More of Everything

There is always more out there for us to discover and embrace  . . .

Strangers Become Friends

When walking down the street, with a destination in mind, lost in my thoughts about work or something happening in my personal life, I admit that I am not always aware of the people around me.

I know that physically there are groups of people or singular people walking towards or past me, but the details of what they are wearing or what they look like are an instantaneous blur.

It's not because I am walking and texting.  If I hear the ping of a text received on my phone and I need to answer it, I move out of the path of the pedestrian traffic and use my telephone keyboard in a self-made safe zone by an office building or a sidewalk bench.

I know that there are people on the sidewalk with me or in a store or a restaurant and I make sure not to bump into anyone but I'm not always looking at people and spontaneously saying "hello" or smiling.  Most of the time I think I am unaware because I need to be somewhere or need to get something done and it is almost as though I am on my own express track.

 

Photographer Richard Renaldi Poses Jenny Wood & Dominek Tucker
Photo Courtesy CBS News

I can't imagine what it would be like if I was walking down the street and a photographer asked me to stop and pose with someone I didn't know at all.  A total stranger.  Someone I might never see again.

 

I'd like to think that I would stop and that I would enjoy the spontaneity of the moment.  The unexpected things that happen to me sometimes make me stop and laugh at the amazing adventures that life can bring.

 

It's fun and it gives me a lift.  We all need those moments, don't we? . . .Those moments when the walls come down and maybe, just maybe, we're vulnerable in our actions.  And when we are vulnerable we are usually our most authentic selves!!

 

Watch this short CBS On The Road piece and see what these strangers on the streets of New York City discover about the human connection:

http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-18563_162-57596845/new-york-photographer-turns-strangers-into-friends/

Moon Landing

Today marks the 44th anniversary of man walking on the moon.

 

It is a historic date and a landmark event that people today still use as a standard or a call for national action on an issue as in "if we put a man on the moon then why we can't we......."

 

I think most people remember where they were when the moon walk happened.

 

With all the lights off in the living room of my parents beach cottage, my siblings, our parents and I watched the incredible, once-in-a-lifetime event live on television with the rest of the world.  We knew it was something very important because we were allowed to stay up and watch it and no one was allowed to talk. 

 

The televised black and white picture of astronauts Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin slowly descending the ladder from their NASA module to the surface of the moon was so grainy you couldn't always tell what was happening but you didn't dare move your eyes away from the screen because you didn't know what was going to happen next.

 

Many decades later, the moon event has additional significance for me because my late husband, Thomas O'Toole, was a reporter for The Washington Post at that time and he wrote one of the insightful front page stories describing the exciting yet tense moon event.

 

Photo Courtesy of NASA

While it has been nine years since his death, the anniversary of this moon event brings him back to me ever so clearly.  I think this is because he was a very talented workaholic who devoted almost every waking moment to learning and knowing everything he could about NASA and its space program.  He was fascinated by science and all that was associated with space and the race to put a man on the moon.

 

I asked him many times to describe for me what that day was like and what it was like to write the story as it was happening.  I loved to listen to him tell and retell the details of the newsroom atmosphere and what was going on in terms of getting the newspaper printed.  It was a tremendous amount of pressure and truly an example of deadline writing and reporting.

 

I write about him today because I -- and I'm sure others -- invest a variety emotions into special days whether those days are birthdays or anniversaries of weddings, deaths, or other special events.  Acknowledging my feelings about these special days is just one step of many that I have been taking to rebuild my life, our son's life and to discover new resources strengthening my resilience.

 

Writing about my feelings helps me sort through and process whatever it is that is going on in my brain and in my heart.  I also write about my feelings as a way of reaching out to others and letting them know they are not alone in the complicated and unexpected things they feel on their grief journeys.

 

There are many ways to express your feelings and in time you will find the right one for you.  Some people need to talk their feelings out while others prefer quiet projects like painting or photography.

 

I appreciate and adore all of my wonderful readers and today thank you very much for allowing me to share the feelings about my husband that caught me off guard and took my breath away on this special anniversary.

 

I tried to find my husband's story from July of 1969 but when I Googled for it, this is all I could find:

 

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/national/2000/popup0721.htm

 

Keeping Love In Your Heart

The best and most beautiful things in the world

 

 cannot be seen or even touched --

 

they must be felt with the heart.

 

                                    ~ Helen Keller

 

 

 

The human heart is an amazing organ isn't it?  We fall in love, break up, and then perhaps fall in love over and over again, testing the resiliance of our courageous yet vulnerable hearts.

 

Somehow, throughout our lives, we ride this emotional rollercoaster and our hearts manage to survive the ride and keep on beating. When a relationship doesn't work out, we are sad but eventually we pick ourselves up and carry on until we meet the next person who catches our fancy.   

 

We must keep love in our hearts for love teaches us everything about the richness of life.
 

A Friend's Good Bye Letter

Last week a childhood friend of my father's died.  They had known each other since they were in grade school and met each other while playing on the black top when they were about seven or eight years old.  They both went on to attend the same high school, playing basketball, and later both went into the insurance business working for different companies.

 

 

Over the years, they stayed in touch with each other as best they could.  They both worked very hard while trying to raise large Irish Catholic families.  My father and mother had six children and my Dad's friend and his wife had eight children.  Our families didn't really mix, not because we didn't want to, but more because the ages of the children were different we didn't live close to their neighborhood and there basically was just too much stuff going on to try and coordinate anything.

 

When you have known someone for as long as my Dad and his friend knew each other it is hard to let go.  My Dad knew that his friend was not well but didn't know how sick he was until he received the news of his friend's death.  One way to keep the person connected to you is write a letter to the person now deceased.  I don't think this is morbid.  In fact, I think it's very healthy.

 

The person who died is someone who had an important place in your life.  The person is physically gone but the friendship is still there.  Sharing memories -- whether it's through writing a letter or talking to others about this person -- is a healthy way to process your feelings of grief and to establish  to yourself that the friendship or perhaps love in other cases, is still there and will always be.

 

 

Now my Dad is writing a letter to his friend's widow and their adult children about his special friendship with this man and it is bringing back a lot of great memories for him which he hopes will also be a comfort in the days and years ahead as they and my Dad work through their loss.

 

Don't ever unestimate the importance of a note written from the heart.  After my husband died, I received cards from people who worked with my husband or were friends with him and some wrote notes to me about how they knew him and their experiences with him.  I saved those cards because those notes were like little pieces of a puzzle that was my husband.  Sometimes the stories caught me by surprise and other times I only knew the story from my husband's point of view and the handwritten note reveal a different side of him to me.

Let me be honest, sometimes the stories weren't always the best but either way, the notes were part of dealing honestly and openly with our feelings of grief and trying to find comfort in reaching out and sharing.
 

That's What Friends Are For

This is a beautiful and moving story about a husband and wife and their love and respect for one another.

 

Sadly, the time recently arrived for one of them to say good-bye to the other.

 

In the following column by The Washington Post's Courtland Milloy, he writes of the spirit of the union between Washington Post reporter Lynne Duke and Washington Post editor Phillip Dixon in the essential phrase "sometimes yin and yang, sometimes nitro and glycerin."

 

Milloy is an awesome friend, doing what friends do best, offering emotional support and condolences to Phillip Dixon, and at the same time establishing that important and necessary connection to his deceased friend Lynne Duke, making sure that others know what a special person and reporter she was while she worked at The Washington Post.

Friends want to take care of you and provide comfort when they see you in pain and we should let them.  Sometimes they don't even need to say a word.  When I was with my friends, they let me cry, they listened to me talk about how unreal it felt and sometimes they gently held my hand.  That meant the world to me and I still remember those gestures of friendship after my husband died.

My thoughts and prayers are with you Phillip.

Photo Courtesy of Rodney Brooks
Former Washington Post journalists Lynne Duke and Phillip Dixon
 enjoy a Valentine’s Day party

After death of a fearless Post reporter,
her husband reaches out

By Courtland Milloy, Published: April 23

When Phillip Dixon called to say that his wife, Lynne Duke, had died after a long bout with cancer, I did what friends do and put myself at his disposal.

 

“What you can do,” he said, “is look me in the eye and tell me that we’ll get through this, that everything is going to be okay.”

 

A simple request. But en route to his home in Silver Spring, it occurred to me that saying those words was not the same as believing them. I’ve heard people tell mourners things such as “Life goes on” and “This too shall pass.” But I couldn’t imagine such cliches actually bringing comfort to a grieving soul. And Phil would certainly know if I were just mouthing the words.

 

He and Lynne had both worked at The Washington Post. He was a gifted editor, able to intuit what writers were trying to say and help them say it better. She had been one of the newspaper’s most graceful and evocative writers. In 1995, at age 38, she became the Johannesburg bureau chief — the newspaper’s first African American female foreign correspondent.

 

They married in 1999, soon after her return.

 

Lynne died at their home Friday. She was 56. The professionals at Montgomery Hospice had helped Phil care for her until the end. He was grateful for their service and greeted me at the door with a hug. Men, especially hard-boiled 61-year-old former editors like him, don’t usually reach out so unabashedly for emotional support. In fact, we guys are often reluctant to show any kind of feelings that might make us look weak or needy.

 

Caring for Lynne during her struggle with lung cancer, however, had helped Phil see that such feelings do not make us look weak, just human. In reaching out, he was teaching me a thing or two.

“Lynne used to tell me that I wasn’t ‘present’ when we talked,” he recalled. “I’d say: ‘What do you mean? I’m right here.’ Now I know what she meant: being totally immersed in our conversations, intellectually and emotionally, in the moment, in the here and now.”

 

Ouch, I was guilty, too. Being present meant listening, not just hearing. If you told me about a problem, I’d feel compelled to give you the answer — sometimes interrupting in mid-sentence, never listening long enough to know that you just wanted to talk it out, not be told what to do.

“I wish I’d gotten it sooner,” Phil said.

 

Don’t we all? But at least he got it. Some of us never do.

 

If anybody knew how to make her point, it was Lynne. Diminutive, 5 feet tall, she was known as the “Duke of Africa,” as fearless a foreign correspondent as there was. She’d covered much of the continent south of the equator — evading extraordinary dangers while chronicling the tragic reigns of Mobutu Sese Seko and Laurent Kabila in Zaire (now Congo), covering the triumphant return of Nelson Mandela from prison in 1990, and then returning as bureau chief to report on then-President Mandela’s effort to rebuild a post-apartheid South Africa.

 

“I am neither an Afro-pessimist nor an Afro-optimist,” she wrote in her 2003 memoir, “Mandela, Mobutu, and Me: A Newswoman’s African Journey.” Rather, she was an “Afro-realist” with “affectionate concern for and loyalty to the African struggle . . . guided by legions of African people whose lives are built on extraordinary fortitude, unwavering hope and profound humanity despite immense odds.”

 

Most American newspapers no longer cover Africa — or any other place in the world, for that matter — with such passion, let alone send African American women to do it.

 

Lynne and Phil made a perfect match — a writer and an editor who met in the newsroom, went on to live under the same roof. Sometimes yin and yang, sometimes nitro and glycerin. Often laughing, sometimes arguing, always loving and fun to be around.

 

“I prayed that she would go peacefully and painlessly,” Phil told me. “This morning, I got on my knees and thanked God for answering my prayers.” He looked remarkably content, not distraught as I had expected, but like a man who knew that there was more to this world than meets the eye, that he’d felt the presence of a loving spirit when he needed it most.

 

“Everything is going to be okay,” I told him, convinced.

 

“I know,” Phil replied, smiling assuredly. Then it dawned on me: He’d known all along. Just wanted a worried friend to know it, too.

To read previous columns, go to washingtonpost.com/milloy.

© The Washington Post Company

That's What Friends Are For

 

 

 

 

This past weekend I met up with three of my best girlfriends to celebrate my recent birthday.

 

I have known these special women for decades and we have been through a lot with each other and for each other.  Birthdays, weddings, funerals, break-ups, new jobs, new houses, vacations -- we have been through it all! 

 

The beauty of being friends for a long time is that you don't have to explain everything.  One person can mention a certain situation or a person's name and we know right away what that means.  We know the things that make us laugh and the things that drive us crazy.

We always celebrate each other's birthdays and this time we went to a small French cafe in Georgetown for brunch.  It was misty and rainy outside and the inside of the restaurant was quiet and cozy.  No one was in a hurry and we settled in for a few hours and just enjoyed each other's company.

What a treat!!!!

Each one of my friends is a treasure and I love all of my girlfriends.  Real friends are made one at a time and sometimes through a shared activity.  I have some special friends I have gotten to know because our sons went to school together and I have other friends I have made through work and volunteering. They are the butter on my bread, the icing on my cupcakes.  They are the people that I cry, laugh and heal with.

All of them add that extra special something that makes me pause and say to myself, "I am lucky to know her and have her as a friend."

I find that my friends provide a layer of protection against life's setbacks and disasters.  I try to comfort and listen to their ups and downs as they do for me.  A true friend is a connection to life.

Friends care about what is going on in your life and with them you can always be yourself.  You can spill out your thoughts, even when they don't make any sense, and your friends take the time to figure it all out and make you feel that it's okay.  Or in my case, sometimes my friends put me back on the right track when I have lost my way....Thank goodness for that!!!!!

I need hugs and smiles and laughter.  I think we all do. 

When we isolate ourselves, we lose an essential connection to people and psychologists report that cutting yourself off from people can make you sick because you keep all of your feelings and thoughts locked inside and your body can't take it.  Your immune system can become compromised and other conditions such as heart disease can develop.

Thank you my special, extraordinary friends and my great readers for being there and for being your wonderful selves!!!

As the saying goes, you have to be a friend to have a friend!!!!
 

The Big 300

 

 

Today marks my 300th post.

It's a personal milestone and truly a huge deal for me.  Big thanks go out to all of my family (especially my son, Ryan, who is my biggest blog cheerleader), friends and readers out there in the internet world who read Cry, Laugh, Heal.   You give me more than you know and I read and respond to all of the great feedback I receive!  And I hope to receive lots more feedback as I continue to write about the incredibly silly, sometimes sad and mostly spontaneous events that happen to me on my new journey as a widow and single mother.

I thought it would be appropriate to go back to the beginning, to the very first post I wrote launching Cry, Laugh Heal in December 2010.  This post is special to me because I had no idea what I was doing -- not that I really know now what I am doing -- but back then I really had no idea where Cry, Laugh Heal was going and what the reaction to it would be.  I just decided to jump in and try it and see what would happen.

 

When I read that first post today, I see a different person, a person still yearning to go backwards to the time when my husband was alive and well.  I still feel that way sometimes but now the feeling comes less frequently and not as strong as it did then. 

I definitely still feel passionately about changing the way people think about grief and trying to help people as they try to rebuild their lives after the loss of a loved one.  That's the reason I started Cry, Laugh, Heal: to open up the subject of grief and it's resulting resilience.  Grief is a natural reaction to a loved one's death and eventually it will happen to you whether you like it or not.  It doesn't help anyone when we make grief a taboo topic.

Everyone's grief journey is unique and certainly full of ups and downs.  I have found that for most people, the passage of time tends to lessen the waves of pain and eventually, the loss becomes less raw and more manageable.  One day, after many years, I had what is called a light bulb moment and finally realized that my husband would never want me or our son to be miserable.  I can't tell you how or why it happened, but it finally clicked in my brain that he would have wanted us to heal and find happiness.

To my great surprise, I have discovered that an inner strength does slowly build with the taking of each day as it comes to me.

I hope you enjoy reading my first post:

Clothes To You

December 23, 2010 

With the today's launch of Cry, Laugh, Heal, I’ll start by sharing an unexpected moment that helped me cope with my husband’s death.

Grieving can take you down some unpredictable paths -- sometimes revealing humor where you least expect it.

I learned the importance of having a sense of humor early in life while growing up in a large Irish Catholic family. If you couldn’t laugh at yourself, then someone else would imitate you until you did. So laughing and making jokes about life’s bumps in the road was part of my DNA, an integral part of my spirit, and it served me well until my husband died.

Suddenly, I found myself in this new role of being a middle-aged widow and single mother and I felt as though I was outside of myself performing some sort of high-wire act. On the one hand I was trying to move forward and support my young son, while on the other hand I was completely numb. As much as my family and friends supported me, I felt as if no one really got my “spin cycle” of emotions and what I was trying to handle.

I decided I needed to find others who had also lost loved ones and talk to them about how they managed to put the pieces back together and go on with their lives. I started going to group support sessions at Sibley Hospital’s bereavement group called Widowed Persons Outreach (WPO) and it was there that I found the emotional resources and freedom to talk about ALL the issues surrounding my husband’s death -- even the things that sound really irreverent and crazy to other people.

Talking about the emptiness, the surreal feelings, the memories and the loss of future memories was exhausting but therapeutic. But the best thing that came out of these emotional dialogues was that I unexpectedly rediscovered my sense of humor.

We were talking about what happens when you have buried your loved one yet their belongings – their clothes, their food, their books, most of what they owned – is still all around you. I jumped into the discussion and began talking about what happened to me one day when I was in the house all by myself. That particular day, I really felt like I was falling apart and all I wanted was some kind of contact with my husband.

I opened my cell phone, walked around the room and stared at it, thinking there actually was the possibility that something might happen -- a ring, a text, a signal of some sort from my husband. I know it sounds strange but when you are in the throes of deep grief and your loss is so raw, you are just hurting and not being logical.

I closed my eyes and imagined that he was hugging me. Then I opened the hall closet and took one of his tweed jackets off the hanger. I put it on and of course I immediately felt better. I smelled him in that precious jacket and I imagined his arms around me. I was comforted and torn up at the same time.

As I talked about this experience to my group, I said to the husky man sitting across from me, “Trying on his clothes really made me feel a lot better. Haven’t you ever done the same thing?”

Without missing a beat, he said with a completely straight face, “I gotta tell you. I have never, ever once thought about wearing my wife’s clothes.”

I totally burst out laughing. Something about the serious expression on his face, his delivery and the mental picture of this big guy in a small pastel sweater made me laugh so hard I couldn’t get my breath. And everyone else started laughing too so I knew that we had hit on something close to people’s hearts.

It was then that I knew life was going to be a little softer. Nothing was going to be great or wonderful; just slightly more bearable. For a long time, I didn’t think it was okay to laugh. I wasn’t supposed to be enjoying myself and besides, nothing was funny to me anyway.

There is a very thin line between crying and laughing. Many times you find yourself doing one of them and all of a sudden you are doing the other. But a good cry or a good laugh can make you feel as if a huge weight has been lifted and that’s what this blog is here to do.

Mommy Doesn't Shave Her Face

I was shopping at the local drugstore for Christmas stocking stuffers for my son and was looking at all the different shower gels being sold for men.  I was trying to figure out which one my son would use when my eyes traveled over to the section displaying men's razors.

Ahhh..men's razors.  I was reminded of a period of time right after my husband died.  My son was 13 years old and in the eighth grade.  A tricky time under the best of circumstances.  He had grown some stubble on his face but I didn't think it was enough for a razor.

I was new to being Mommy and Daddy and I was unfamiliar with how this was supposed to work.  I had bought shaving gel for my husband hundreds of times when I was at the grocery store but my husband had always bought his own razors and blades because he was particular about what kind he used.  I think the only thing I knew for sure about men's razors was that I shouldn't borrow them to shave my legs because guys hate that.

Shaving is a Father's territory.  Fathers are the ones who usually teach their sons how to shave so they don't cut their faces and walk around with pieces of tissue stuck on it.  But this was the first of many situations where I would need to talk to a guy to figure out what would be best for my son. 

I now see that the facial stubble was his body's way of telling me that he was leaving Mommy World and crossing the proverbial bridge over to Male World.  Shaving is a male milestone.  Little boys are always looking in the mirror, putting shaving cream all over their face and pretending they are shaving just like their Dads.  I don't know what I was waiting for but I'm so glad that the father of one my son's good friends brought it to my attention.

We were sitting on the bleachers during a school basketball game, cheering and yelling and talking all at the same time.  Between scores and penalty buzzes, we were watching our children run back and forth on the basketball court.  As we talked, he casually said something along the lines of, "I just got my son his first razor and I don't know if you've noticed but your son is ready for one too."

He had my full attention at that point.  If I had a daughter, I would know exactly what physical signs to look for as her hormones kicked into gear and what do to when I saw them.  But I was now in unfamiliar territory as a parent and I needed other parents in a way I hadn't before.

Since the day I learned I was pregnant, I have always enjoyed commiserating with other parents.  As parents, we're always comparing stories and experiences, mentally filing away what we think is good solid advice to be used at a later time, and deleting the stuff we don't think pertains to our children.

I will always be grateful to this father, and our bleacher conversation opened the door to lots of talks with male friends and relatives about guy issues.  I don't know what it feels like to be a little boy, a teenage guy or a young man.  I did follow up on his advice and went to a close male relative who jumped at the opportunity to take my son shopping for his first razor.

It was bittersweet when they came home from their shopping trip and showed me what they bought, but I was also comforted by the knowledge that I know some special men who are enthusiastic about helping me and my son.  Being a parent is already  unpredictable enough all on its own.  When you find yourself in the position of being Mom and Dad by yourself, it's all about reaching out to other parents and putting your child's needs first.