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I've been involved in grief groups, and about 6 weeks ago started to see a counselor. I also find comfort in knowing I'm going through a "normal" process. I also find it very helpful to have an objective, professional person to help me navigate all of the new paths I must travel because of my loss. That includes dealing with family and friends, who may not understand how you're handling it all. I decided to seek out counseling when I felt overwhelmed with everything, and I needed more than the grief group. I think if you're feeling that you need help, then you're ready. I got a recommendation for a counselor from a trusted pastor at a large church, and I've been very, very happy with it. Just remember, one thing at a time. And it's ok to tell those around you that this is an especially hard time for you.

((((Randy)))) I so understand the "dog/loved one" connection. Bill gave Mrs. Dickens to me as a Christmas gift. But I think they were as much soul mates as we were! She's like the canine embodiment of him with all of her love and also her mischief, which should be gone by this age!!! So I can only imagine the loss of Daisy. Glad you have your new sweet pup to go through it with.

Karen, I'm so, so sorry for your loss. And for all that your husband went through. I can only imagine having to make that decision, and you clearly did it with love. Please be easy on yourself in these first days, and come here whenever you need to -- it does help and people understand.

I'm afraid this is going to get convoluted, but here we go. Several months ago I bought a book called, "How to Go On Living When Someone You Love Dies" by Therese A. Rando, Ph.D. I'm sure some of you have read it. I've heard from many people that it is one of the best resource books on grief. It's "matter of fact" and a bit clinical. Although I've read a few excerpts from the book within a grief group, I couldn't read it until now (it was too real). The past two weeks, I have felt an intensity in grief and was physically sick from it -- I mean, really sick. It's happened before, except that I didn't know what it was. It all made sense to me this time, because of the way I cope and process. It was another piece of denial chipping away -- this time a large chunk, and also a major release of pure sorrow. It affected my waking hours obviously, but the subject of being separated from Bill was entering my dreams almost nightly. It's like he kept showing up to say "goodbye" in all different ways. I felt assaulted with the awful reality. I can honestly say that in the past couple days since I went through the physical sickness (which happened a week ago -- on the 9 month mark), that the intensity has started to lift. I feel lighter, and have been able to get a new surge of strength and resolve. I've even started taking some baby steps to start really "living" rather than just coping. With perfect timing, I picked up this book again. Among other things, it explains what she calls the "confrontation" phase, which is "a highly charged and emotional state in which you repeatedly learn that your loved one is dead and in which your grief is most intense, with reactions to your loss being felt most acutely." It was such an "ah ha!" moment for me. I later realized that I was not only confronting the loss of my soul mate and my best friend, but in a new and deeper way than previously, I felt the loss of my marriage and our future. I know I have a long way to go and many more "confrontation phases" to face. But I got through this one, and the glimmer of hope is a bit brighter than it was before I went through it. The book also devotes a lot of space to explaining why grief is so unique to each person, and why people are often so unhelpful and seemingly insensitive in their responses to people who are grieving. (We can all relate.) I haven't finished the book yet, but I'm recommending it anyway. It has given me such a deeper understanding of grief in general, and why I'm reacting the way I am at different times. And why some people might not "get it" at all. It talks about "secondary losses," different types of relationships, and other reasons why grief is so individual. I can't remember who said it here -- I think maybe Debi (Wealthy), that you can't go around it -- you have to go through it. Understanding what it is you're really facing, I think, can help keep you sane as you take each step.

Ellie, I'm so sorry to hear of yet another loss. Hugs,

Ernie, You are a true inspiration. I've said it before, and I couldn't mean it more today. I don't have cancer, but your words hit me right where I need it. Thank you and many blessings,

((((Beachnut)))) Thinking of you today, on your birthday. May you find some joy in your memories of yesterday and in today, despite the inevitable sorrow. Many hugs,

I think the balloons are a beautiful idea. I found it comforting to look at cards I had saved over the years. He knows how much you love him and miss him -- I'm sure of it.

Someone in my grief group shared this with us all last night. Although it's based here in So Cal, it seems to be expanding. http://www.widowsbond.com There is also a place where you enter a couple details (birthdate, whether you have children, date of husband's passing), and they match you up with other widows in similar situations.

I'm so, so sorry to read this sad news.

I'm so glad everyone is sharing -- because we can see so many similarities. I have food and drinks too -- I have about 5 bottles of Bill's English Barley Water. I don't drink it, but I can't part with it. I think that's where you just wait until you can -- and maybe you don't ever, and that's ok too. I posted something in the Inspiration forum. I was going to post it here, but it's really beyond the subject of grieving. But addresses some of what we're feeling too. It's called "The Wizard of Westwood." An article about a UCLA basketball coach who lost his wife some years ago. Check it out, I think you'll all like it.

My friend sent this to me, and I wanted to share it. It's a little long, but worth the read. Written by a west coast sportswriter....... On the 21st of the month, the best man I know will do what he always does on the 21st of the month. He'll sit down and pen a love letter to his best girl. He'll say how much he misses her and loves her and can't wait to see her again. Then he'll fold it once, slide it in a little envelope and walk into his bedroom. He'll go to the stack of love letters sitting there on her pillow, untie the yellow ribbon, place the new one on top and tie the ribbon again. The stack will be 180 letters high then, because the 21st will be 15 years to the day since Nellie, his beloved wife of 53 years, died. In her memory, he sleeps only on his half of the bed, only on his pillow, only on top of the sheets, never between, with just the old bedspread they shared to keep him warm. There's never been a finer man in American sports than John Wooden, or a finer coach. He won 10 NCAA basketball championships at UCLA, the last in 1975. Nobody has ever come within six of him. He won 88 straight games between January 30, 1971, and January 17, 1974. Nobody has come within 42 since. So, sometimes, when the Basketball Madness gets to be too much -- too many players trying to make Sports Center, too few players trying to make assists, too few coaches willing to be mentors, too many freshmen with out-of-wedlock kids, too few freshmen who will stay in school long enough to become men -- I like to go see Coach Wooden. I visit him in his little condo in Encino, 20 minutes northwest of Los Angeles, and hear him say things like "Gracious sakes alive!" and tell stories about teaching "Lewis" the hook shot. Lewis Alcindor, that is...who became Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. There has never been another coach like Wooden, quiet as an April snow and square as a game of checkers; loyal to one woman, one school, one way; walking around campus in his sensible shoes and Jimmy Stewart morals. He'd spend a half hour the first day of practice teaching his men how to put on a sock. "Wrinkles can lead to blisters," he'd warn. These huge players would sneak looks at one another and roll their eyes. Eventually, they'd do it right. "Good," he'd say. "And now for the other foot." Of the 180 players who played for him, Wooden knows the whereabouts of 172. Of course, it's not hard when most of them call, checking on his health, secretly hoping to hear some of his simple life lessons so that they can write them on the lunch bags of their kids, who will roll their eyes. "Discipline yourself, and others won't need to," Coach would say. "Never lie, never cheat, never steal," and "E arn the right to be proud and confident." If you played for him, you played by his rules: Never score without acknowledging a teammate. One word of profanity, and you're done for the day. Treat your opponent with respect. He believed in hopelessly out-of-date stuff that never did anything but win championships. No dribbling behind the back or through the legs. "There's no need," he'd say. No UCLA basketball number was retired under his watch. "What about the fellows who wore that number before? Didn't they contribute to the team?" he'd say. No long hair, no facial hair. "They take too long to dry, and you could catch cold leaving the gym," he'd say. That one drove his players bonkers. One day, All-America center Bill Walton showed up with a full bea rd. "It's my right," he insisted. Wooden asked if he believed that strongly. Walton said he did. "That's good, Bill," Coach said. "I admire people who have strong beliefs and stick by them, I really do. We're going to miss you." Walton shaved it right then and there. Now Walton calls once a week to tell Coach he loves him. It's always too soon when you have to leave the condo and go back out into the real world, where the rules are so much grayer and the teams so much worse. As Wooden shows you to the door, you take one last look around. The framed report cards of his great-grandkids, the boxes of jelly beans peeking out from under the favorite chair, the dozens of pictures of Nellie. You think a little more hunched over than last time. Steps a little smaller. You hope it's not the last time you see him. He smiles. "I'm not afraid to die," he says. "Death is my only chance to be with her again." Problem is, we still need him here.

I've done some weird things with the clothes too. I know I pulled something out of the trash because it was raining too! I just can't remember what! I moved stuff around a couple times before actually parting with anything. I did what I did manage to do in stages. I never planned it. I usually had another reason (like I needed the space). Yesterday I actually peeked in the drawers where I moved Bill's clothes to find I had actually saved more than I remembered -- including his slippers. I have all his glasses -- I could go on. I've never found anything with the scent. That was something I was so upset about -- people washed everything. I remember the very day Bill passed trying to find something. It's nowhere. I think that's why I like the leather jacket, because it has a familiar smell, even though it's not the one I'm seeking. I actually have his pictures in every room. I have a wonderful picture I love on the desktop of my computer. And I love watching our home movie videos. They bring tears, for sure, but it's the closest thing I have to seeing Bill being himself, and us being "us." However, others in my grief group are the opposite -- cry looking at pics, and can't begin to watch a video. We seem split on those things providing comfort or upsetting us. I so agree with Beth that timing is everything, and the timing is going to be different for each of us. I've tried to force some things in the past, and now realize more than ever that it's the wrong thing to do. I think you actually hinder and prolong the roughest part of grief if you force it.

I've done most of the clothes. I kept many things though. I kept special shirts to give to the kids. I kept Bill's leather bomber jacket that he's had forever, and I snuggle in it sometimes. I kept a bunch of t-shirts and lounge pants that I plan to have made into teddy bears to give to family. But somehow I missed the sock drawer. And now I can't do it! So, the socks are there till whenever. I haven't taken any further steps though. Computer is still sitting in the other room as it was. Books are still on the bedside table with his reading glasses. Pics are still in the dining room. The house is as it was. But I sense I will make some changes there soon. I agree with Lillian about needing to not feel guilty when you find joy. I don't really. I feel guilty sometimes for enjoying something I didn't have before -- like a deepening friendship with a girlfriend, or when I enjoy a sense of freedom. But of course, it wasn't a choice, it's not a trade and it's not a substitution. It just is what it is, right? It is life moving forward or in some direction or another. I can't even believe I'm nearly at 9 months. It can't be, but it is. And I know Bill is STILL my biggest cheerleader! Hugs,

I couldn't have said it better, Ry. I found myself at work the other day talking about Bill as if it was the present tense. I did it at lunch today. I say the words "used to," yet inside I'm not truly acknowledging that "used to" means "won't ever again," if that makes sense. Wow. Thanks to everyone for responding and letting me know I'm not alone. (Great to see you post, Julia.)

(((Christy))) I'm so sorry -- what a horrible thing. I can't even begin to imagine what that was like for your dad. Can't imagine the pain your uncle felt to take that action. I'm sorry your family has to go through this.

Anyone else have this? It seems like I always feel worse after I've had a good day. Today for example -- I spent the day doing things I wanted to do (nothing terribly exciting, but made me feel good), then went over to a friend's house for a ladies shopping party. Had fun, bought a couple things, talked a lot, laughed, joked, felt part of the world. Then I came home and it's like I'm a different person. Melancholy, quiet and introspective and missing Bill so, so much. It's strange. Sometimes I wonder who the heck I am.

((((Carrie)))) I'm so sorry you and your sisters have lost a wonderful mother, your dad a beautiful wife, and your children a precious grandmother. Thinking of your family today...

Sophie, I'm so sorry for the loss of your mother. I'm glad for you both that you had that special moment of communication before she passed. Thoughts of you and your family,

Dianalyn, I'm so very sorry for you and your children. Please know that there are people here who understand. Be easy on yourself during these first days and weeks. Allow others to help you in anyway they can. Many hugs,

Barb, I too give you credit for taking the trip outside of your comfort zone. And I'm happy for you that you were able to share memories with your family and just enjoy them while you were away. I understand about "coming home." I think everytime we step outside of our comfort zone -- in small ways and large -- we experience the "coming home" feeling significantly and all that it brings. A "home" that will never be the same. That's so hard to accept. You took a step, Barb. A big one. I'm sure that nap was just what you needed. Hugs,

Laurie, I've been thinking about you lately. I'm so, so sorry. I know you were such an amazing support for Bill, and that he treasured your beautiful, generous spirit -- I know it. I'm so glad to hear he had a peaceful passing with you right there with him. The picture is lovely. I know from our conversations what an amazing man he was, and how he held to doing things his way -- good for him. Thinking of you -- many, many hugs,

I probably typically say "lost" or "passed," or "since Bill has been gone." I found myself saying "since he left us" for a while, then realized that implied that he did so intentionally, and I didn't like that. Sometimes I consciously say "died," simply to convey the reality (to myself more than anyone else).

(((Leslie))) One step at a time. You will get through it. And if you need to seek professional help (with the IRS), I would strongly suggest you do it. (I can't balance a checkbook either ) Hugs,

Diana, I'm so sorry to hear what you're going through right now. There is just no such thing as "being prepared," because none of us actually knows what we need to be prepared for. It's an awful shock when things just start to roll away out of your control. What the hospital pulled is just inexcusable. All I can say is to take it all one moment at a time. Allow people to help however you feel they can. Focus on your hubby and yourself in the moment. And know that there are some things that are out of your control, as difficult as that is. Hugs,