you have may not be the life you envisioned yourself with or the life you want, but it's your life. And it's up to you to make it the best one that it can possibly be.

It is never, ever too late to make a fresh start. Every day you get is a new opportunity, a new chance to begin again, please don't ever squander that gift away.

And no, it's not easy. I know that all too well. Starting over is hard, scary and painful. You will make mistakes along the way. You may even stumble and fall. But you can pick yourself up and you can start again. I know because I've done it, many times. I will never tell you that it's easy but I will tell you that it's worth it. Truly.

Leave the past where it belongs, in the past. Don't carry it with you into the New Year.

C.S. Lewis said, "There are far, far better things ahead than any you leave behind."  I so believe this to be true.

Bitterness and anger won't heal past hurts, they won't bring back what you have lost. But they will ruin the future and rob today of it's joy. And today really is the only day that is ever guaranteed.

My New Year's wish for you all is that you see how very much you have to be grateful for. Even when you don't believe you do, you really do. You're still here. That's a good place to start.

And always remember someone else is happy with less than what you have.

Someone else is happy with less than what you have.

I have no idea what 2017 has in store for me, but I do know this: I am grateful for the gift of another year. I know it won't be without it's challenges and there may well be more sadness but it will also bring with it happiness and joy.

Gratitude turns what we have into enough, and so much more.

Be grateful for the gift of another New Year. It's a gift that far too many will not receive. Please don't waste it.

Hello 2017. It's nice to see you!

"Approach the New Year with resolve to find opportunities hidden in each new day."~Michael Josephson