September 2014 

Hello World! My name is Daneen Lockhart. Welcome to my journey as a 46-year-old widowed diva. I love dressing up, wearing perfume, getting great haircuts, and hair color. I love makeup, beautiful handbags, great-fitting blue jeans, and no one can ever have enough shoes. Why not? You only live once, so why not look your best while you’re living your life?  I guess these are some of the many reasons my daughters started calling me “Diva Daneen” a few years ago.

I have been a licensed cosmetologist for a hundred years. I once owned a salon, and now I am a proud owner of a cosmetology school. I am blessed to be able to teach the students who have changed my life in more ways than I would have imagined. I thought I wanted to change lives by opening a school, but it turned out to be the other way around. 

Anyone who knows me knows how I curse like a sailor and can fight like a man. I have no filter, and when push comes to shove, I can throw a mean right hook. However, when I lost Shawn, I knew I would have to walk this walk with grace and dignity. I learned quickly I was in a fight like no other. I would have to fight with both my fists for my life and our children’s lives. My knight and shining armor was no longer here on earth to protect us. It is now all on me to fight for us. I feel it is the fight in me that has saved me from rolling over to die when I lost my one and only, my husband for 26 years, my high school sweetheart. father of our three beautiful children, but most of all, my best friend. I miss my friend. I know he wants me to continue to fight. Shawn always told me he loved how I could be a “girly girl” but could knock someone’s head off in 2.5 seconds flat if they pissed me off enough. 

I speak the raw truth. Life is too short to be anything but truthful. How can healing begin if you’re not truthful with yourself first?  I am walking into a new chapter of my life by beginning to write this blog. I pray I do not upset any family members with the details I plan on sharing, but this is my healing process, and I won’t apologize for doing what I feel I need to do to walk this journey without Shawn. 

A loss of a spouse, child, parent, friendship, relationship, pet, or job is a heartbreak that hurts to the core of our souls. I was hoping there was a healing manual with instructions on how to cope after a loss, but sadly, there isn’t one. So, follow along and let’s invent one together. I pray I can somehow help you as I am learning the many lessons of life after loss. 

Welcome to our story and my journey. 

Somehow, I found my way into a blogger’s world. I am not an author and have never written before. So why am I here? Well, it’s a beautiful, sad story that was cut short. I hope you will join me while I tell it. As I sit here with my two dogs and my grand dog on our sofa, I am trying to figure out where should I begin telling our story of two teenagers who fell in love in high school at the age of 15 and 16 years old? Do I begin our story with how we met or how we lost each other? Don’t all fairy tales begin with “Once Upon A Time” and end with “And They Lived Happily Ever After”? Our fairytale may have begun that way, but it didn’t end that way. I guess this isn’t your typical fairytale, so I will begin with our ending that began over 30 years ago. 

Monday morning, December 30, 2013

My morning started like every morning for me. I woke up, fed my fur babies, made a pot of coffee, started a load of laundry, fired up my computer to check out what my friends on Facebook were up to, and posted an inspirational quote. However, this Monday morning was going to be a little different for me because instead of rushing to get to work, Shawn and I both took a much-needed week off from work to spend time together. I remembered the night before he wasn’t feeling good, so I walked into our bedroom to ask him when he was going to get out of bed because we had planned to go to the grocery store to buy the party foods for the New Year’s Eve Party we were going to have the next night. He told me he still wasn’t feeling good, so I left him and went back into our kitchen for another cup of coffee. 

After some time, I decided I was tired of him complaining that he didn’t feel good and thought if I fussed loud enough, he would get up so we could start our week. Why on earth would he still be in bed? We had things to do… and we had also gone to the doctor on Friday because he was complaining of shortness of breath. They confirmed his lungs were fine and diagnosed him with possible anxiety. So, being the brat that I am, I went in and told him I was leaving without him after my shower. A few minutes later, he came into the bathroom with a cup of coffee, took a few sips, and jumped into the shower with me, just as we always did. Every day of our marriage. He asked why I was being so nasty to him, and I told him in my brattiest voice…Because I am tired of hearing you whine, and I want to leave in 30 minutes, then turned my bratty back to him. He got out of the shower and went back to bed. I finished my shower, dried my hair, put my makeup on and when I walked back into our bedroom and saw him in bed again, I told him if he doesn’t get up in 5 minutes, I was going to call 911, thinking that if I threatened him he would finally get his lazy butt up. 

The next thing I can remember is hearing a loud crash, and as I ran into our room, I didn’t see him in our bed. Where is he? I ran to the other side of our bed, and there he was. On the ground. My first thoughts were, “Oh My God… He passed out and hit his head.” I screamed his name, he looked at me, and said, Help me get dressed. I pulled up his shorts, and then time seemed to pass, and some moments are still a blur to me. 

I heard myself screaming, Don’t do this! At the time, I didn’t know what ‘this” was, but I knew we were in trouble and I needed to call 911. 

I have to stop here. I will finish up the worst day of my life in my next one. 

Hugs! 

Don’t do this!! 

He was trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t understand what he was whispering. 

No, Shawn, DON’T DO THIS!!!! I saw his cell phone on our bed. I picked it up and called 911. I can remember the operator asking what my emergency was, and I said. “I need help.” From this point forward, my memory is broken up into small segments of what was happening. 

I can remember holding his head as I was speaking to the 911 operator. I remember getting up and leaving him for a moment to put our dogs outside because she told me the ambulance was on the way. When I walked back into our room and saw him on our floor was the moment I realized I needed to do something, but I didn’t know what to do. It felt like I was on the phone for an hour while waiting for the paramedics to arrive. For some reason, I thought I needed to call our son, so while I was using Shawn’s phone, I picked up my cell phone and called our son and told him to get home. 

And then I heard the words as clear as day. Loud and clear… TELL HIM YOU LOVE HIM. I leaned down, put my lips on his sweaty forehead, and said, I love you, he whispered, I know you love me. 

The operator told me to roll him on his side, and with all my strength, I tried too. He was sweating and his eyes, OMG, his eyes… I was losing him. Shawn, don’t leave me, I love you. I love you, don’t leave me. LOOK AT ME!!!!! 

Shawn was making sounds, and I think trying to talk, but it sounded like he was speaking in another language. I couldn’t understand. 

I screamed at the operator and asked, Where are they??? She said they have arrived. I left Shawn again and ran to our front door. As I opened it, our son ran in. I told him your father is in the bedroom, as I ran outside screaming at the paramedics to get inside. 

I am positive more has happened, but my brain won’t let me remember everything, but the next moment I do remember is our son pulling me out of our room as they worked on Shawn. He said we need to pray. So he began praying the Lord’s Prayer, but I stopped him, because there wasn’t enough time to finish our prayer… I need to do something..My husband was dying on our floor, he’s only 48 years old. Why is God taking him from us? I began screaming at Him, Don’t you dare take him from me!! Don’t take him! Please don’t take him, I will take care of him no matter how you choose to leave him here with me. 

God had other plans. I heard them call the time. It was over. 

He’s Gone

The next moment of time will forever be engraved into my mind. I felt Shawn’s soul leave. I know this sounds crazy, but it was like I had an out-of-body experience. I could see myself sitting on the hearth of our fireplace. I could see myself sitting with my head hanging, my mascara rolling down my face. I saw my tears dropping on the floor in front of me. My hair was hanging in my face, and my shoulders slumped over. 

I picked my head up and looked into my son’s eyes and said, “He’s gone.” He said, “I know.” 

I have no idea how much time passed or what happened, but the next moment I can remember is that I am now sitting on our sofa staring at a policewoman who is standing in front of our fireplace looking back at me. I watched her look at our Christmas tree, look at the wall behind me where I had our family photos hanging. And then, I have no idea where these next words came from, but I told her, “Our story wasn’t finished.” She looked away with tears in her eyes. 

I think this is when one of the paramedics walked out of our bedroom and sat down beside me. He told me they did everything they could, and the time of his death. I remember looking at him and wondering why in the hell he would have to tell me this. He then said a few things more, but the only word I heard was, autopsy. I told him I understood, but seconds later, I had another meltdown and slid off our sofa to the floor. He told me how very sorry he was and left the room. 

What do I do now? 

I am now standing up. Then I did something that, in the moment, probably seemed strange given everything that was happening, but it was the only familiar, manageable action my brain could latch onto. I started gathering up the sheets we used to cover the sofa to keep off the dog hair and rolled them into a ball. 

I look back at the policewoman and ask her, “What do I do now?” She said, “You need to call your family.” 

This was the moment I had to make the first of what will be a million decisions I never saw coming. I have to choose who gets the call, the call where they find out we’ve lost Shawn. And then… OMG… MY DAUGHTERS!!!  They have no idea what has happened. My son was the one who broke it to them. I heard the scream from our older daughter as he made the call to her. 

So, who gets the next call? My oldest sister. I made the call while she was at work. I have no idea what I told her. The only thing I remember telling her was to tell the family. Next, my sister-in-law. Once again, I don’t remember what I said; all I remember was her shock, and then I handed the phone to my son to finish the conversation. 

This is where I shut down and have no idea how much time has passed, until the moment I am being guided out of the living room into our kitchen by my son and the policewoman. Why? Why are you bringing me in here? And then I got my answer, not because anyone told me, but because I heard it. I heard the wheels on the stretcher rolling Shawn out the front door of our home. The door he had entered and exited hundreds of times, but now, would be his last.

Mondays

I never understood why people hated Mondays. Being a hair stylist, I’ve always had Mondays off. When our children were younger, it was the day I volunteered in their classrooms. It would be the day I cleaned our house, did laundry, and cooked meals for the busy week ahead of us. And as crazy as it may sound to some, I looked forward to doing this. It was my quiet, no makeup day. Shawn was at work, and the kids were at school. I now hate Mondays. 

I lost Shawn on Monday, December 30th.  The day I realized I am now a widow. Within hours of his death and before I could begin to process what had happened in front of my eyes that very morning, I was forced to have to start making very important decisions while family members made calls to my doctor. “We need to medicate her.” “No, she needs something strong.” “Do you think she can handle horse tranquilizers?” 

Tuesday, December 31st. The morning I woke up from my medicated coma in our bed, without him next to me. It wasn’t a bad dream. Who cleaned my house? Who did my laundry? Where did that casserole come from? I didn’t know my younger sister slept here last night. And why is she shoving a pill in my mouth?  Isn’t today New Year’s Eve? Mom, we have an appointment at the funeral home, and you need to get dressed. Today?? Burial? Cremation? Why are coffins so expensive? Open or closed casket? Flowers? He is a dude. What color flowers do you order for guys? Will he wear a suit and tie? No. He hated suits. Music? Yes, but we have to play appropriate songs. Not Kid Rock. Obituary? I can’t remember my name, how can I remember all the family members? Time to take another pill. 

Wednesday, Jan. 1st. Happy New Year. Really? This is just a bad dream. Right? I don’t remember much of this day. Maybe it was shock. Maybe it was the medication. What I do remember is our doorbell ringing, but my family was informed I wanted no visitors. I didn’t have the energy to speak. So one by one, people were turned away. And where the hell did all of these casseroles come from? Wait, did I eat? Oh well, I’ll just eat another pill. 

Thursday, Jan. 2nd. Day 4. This was the longest Shawn and I had ever been apart. I walk into our bathroom. I see his coffee cup with the cold coffee he had brought into the bathroom the morning he died. I need to brush my teeth, I look down and see his toothbrush, unused, next to mine. I drop to my knees only to see his pile of clothes that he removed the night before. I crawled to them and buried my face in them. They still smelled like him. I need stronger medication. I am going to die. The pain is killing me. And if I hear the doorbell one more F-ing time, I am going to rip it off the wall. I don’t need another casserole. And why are people sending flowers? STOP this madness! 

Friday, Jan. 3rd. Tomorrow is Shawn’s service. Daneen, what will you wear? Huh? Somehow, I was talked into leaving the house because it was determined that I “needed” to get out. Our son bravely drove me and his two sisters shopping for our funeral outfits. Is this what they think is going to be good for me by “getting out?” In my medicated fog and no food for days, I was still able to find a dress to wear and decided I would wear the cowboy boots that Shawn had given me a few years prior. The ones my granddog chewed the tip off and broke my heart. The ones Shawn had gotten repaired and surprised me 9 days ago on Christmas morning with my old beloved boots all shined up. 

Saturday, Jan. 4th. Daneen, wake up, you need to start getting ready. Today is the day. I must be strong. I must walk this walk with dignity and grace. My oldest daughter walked into my bathroom to check on me. I asked her how I looked. She said, “You look beautiful, Mom.” And together we walked out into our living room, where my entire family was standing, looking straight at me. I took a huge breath and said, “Let’s go.” 

Shawn’s Service

“Let’s Go.” Time for me to see my husband for the first time since I last saw him. Our son drove us to the funeral home with my family following behind us. I have no idea if any of us spoke on the way there. But the 20-30 minute ride was the longest I have ever experienced.  My children and I were driving to see their father in a casket. I cannot even imagine what was going through their minds. 

We walked in and I saw him. My beautiful husband, the father of our children lying there. No!! This isn’t real. I touched him, but my children pulled my hands off of him. “They repeatedly told me, it’s not him, he’s in Heaven.” My poor children can’t even have their moment because they are too busy trying to comfort me. I am a horrible mother. When did they grow up and become adults who are now protecting me? 

Once again, I must have lost time; my mind won’t let me remember anything from that moment to this one. The next thing  I can recall, I’m standing off to the side of his casket, shaking hands and hugging hundreds of people as they file past in a seemingly endless line. I remember the priest saying he had never seen such a turnout for a service. I hadn’t realized just how many lives Shawn had touched. All I can do now is hope that, in my lifetime, I’ll impact even half as many people as he did in his far-too-short time here. 

My mother and sisters stood beside me, and on my other side, my children. My older sister became a pro at feeding me my next scheduled pill. As she was shoving the horse tranquilizers in my mouth, my mother continued to wipe my face and nose for me.  Was I crying, or was I drooling? I tried my best to continue to stand up while greeting people. One-after-another. “He’s in a better place.” “God gained another Angel.” “He only takes the good ones.”  Wait, what? How much longer can I stand and not pass out? 

At some point in time, they began ushering people out and into the chapel. They closed the doors and left me and the children to be alone with him one last time. NO! NO! NO! I will NOT say goodbye. Our story isn’t over!!!

They reopened the doors and walked us to the chapel, where everyone was waiting. I see the casket. This time it’s closed. I will never see him again. Be strong, Daneen. Be strong.  

Time for the eulogies. First up, my youngest daughter. When did she grow up? Next up, our son. His voice is so confident. And then our oldest daughter. The one who first made us parents. The one born with red hair is just like her father. This was the moment I realized my children were walking this walk as mature adults, as they honored their father with their beautiful words. 

Is it over? When did we get back into the car? Where are we going? Oh yeah, we invited everyone to his parents’ home in the country for a balloon release. When we arrived, I saw tables, chairs, food, and drinks. When did this get all set up? “Daneen, you need to eat.” Huh? What does that mean? When was the last time I ate food? Can someone explain to me how to eat food without throwing up? 

We released over 100 balloons into one of the most beautiful, crystal blue January skies I can ever remember seeing. Maybe it was always that stunning, and I had just never taken the time to really look until that day. The balloons lingered above us for what felt like forever, hovering, just as if they, too, didn’t want to leave. And as I watched them drift farther and farther away, I felt my heart slowly drifting with them.

The Dream

I guess some dreams do come true….

OMG! He’s gone. How did this happen? How am I going to raise our babies alone? I watched the paramedics take Shawn away on the stretcher through our living room. I could hear the wheels squeak as they rolled him out the door. He was gone. What do I do now? I must start planning what our children will wear to his funeral. I am standing in front of our daughter’s closet. I decided she would wear the little blue and white dress I thought looked so cute on her. 

And then… I woke up. 

My pillow was wet, and I was crying real tears. I looked over and saw Shawn sleeping next to me. It was a dream! Oh, thank you, Jesus! This was only a dream. I was hysterical. I’ve never had a dream like this one. Should I wake him up? Should I tell him about my nightmare? No, I’ll get up and go sit in our living room and try to process this dream. I got up, and as I was physically shaking, I heard Shawn walk into the room I was in. He found me sitting on our sofa with my arms wrapped around my knees, rocking back and forth. He asked what was wrong and why I was crying. I told him about my dream. He smiled and hugged me. He told me he wasn’t going anywhere and it was just a bad dream. But I tried to explain the vivid details, how I could hear the wheels, and how I could see the colors in my dream. I had always heard if you dream in color, it is real. This was sooo real. He hugged me again and reassured me he wasn’t going to die. I told him to go back to bed and that I would come back in a little while. I never did. I sat on our sofa for the rest of the night until the morning, when I heard one of our very young children start stirring around. Time for me to pull myself together. It was just a terrible nightmare….

I watched Shawn leave that morning to go to work as I made breakfast for the kids. He turned and looked at me, shot me with that big smile of his, and said… “See ya later.” And my day went on as usual. It was a Wednesday, and I had a scheduled playdate for the kids. I can remember walking into our friend’s home and seeing all of the other mothers and kids talking and playing. As my three ran off to play, one of the mothers asked me if I was ok. I told her what I experienced and started crying again. 

A few years later… I went into our attic to go through some boxes, and there it was, the little blue and white dress I saw in the dream I had years ago. It took me back to that night. I quickly reminded myself it was just a silly dream. 

17 years later…different house

I heard the paramedics from our bedroom say she shouldn’t see this as I was being escorted into our kitchen and out of our living room. But I knew what was happening. I had seen this before. They were wheeling him out again, but this time the squeaky wheels sounded so much louder than I remembered.

I guess some nightmares really do come true.

Days Turned Into Weeks

I don’t actually remember how long it lasted, or what I did for at least the first four to six weeks after I lost Shawn. I’m sure the medication, lack of sleep, and not eating for weeks played a big part in my blur. What I do remember is lying on our sofa for hours and days on end. I think I even slept there most nights. I wore his clothes while wrapped in blankets. I wore his shirts and hoodies. It felt like the only way I could feel him. It was a very cold January, and I was freezing. 

For days, maybe weeks, I watched mindless HGTV. Something about watching paint dry on walls and rooms being remodeled helped me not think of my reality. My mind couldn’t take in what had happened, and those slow, simple scenes helped me not think. 

Even my dogs were grieving. I don’t know if they were picking up on my devastation, or if they were devastated in their own way from losing Shawn. Every time a car pulled into the driveway, their ears would perk up. They were waiting for him, too.  One day, I found one of them lying in his closet. That moment undid me. It dropped me to my knees.

It wasn’t until weeks later, while taking a bath, that I looked down at my leg and saw my femur bone. I hadn’t noticed it before, but it was there, beneath my skin and nothing else. There was no muscle, no fat, just bone. That’s when it hit me, I hadn’t eaten. But even then, the thought of food still made me sick. 

Life continued to move forward outside my dark world. I had to go back to work. My students were waiting for me. Family members were pushing me to “get out,” “do something,” but they didn’t understand. Moving, even standing, felt impossible. My joints hurt. My muscles throbbed. I remember being so weak that one day I had to crawl to the bathroom. Literally crawl. 

My heart hurt, and now my body did too. When would it all end? And how could the world continue to spin on?

February 2014

February has always been a happy month for me. My birthday is in February. And if you know me, you know I live in Louisiana, where February means Mardi Gras. Here, Mardi Gras isn’t just a parade or party. It’s a season. It’s tradition. And with it comes something I’ve loved since I was a kid: King cake. Growing up, I never had a traditional birthday cake. Never wanted one. I always got a King cake, and that was my kind of celebration.

But February 2014 was different. I was broken. Grieving. Numb. My days were blurred together, and I hadn’t left the house in what felt like forever. I knew I had to go back to work, and I knew I needed to show my children I could. When I finally returned to work, I walked into my classroom with a brave face and a fake smile. My heart was still shattered. My students stared at me in silence, unsure and uncomfortable. I didn’t know what to say either, so I did what I could. I started teaching. I couldn’t tell you what the lesson was. It might as well have been the ABCs. None of it felt real.

Then, in the middle of my lesson, my phone buzzed. A text. Out of instinct, I thought, It’s Shawn. Just for a split second. My heart jumped. My body responded before my brain could remind it. “It’s not him. It’ll never be him again.” I looked at my phone. It wasn’t him. And I broke. The tears and snot came fast and hard. I couldn’t stop it. My students quietly stood up and left the room, giving me space. Giving me grace. Letting me have my moment, my meltdown, my grief.

Every day after that, I showed up. I forced a smile. I did my best for them, my children, and family members, and, honestly, for me. Then one day, out of nowhere, I turned to one of the educators and said, “I feel like eating King cake.” She didn’t say much. Just looked at me with wide eyes and said, “I’ll be back in 15 minutes.” She returned with not one, but two King cakes.

We opened the boxes, and I started cutting slices for all our students. Then I took a bite. Just one bite. Something shifted. It was the first thing I’d really tasted in weeks. I took another bite. Then another. Before I knew it, I’d eaten an entire slice. And then I grabbed a second piece. Then a third. My body was starving, craving something, anything, and that sugary, cinnamon-laced cake was somehow waking me up.

As I sat there, binge-eating King cake, my students and coworkers stood around me. I could feel their eyes on me. Not with judgment, but with something like hope. Maybe they saw something I couldn’t.

Maybe they saw me coming back to life??? 

The Diva Journey Begins

So, I guess this is where my journey as a widowed diva truly began.

The days blurred into months, and somehow, I found my way into springtime. I didn’t realize it at first, but being outside, feeling the sun, somehow brought me closer to Shawn. Being in our yard made him feel less far away.

But the truth hit hard: Shawn wasn’t here anymore. And with spring came the grass, and it was time to cut it again.

Suddenly, everything needed to be done, and it was all on me. On top of trying to gather my strength, I had to figure out how to take care of the things Shawn once handled without a second thought. The outside of the house was always his domain. I handled the inside. I’d help with the garden or spread some mulch, but that was the “pretty stuff.” Not the greasy, dirty, heavy stuff.

Now I had to ask:

How do you start a lawnmower?

Where does the gas even go?

Wait…what’s a choke? I have to choke the lawnmower?!

I was overwhelmed, confused, and grieving, all while holding a can of gasoline.

And then one day, I wandered into our shed.

I didn’t plan on doing anything big; I just needed to do something. I decided I’d organize the tools, maybe just to keep my hands busy and my mind occupied.

But what happened next, I didn’t expect.

As I touched each tool, I realized: Shawn was the last person who had ever touched any of this. My fingers brushed over handles and hammers, screwdrivers, hedge clippers, rakes. Every piece of equipment felt like a piece of him. Then I found the little box, the one with all the tiny drawers. Each drawer was filled with screws and nails and washers. I started opening them, one by one, touching each item as if by doing so, I could somehow preserve the fingerprints he left behind.

I don’t know how long I was in there. Minutes? Hours?
But in that moment, I was lost in the quiet, in the grief, in that shed full of Shawn’s touch.

At the time, I was still on medication for my nerves. Some of my family thought I should stay on it, and maybe they were right. Everything felt so foggy. But in that fog, in that little shed, I spent the afternoon feeling like my hands were somehow layered with his prints. As if I could hold on to him just a little longer.

Then I stopped. Looked around. And I realized what I was doing.
Just when I thought I was moving forward… I was back again. And before I knew it, I was sitting on our sofa with dirt under my nails, tools still scattered outside, and my heart aching all over again.