The Widow-Bago Tour: A Journey of Healing

By Margaret Cowie

Join Margaret, her three Siberian Huskies, a cat, and personal assistant, as they venture down a road frequently but silently traveled. A distinctive Winnebago transports her through three New England states on a unique book signing tour as she exhibits hope.
After unexpectedly becoming a widow, in response to her tragedy, she published a moving memoir about her marriage and journey of loss. Due to shared experience she connected with readers and they revealed that her book had the power to heal. She was then driven to encourage others to unlock the vault of pain in which they were trapped.
Laugh, cry, and witness courage and strength in finding life again. Take an enchanting stroll down memory lane; get a glimpse of how tragedy changes her, experience the mystical gifts from loved ones on the Other Side, walk with a group that has been continually told to get over it. Then, embrace the spiritual growth you receive while traveling along this inspirational journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467062510

Margaret Cowie

Margaret Cowie lives in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. She openly shares with others her personal experiences with ongoing paranormal activity and after-death communications following loss. She hopes this will encourage the healing of broken hearts and wounded spirits of those who have been left behind and are trying to get back into the game of life after their own loss.

Book preview

Contents

Dedication

Disclaimer

Introduction

Fifteen Minutes of Fame

A Book with Soul

Radio Debut

Outdoor Market Hopes

Beaver Follies

Surprise Invitation

Encounters of the Emotional Kind

Perfect Solution

The Artist

Sneak Preview

The Widow-bago and Wilbur

Time to go Shopping

First Time itis

Getting into the Groove

Bar Harbor Event

Shopping, Lunch and Ben

Portland Event

A Surprise in Portsmouth

Portsmouth Event

Validation

Meghan’s Secret

Traffic Jam with a Purpose

Walking Down Memory Lane

Will Visits Faneuil Hall

A Psychic in a Park

The Media

Newburyport Event

Eleven o’clock News

Sunday Breakfast

Finding Strength

Andover Event

Finding Peace

Rejuvenation in Boston

Milestones and Distractions

Cambridge Event

Homeward Bound

Another Goodbye

A New Door Opens

A Final Note

Author Photo Gallery

Acknowledgments

Recommended Reading

Book Fan and ordering information

Dedication

To my husband, the love of my life – I’m grateful for your gentle nudges to help me find a way to embrace life even though you have crossed over to the mystical Other Side. Your ongoing expressive signals enable me to take one day at a time and to also share my stories.

To my grieving brethren – although our journeys differ, they are the same in the ways of the heart. I share my personal experiences, through loss, to help you find your beacon of hope.

Disclaimer

This book describes the author’s experiences while promoting the memoir she wrote during the healing phases that took place after enduring the excruciating pain of loss. Though the questions in the following chapters are ones the author has been asked and willingly answered with her own view due to heartfelt experience, they are exactly that, her opinion. The characters and places are derived from her imagination in order to share her conversations after loss in a way that may touch many lives. She does not claim to know the exact answers – if there are any. She only shares her journey on the emotional roller-coaster ride to allow readers to realize the waves that engulf them are not imagined. Names and identifying details of individuals and places have been changed to protect their privacy.

Introduction

In 1987, as the expression goes, one door closed and another one opened. I stumbled upon the love of my life, only I didn’t know it yet. We courted and eventually married and our years together blossomed. Some blooms flourished while a few others died. They were the so called bumps in the road.

While surviving and becoming a more strongly bonded couple because of the bumps, we came to depend only on one another. We acquired our family of the four legged variety. Moved away from what we knew and started a life, isolated from family, about a decade after we said I do.

Making the leap to country living was beneficial. It eliminated the constant badgering from negative influences surrounding us. We answered to no one except ourselves.

We grew into our changed environment and even ventured outside the box we were nicely packaged in for so many years. We became comfortable with who we were and where we were going.

We worked hard, got involved in community, became politically active, even ran for public office, and relaxed while enjoying nature at every opportunity. We became as eco-friendly as we could, grew our own vegetables and never even hooked up to satellite, the only source for television. Our personal library became vast and was filled with biographies of world leaders and prominent personalities, stories of engineering pioneers, and I stocked the section of self-help and spirituality. We were joining the ranks of our earthy-crunchy peers.

In early 2008, my husband and I caught some very lucky breaks in our life, which was typically governed by the rules implemented in the school of hard knocks. We felt like newlyweds again. Goals we had set were being achieved and love was oozing out of our pores, as a family member describes.

She’s right, we were madly in love. It was uninterrupted by social chaos or the demanding requirements of raising a family, which we opted not to partake in. Of course, we took a lot of guff for making that decision. That was one of the reasons we migrated away from the stifling nesting grounds. We made the Nike slogan ours – Just do it.

In July we took our first vacation alone in sixteen years, without dogs. Blood rushed through my veins with regenerated pheromones and a magically deeper love for my husband. The phenomenon cannot truly be explained in words other than it made me feel like a teenage girl in her first crush again.

I stared at him in admiration, maybe lustfully too; looked deeply into his eyes as we spoke about anything, including what kind of coffee we’d like to order. I held his hand or we walked arm in arm while strolling the city streets of Boston lost in our own world. We were completely oblivious to the masses of tourists surrounding us everywhere we went. It was intoxicating.

Our love was rekindled even more somehow. I think it was due to the fact that Will was finally employed full time and bringing in a decent salary. He no longer depended on the honey-do list to occupy his time. His shattered ego was shining with pride again. We exposed our child within and laughed more than ever. That’s nothing to be ashamed of after eighteen years of marriage.

Well, eventually that magic spell we were bound under came to a screeching halt. In August 2008, my husband, Will, was tragically killed in an industrial accident involving high voltage electricity. He went to work one day as the fairy dust still coated each of us, only to never come home alive.

You can imagine the despair I was sent into. I lost the love of my life, my best friend, the man I lived my life for! I lived for us. We had isolated ourselves, which allowed us to create our lifestyle and experience oblivion any place we went to.

I came to grips with my new state of being, not willingly, but I really had no choice in the matter. However, loss created a cocoon around me and all I could think about was all the days we spent together – wondering why he had to go.

As a life preserver, friends and family were keeping me afloat in my sea of despair by e-mailing me every day, sometimes more than once. I shared memories through them and received praise for my writing talent and encouragement to produce a memoir. Somehow, the need to purge and remember took control over me, I wrote into the wee hours of the morning as I recounted our memories. Sometimes, my eyes produced tears so fast that my vision blurred, but I typed anyway.

I really think there must have been some divine intervention involved. Due to the fact that I was not only grieving and actually wishing I could die, taking care of my animals, household and homestead, a force gave me the ability to write without fatigue ever creeping in. Eventually, the manuscript was created, then edited and printed when a bit of money found its way to my doorstep (due to an accounting error made a year previously). I had to believe it was meant to be, since there are no coincidences.

So, that’s how my first book, No Regrets, My Love, materialized. It’s a wonderful fairytale with plenty of bumps and bruises, unexpected surprises, tears, laughter and joy. Readers have responded by telling me they identified with my story of loss, relationship issues, and applauded me for my strength and courage to write it and share it with the world.

This book is a sequel of sorts. It’s filled with adventure and healing, in unusual settings, while promoting and marketing the book. Those who know loss intimately will identify with many parts of this story. Bystanders will obtain some tools to aid in the healing of a family member or friend. Also, you will learn to nurture friendships with those who have lost and watch them grow into something more beautiful.

Fifteen Minutes of Fame

Life had given me lemons. You know what they say you should do when that happens…make lemonade. Tonight, I was sipping some of it, and it was ever so sweet! I woke up with anxiety and it lingered throughout the day. The ticket I purchased weeks ago, for a gala ball fundraiser for Hospice, had gloom written all over it. I hadn’t gone to any social or black tie events without my husband, Will, and still wasn’t sure I was ready to. In hopes of unloading the ticket, and the sense of panic tied to it, I called a few friends in attempt to give it away. No one was interested.

I talked to my departed husband aloud, begging him to be with me, help me find the courage to attend the party and, to please give me a sign showing me that he was with me. The day went on, and nothing. Not even a song with sentimental meaning came over the airwaves.

Apprehension made my stomach churn and pulse rise, but I forced myself to put on the strapless, black taffeta and tulle ball gown hanging in my closet, last worn to the Governor’s Inaugural Ball in 2007. I cried as the memories bombarded my mind. It was time to do what must be done, which was to take another scary step forward, after loss, alone.

Once I was dressed I realized I had forgotten to pull out a handbag for the special occasion. I reached into my closet and pulled a box with that type of accessories from it. Underneath it laid a dime. I had heard about pennies from heaven, and was told that expression also included dimes and sometimes quarters. Was it a signal? I picked it up and checked the date on it. It was from 1990, the year we were married! Immediately, I thought of Will. He had come to let me know he was with me in spirit. Joyful tears surfaced.

That discovery calmed my nerves a bit. I continued to talk to my husband as I tried to be more enthusiastic about following through with plans of attending the ball. I had to go; I donated a copy of my book for the live auction taking place there tonight. Writing it was cathartic, as I stumbled through and cursed the early stages of grief. I donated it to the Hospice event, figuring that many of the attendees tonight may have lost a loved one, or worked with someone who had. It would help whoever had the highest bid tonight.

I was still a wreck, and walked around in circles as the clock slowly ticked time away. Finally, I got into my car and pulled out of the driveway. Less than a mile down the road I began to cry. Why was it such a big deal? I talked to Will and asked him to get the song, Straight from the Heart, by Bryan Adams, to play on the radio. He had done something similar on cue before and I thought if he’d do it now, even though I found the dime with a significant date on it, I’d feel better.

I had seen a psychic-medium and she told me Will was going to play that song for me. I hadn’t heard it for twenty years or more. My saintly, soul of a husband managed to get that song to play from the Other Side! More tears flowed, but I felt so much love coming with them. My long awaited signal had arrived and it empowered me to take on the task at hand. It sounds so simple in words, but with emotions tied into the equation, I found attending this ball to be much more difficult than I had imagined.

I reached my destination and a valet took my car. Feeling a bit self-conscious, due to being alone, I walked through the elaborate entrance of the Mountain View Grand Resort. I was dressed to the nines and without an escort. This didn’t need to be uncomfortable. It was all in my head. Since I had done plenty on my own in the past, I overcame my fear in that moment. With that action I pulled my shoulders back, held my head up high, and ascended a staircase up to the Crystal Ballroom.

At the entrance, there was a coat check and someone to guide you to your reserved table. I got my table number, left my coat, and walked into the elegant ballroom.

I was more than casually late, but there was still time for a drink. I rarely indulge, except on occasion I have found myself ordering a glass of wine to calm the jitters. Tonight definitely justified that need.

Once inside, I bumped into some acquaintances I hadn’t seen since before Will died. They said hello, but then there was an obvious awkwardness. They stood quiet, seeming hesitant. I had experienced this many times. I knew they didn’t know what to say to this grieving widow.

To ease the tension, I told them that Will would be proud of me. As I suspected, they became more relaxed, and we had small talk. Suddenly, the DJ played Frank Sinatra’s, The Way You Look Tonight. Wow, now I was ecstatic! This song has a heartwarming history for me and Will. Quite often, my husband whisked me away from mundane household chores and we danced in our living room as this song played, alone with each other, lost in a magical world where nothing else mattered.

I couldn’t deny his presence now. If my friends were paying attention, they probably noticed an unmistakable glow come about me, due to the fact that I was swooning with joy. In my state of ecstasy, I enlightened them and said, Will’s here. Most in my circle of friends know what that means. However, since I hadn’t seen these people for two years I told them about my little secret communications with Will.

No one resisted the dialog about my unwavering belief. I then showed them a bracelet I was wearing. At either end of it is a compartment carrying some of my husband’s ashes. They were each sealed with a sterling silver cap with our birthstones embedded into them. I literally had a part of him with me – and, the song and other signals confirmed it and led me to happy tears. With Will’s help, I was attending the party and doing better than alright.

I left the small cluster of people and wandered over to my reserved table. There, I met my friends from a grief support group I once attended. We exchanged compliments about each other’s appearance, had some light chatter and laughs. I was beginning to feel more comfortable at such a party, without my husband, even though I still felt out of place.

We had dinner, and shortly thereafter the emcee took the microphone and declared the silent auction would be closing soon. Also, that he would announce the winners and begin the live auction directly. He came over to me before the competitive bidding started, and quickly got a short bio about me and how the book came about, as well as a brief synopsis of it. I felt both nervous and excited and provided the details he was seeking.

The buzz began at my table. Many of these friends had heard much about the steps leading toward my book being published at our meetings. I was about to experience my fifteen minutes of fame.

It was show time and the adrenaline was pumping through my veins. Next item up was my book. The emcee shared, in his words, what I had told him about it, and then opened the bidding at twenty-five dollars. Immediately, someone accepted it, and he drove the bid up to fifty dollars. Again, someone raised their hand, acknowledging the amount, which forced the bid to increase. The bids crept up to seventy-five dollars, then one-hundred, one-hundred twenty-five, and one-hundred fifty dollars.

It was exhilarating. I was thrilled to see people bidding that much for my book. My story was worth it, but I was still somehow taken aback by the energy filling the room, causing the bids to climb higher and higher. My friends turned toward me, smiling and cheering, each time the bid was driven up.

My hands were sweating as I sat on the edge of my seat in the thrill of it all. Finally, the bid reached two-hundred seventy-five dollars. Sold! – announced the emcee serving as auctioneer for the evening.

My book was going home with someone tonight, surely to become a keepsake. I was overjoyed that it raised such a handsome price-tag for the fundraiser. It was a beautiful feeling. At the end of the auction I had my photo taken with the highest bidder. A small crowd formed around us.

After I congratulated the winner, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. It was a member of the U.S. House of Representatives for my district.

Hello Margaret, he said as he reached out to shake my hand. I had no idea about Will, I’m so sorry for your loss. In the past, Will had organized fundraisers and worked at campaign headquarters in support of him while running for office. Can I ask what happened?

Enough time had passed that I could talk about it now. Of course, I replied. Before any tears could form, I stopped them and told him the story that drastically changed my life.

He wanted a copy of my book and asked if he could buy one. I always travel with a box of them in my car, so I offered to get one for him. As I turned to get my coat and retrieve a book for him, others announced their wishes to purchase one as well. I appreciated their interest and was delighted by it. I offered to bring back whatever stock I had on hand.

I returned with a dozen books. I autographed a copy for Will’s esteemed political friend and we said goodbye. Everyone else, patiently waiting for a copy of my book, also had their stories of loss. In that moment, I did what I do so well; listened and shared straight from the heart.

As I autographed copies of my book, the line of those waiting to buy one grew. The supply of them dwindled and soon ran out. I apologized, and then gave everyone a business card so they could order a copy.

I believe I was gently, although powerfully, nudged to attend the fundraiser tonight for a reason. My book had been welcomed into a dozen more lives. I was basking in my fifteen minutes of fame and while doing so, I enjoyed some very sweet lemonade.

A Book with Soul

The accomplishment of writing my first book, a memoir titled, No Regrets, My Love, was exhilarating. It was something I never imagined I would do. I had plenty of help from the Other Side as my husband delighted me with signals and whispers, offering me strength to tell my story of loss. Paranormal activity and inspiration were the driving forces helping me write and complete the project.

With full control over every detail in the production stages, I followed prompts in vivid dreams which helped me design everything to match specifications I envisioned. The publishing team and I went back and forth until I was satisfied with the galley-proof. It arrived in an e-mail and when I previewed the design layout I got chills. They added some unexpected details and everything was perfect. From there we took it to print.

About a week later I got my sample copy in hardcover format. I loved it and immediately placed my first order. I had many copies on reserve, so I purchased double of what I knew I already had sold. I was equally nervous and excited about my new identity as an author and the job of promoting my book.

Prior to the books completion I was seeing a grief counselor through Catholic Charities. My loss sent me into such deep despair that I was considering ways to end my life. Therapy helped tremendously. My counselor knew I was writing my book. One day she asked if I would be interested in being interviewed for a story in an upcoming religious magazine. They were putting an issue together focused on how to deal with grieving.

It had been just over a year and it was still quite painful to talk about at times, but I agreed to do it. I wasn’t afraid of being myself, and somehow knew it would be helpful to others and perhaps spread the word that I had written a book.

It was autumn when I did that interview for Parable Magazine out of the Arch Diocese of Manchester, New Hampshire. The story would appear in the March/April 2010 issue. At times it was a struggle to speak without tears filling my eyes, but I managed to get what I needed to say out there. In the end, I felt I did rather well considering the subject was on the recent loss of my husband, a man I adored and loved more than life itself, and I still do. I was eager to see the article in the springtime.