My whole life I have been told, “You are the strongest person I know.” I had less than an ideal life growing up, although there are certainly far worse circumstances out there. For that, I am grateful. It was hard, nonetheless, I struggled, I fought, I wept. I clawed myself out of less-than-ideal circumstances though, with a sight on a life that I knew could be better.

The fight and struggle to get to that sight was not easy. It was not easy going to college with a 16 hour course load, work 40+ hours a week, live on my own, with no support from my parents. It was hard watching my peers live the “typical” college life, partying, making new friendships, and living a life without responsibilities.

It was hard trying to convince myself that all my hard would pay off. That although a hard life, making the difficult–but right–choices were well worth it.

And I nearly believed all of this, especially when I met Joe. The man I could have never dreamt of. He was perfect in every way, and treated me better than a queen, better than I ever deserved. He gave me purpose, unconditional love for the first time in my life, and a beautiful life.

When Joe was diagnosed with Stage IV colon cancer, I nearly convinced myself that I was wrong. That making hard, but right, choices have not paid off. That staying the course, working extra hard, just didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that I defied statistics and odds of the life I was brought up in, I still got “screwed,” for a huge lack for better terms. I still got the short end of the stick, despite trying to walk the right path, my entire life.

Then the dreaded words came again. I’ve heard them more since the night of June 20, 2013 than I ever care to hear them again.

“Kristina, you are the strongest person I have ever known.”

“I don’t know how you do it. You’ve always been the strongest person out there.”

“You always rise to the occasion. You have always shown strength your entire life.”

Honestly? I didn’t want to hear how strong I was. I knew everyone told me these “strong” quotes, as a compliment. They simply were not. They were a slap in my face. They were a reminder that hard has always been on my path in life. They were memories of a life I tried to get away from. Being strong is hard, and I simply feel that I can never get away from it.

As I reflect on the statement of being strong, I realize and have just recently started to admit out loud that I have never felt a choice of being strong. I never felt in critical moments through my life, to give up was an option. I never felt like I got to choose if I wanted to take an easier road. I never felt like the choice was there for me. God simply did not provide it. He gave me one option–to be strong.

I curse it most days. I do wish many days I could give up on life. That I could lie in bed, not care about my career, and be okay with being a mediocre parent. I long for the days of just not caring what others think, what others expect of me. I most certainly wish for days that I could let go of the perfectionism I expect out of myself in my every role I play in life.

The alternative though? The alternative is to not have those in my life that pushed me for greater. The alternative is not giving back to other students whom I see my teenage self, when I look into their eyes. The alternative is to allow my husband’s fight against cancer and his death to be done so in vain. The alternative is to allow those fighting for their life with their loved ones to feel alone in the fight, much like I did. The alternative is not be the type of mother Joe chose for his son.

The alternative is to live a life I didn’t want to live growing up.

Even though “being strong” feels like a curse most days, the alternative consequences of not being strong is not something I could live with.

Being strong is not an option. It just being strong.

–Kristina

Have you ever bumped into someone who has recently gone through a dreadful time in their life, and you thought, “Wow, they look like they are doing good?” You know–because they were smiling, maybe joked, and had small talk about the weather, those friends you have in common, or how busy life is again? Do you ever stop to think it might just be a charade, the most recent masquerade they are putting on, just to get through the day? Most don’t, but I am here to tell you, being an actress through grief is hard. Really hard.

I am not sure what I thought grief itself would look like. I guess I thought maybe I wouldn’t get out of bed for days, not brush my hair or teeth, and probably let my house look like a tornado went through it. But then my reality of grief slapped me hard right in the face, reminding me I still had a fourteen month old son to take care of, live for, and that his other parent wasn’t coming back to help with those things. That meant days in bed was out; hair had to be brushed because I had a job to report to, oh and the house that should have been a mess–no one told me what to do on those sleepless nights, that turned into days, so that one was out too.

In retrospect, I am grateful for how I grieved, even though it was, and is, hard as hell. More importantly, however, grief is really ugly, no matter how you handle it. And no one wants to talk about it. Until now. Because it is real, and it is raw, and it is so very ugly and painful. See if you can relate.

1. You know it is coming, but it isn’t what you expected. I knew grief was going to come. I knew it was going to be the hardest thing I would ever go through. I knew I would cry, without end. But no one told me I wouldn’t sleep for days; no one told me there were nightmares on nights you did sleep, leaving you gasping for air and drenched in sweat. No one told me everyone else would go back to their lives, and eventually stop calling and texting to check on me. No one told me I would feel abandoned, lost and forgotten about.
2. Insomnia. I had heard of people saying they didn’t sleep, but you know what they leave out? They leave out the part that when you don’t sleep, you become paranoid. Every sound outside, every time your house creaks or pops, every time you hear the wind blow, you are certain someone is at your house, hiding in the shadows, and somehow is there to take all you have left of your loved one’s belongings. On top of that, no one tells you that the insomnia makes you feel crazy, that you cannot focus, and that you are even more emotional without any sleep. No one told me you could survive for weeks without closing your eyelids. And that was scary.
3. Nightmares. Again, this is one that someone DID tell me was normal–or at least normal for them. People have shared they too had nightmares badly. But, like most things, until you experience them yourself, they are unimaginable in strength and mind consumption. After Joe died, if I was able to close my eyes, I would always be right at dozing off stages when a nightmare would rattle my core. These terrors were always sure to keep me awake again for nights that turned into days. They were always the same. People, usually men–those in which you could tell had worked outside, had weathered skin, came to my house and would take things. All the “things” they took were Joe’s. And I remember being in a panic, trying to make them stop, because that was all of Joe I had left. Yet they were taking more of him away from me. And the gasps for air would ensue, as I would wake up, pace the house, and then hear a noise outside. I was always  certain those noises were my nightmares coming true.
4. Drinking to dull the pain. This one is never easy to talk about–it has a social taboo and usually those of us refrain from talking about it. Of course in the moment, I never saw myself as drinking much at all. In retrospect, however, I realize there was more wine being drank, to dull something. Maybe to dull the pain, maybe to help me sleep. But the grief kept engulfing me, I was exhausted, and yet I didn’t get to just grieve. I was needed as a mom, as a colleague. And I just didn’t want to have to “be” anything. Life required me to do so though, and I drank wine more nights out of the week, than not. It was apart of my grief, and I must acknowledge it, though I am not proud of it.
5. Constructive grief. There were many sleepless nights that turned into days.Too many in fact. And there still are. I realize that the sleepless nights start happening, and can’t figure out why. Then I remember an anniversary, birthday, or monumental thing that is happening, and my subconscious takes over my ability to allow my brain to shut off and sleep.  Again, in retrospect, I am grateful for the many ways I had to constructively put my ill-fortune grief into positive means. I promised my husband I would finish my master’s degree just two months before he passed. That’s when I began my master’s program. All the homework, over 200+ hours of internship, and rigorous requirements allowed me to have the time to complete this. Not in an ideal way, but I was awake, nonetheless. And I finished, graduated with that degree. In addition, I don’t think my house had ever been so clean. I swept, mopped, dusted, and did laundry more than it ever needed to be done. But it saved me.
6. Duality. I could write a book on this term. This is the part of grief that doesn’t let me get away from it. I am certain it will burden my soul until the day I take my last breath. Duality is the moments you heart starts to feel happy, proud, anxious, excited again, but then it is overcome with sorrow because your loved one isn’t there. My son is the person who brings duality out so much. I often feel like my heart could explode because I am so proud of him; and in that very moment, as my smile is as big as it could possibly be, tears stream down my face. I try to swallow that lump over and over and over again in my throat. I know his Daddy would be so proud to be watching him do whatever enchanting thing he is doing in that moment. And I am stuck internally begging God to send me a sign his Daddy is still right there with us, in that very moment.
7. Grief sucks. It is freaking ugly, nasty, unexpected, and comes and goes whenever it chooses to. I hate it. But someone once told me, “In order for it to hurt less, you would have had to love each other less.” And in that moment, in those moments I cannot breathe because the pain hurts so bad, I realize–I would NEVER change how much Joe loved me, and  I loved him, in order for this to hurt worse. Grief sucks, because love is so powerful!

-Kristina

After loss of anything, or anyone, I have found myself in constant search of signs. Signs that although a human body is gone, their soul is not. That somehow their love, our love, is greater than just what the eye can observe and see. I have searched constantly, with great earnest, to prove to myself our love was so deeply connected, that it will live on for forever.

Many of those signs have been through our son. A son, who is beyond any mere word on a page that I could type: extraordinary, incomprehensible, something that is beyond what this world has to offer for an explanation of how or why in possibility.

His son was 14 months old when he took his last breath. The hardest part of this grief journey has simply been experiencing it, trying to explain on a moral compass, yet one with love and compassion, to an infant growing up with such child-like innocence. He understands Daddy is “up” in heaven; he often associates airplanes, helicopters, even the sunset that Daddy painted as his Daddy’s doings. I simply believe in my heart this pure innocence is something we all need more of in our life. I do not correct him; this evil world will taint him enough as the years grow on.

Despite these common misconceptions of his little mind, what I cannot explain are “moments.” Moments that no one else would know, no one else typically see, just moments. For example, when I was in another room and he was in the living room less than one month after his Daddy passed, I heard him giggling his deep belly, baby laugh and could not stop. As I peek around the corner, he is watching in earnest at something, someone; but I could not see anything. His face was clear that he was excitedly anticipating someone to do something, and then the hysterical laughter ensues at whatever he just witnessed. The interaction continued on and and on and on. I stood in astonishment, tears billowing down my cheeks, and then later clenched in a ball on my knees, begging God to let me see him too.

These stories could go on forever. I have witnessed so many, I have lost count. However, I have tried to write them down as savory memories of their love and bond that is deeper than any bond I have ever witnessed.

But just when I think life is the hardest, at the holidays nonetheless, I find myself unknowingly needing to sense Joe; needing to know he is near.  My son and I were eating dinner, talking about the day. His Daddy hadn’t been mentioned yet that night, but with a mouth full of food, he adamantly states: “Daddy told me he is getting me a school bus for Christmas.”

Shocked, I stopped mid-bite, and choke out, “Oh really?”

He nods his head in confidence, and repeats in his little munchkin voice, “He said it mommy, he told me, he is bringing me a school bus for Christmas.”

I know I am the lifeline between them, and I was not about to let that little boy be disappointed without a simple little school bus. Christmas Eve morning rolled around, and I had a mission: I needed a school bus. The local Wal-Mart did not have anything, not a small school bus, a picture of a school bus, or a coloring book of a school bus. Nothing! I walked every toy aisle twice, and found nothing.

TJ Maxx proved the same results.

Target was next. I even broadened my search to the school supplies, home decor aisles, and every toy aisle. The answer was the same: There was not a school bus anywhere!

I text a friend, and called another friend feeling the mounting pressure on my chest of a full-blown anxiety attack. I hadn’t had one in a long time, but I knew it was coming. I knew I needed a school bus. Friends said they would go out and look, not to worry we would find one. After tears over the phone call in the jewelry department I headed to the checkout line.

I didn’t think twice about which line to choose, I just jumped in the one that seemed the closest, and hung up the phone with my saving grace. And then-that’s when it happened. Target’s last attempt to catch my eye, intertwined with God’s grace and Joe’s deep connection to both Porter and I, was right there. Behind Target’s last attempt to get me to buy something, someone had ditched  a small yellow school bus, right behind the boxes of treats–RIGHT IN THE LINE I WAS STANDING IN.

I really don’t have words. I have attempted to process it for three days now: how adamant Porter was that his Daddy told him he was bringing a school bus to him; that I searched every aisle, multiple times, in multiple stores to find anything of a bus; and there is a bus, the only bus in three stores, deserted in the aisle I chose to check out in.

Those are my signs. They are around us every day. I am guilty that I fall into the trap of being so busy I miss some of them. They are there. And that is how I know souls and love never die when human bodies do- they are so deeply connected that they are there in our greatest times of need.

Even if it is just a small, yellow school bus abandoned on a Target check-out shelf.

–Kristina

The first holiday season of losing your loved one is devastating. You receive blow after blow just by the friendly “Merry Christmas” and “Happy Holidays” in the stores, gas stations, and grocery store. These strangers have no idea who you lost, or the depression and sadness that covers every ounce of your soul; yet, their well wishes for the holiday season are like a slap in the face, that stings so bad you can’t swallow the lump in your throat.

My friends and family were amazing my first holiday season without my husband, Joe. The events were planned, everyone, from my past and present, invited me to their family Thanksgiving’s and Christmases. Gifts were bought, activities were planned, surprises were made, all in an attempt to dull the blow that was inevitably going to happen.

And then the words, by every single person, chimed over and over and over again: “Just get through the firsts, they’re the hardest.”

Shaking my head up and down, I yearned to believe everyone was right. But then Christmas 2015 came. They were wrong. Every single person was wrong.

That first year–everyone is prepared to help you get through. They distract, embrace, and okay your grief. It is fresh, and it hurts like hell. It is your first year, you don’t know what to expect, and so “they” aka “society,” says the first year is okay to be sad, to grieve. They give you your right of passage to do as you please, just to get through the holidays. But why is the “first year” deemed okay to grieve, but the other years are not? Why is there less patience, understanding, comfort, those that go out of their way to console those of us who have lost the biggest piece of our hearts beyond their first holiday season of grief? Why is there an imaginary timeline that ends after the first anniversary of our loved one’s passing?

Christmas last year, just happened. I knew it was coming. I still stayed busy, put up my tree in an attempt to appear festive and keep holiday traditions alive for our son. But then Christmas Eve got here. We had already had our Christmas with my step-daughter, Joe’s parents, even my nephew. We got home from celebrating Christmas Eve with friends, and I laid that sweet precious, two-year-old boy down in my big, white, King size bed. I quickly retreated to sit on the couch and stare at the beauty and twinkling of our piece of the North Pole, in our living room.

And that’s when it hit me. The second I sat down, I panicked–it was here! I didn’t have plans for tomorrow; I didn’t know what to do; but Christmas was really tomorrow, and what should I do? What should we do? I wanted to do something to make the pain less, and the memories more. The steamy tears burnt my eyelids, then my cheeks. I gasped for air, and begged God that this was not happening again, I didn’t have to do Christmas alone.

But I did. And I couldn’t catch my breath, to make it all make sense. Not as many people asked for us to come celebrate; I turned down those that did- I felt like an outsider and a pity deprived outcast the year prior. The gifts were still there under our tree full of memories; but he wasn’t there beside me. I still didn’t have him. And it shocked me, when I didn’t expect it to–much like grief always does.

This year, I feel it creeping in on me. It’s very much here, but grief won’t come through the door until it is time to be a family on Christmas morning–giddy, excited, shared secret smiles across the room, winks at each other that we managed to bring joy to our baby’s face. The unexpected, surprise gift that we promised each other we wouldn’t buy won’t be under the tree either. It will just be me; and our baby.

If you are the one grieving, let it hurt. It will. Cry until you cannot cry anymore. Talk–about THEM! Even when it makes everyone else uncomfortable–keep talking. You need to, I need to. Although you are crying in the memory that you speak of, it helps your heart to keep them alive. Do whatever you got to do. Life is hard enough, it is not up to anyone else to deem how you should grieve, how bad it should hurt–or the timeline on how long it should last.

If you are a friend or family member watching someone in this grief, rather it be their first holiday season without their loved one, or their tenth, embrace what they need. They lost someone their soul was connected to, and their soul is still alive. Let them talk about their loved one; talk about their loved one with them. Love them, care for them; just be there.

Hold your breath if you have to. You’ve almost made it through this holiday season.

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