My Abstract Husband

It is the last day of school for the kids (and the teachers!) in Australia...so Amanda has asked me to fill in for her today so he can focus on finishing up the school year. She'll be back next week!

Recently, I moved into a new home. This is my first move since Phil's death seven years ago. Leaving the place where Phil and I lived our married life; blended our Brady bunch family; where we returned after various adventures, and worked side by side to remodel was really hard. But, I expected the emotional turmoil that ending this chapter of my life would bring. Even though there were many reasons that moving was definitely the right thing to do, I struggled to find the courage to leave the four walls that witnessed our love story. 

If you are a frequent reader of this blog, you may be saying to yourself..."But, isn't Michele remarried?" The answer to that question, is yes I am married to another amazing man. And to be honest, being remarried greatly complicated my feelings about this move. Michael and I needed a new start in a place that was ours, and not mine and Phil's. Though he never complained (really, not once) Michael didn't feel a sense of ownership in my house. He felt as if he was a guest in someone else's house...a welcome guest, but just a tenant of sorts. He hesitated to suggest household changes, for fear that the part of the house in question might have some significant emotional value to me of which he was unaware. Michael's sensitivity about my relationship with Phil made him hyper aware of what he considered to be his guest status. Not the best atmosphere for building a new marriage. Add the other practical reasons for moving to the need for a fresh start, and all signs pointed to now being the time to take the leap. 

I knew that I would need to do some "grief work" around this move. I braced myself as I packed, and remembered. Every time I emptied a room, I breathed in the history I was about to leave behind. Each step forward was accompanied by an emotional step back...the music of my life with Phil became the background to my days as I boxed, taped, and stored so many of the things he and I chose together. Through the process of the move I practiced self awareness. I tried to listen to myself, and recognize when I needed a break from the daily grief dance I was doing. Overall, I was pretty cocky about my ability to "manage" my feelings around this major life change. Famous last words...I was pretty cocky.

One area of the house that I avoided until the last possible moment was our garage, AKA Phil's sole domain. Every part of that one space screamed...Phil lived here. As I stood on a step stool removing plaques from the wall, my heart began a familiar ache. Up the ladder, remove a piece of Phil's life, down the ladder put the item in a box. Up the ladder, realize that you are unscrewing a screw that he used his crazy huge electric drill on....down the ladder remembering how happy he was the day he came home with that new drill. Up the ladder, avoid the roof remnants dropping on my head from the box I just pulled down from the rafters...down the ladder seeing flashbacks of the two of us standing on that roof in the dark on a gorgeous Summer evening super proud of ourselves for saving so much money on labor by hefting the roof tiles onto the roof ourselves. And so it went: up the ladder, down the ladder, heart tug followed by heart ache. 

Then I started opening the boxes. Every single box marked in his hand writing, or with his name on it, was examined and then put into the appropriate pile...give away, can't possibly let this go, throw out finally or what in the world do I do with this? Every time I wanted to run away from the sorting, I reminded myself that I'd waited to the last possible moment and today was the day to get it all done...so much for giving myself time and space! By the time I'd successfully sorted all the boxes and returned to our new home, tears were running down my face, and I couldn't stop them. I wasn't sobbing, I just couldn't stop leaking tears. Part of me understood the pain, but another part was so frustrated by the fact that Phil's death doesn't suck any less than it did seven years ago. I mean, I talk about him every single day. I live through his loss every time I do a presentation or speak to a group. Literally, every time. So, why then does sorting through his things turn on the tear faucet?

Then I figured it out. I am used to Phil in the abstract. He is still a very real part of my life. I talk to him, and he talks back...well, at least I think he does, and that is all I care about. I know that he is happy that I have Michael in my life, and he still makes himself known to me through our 'signs' now and then. Over they years I've created a space in my heart where these two men easily coexist. One of the men I love is dead, and the other is very much alive. Most days I accept that reality, and appreciate the opportunity to love and have loved these two husbands. But, when I opened those boxes in the garage...I was faced with the vivid memories of the very much alive Phil instead of the ghost version with whom I am now so well acquainted. Moving from our shared home made me face Phil in the flesh. I am not used to the reality of him anymore: his smell, his touch, the feel of his shirt under my cheek. I've grown so used to having a late husband in the abstract that the concrete evidence of his existence has been pushed back into my grief closet. I grieve the idea of Phil often, but I have realized that since I don't feel separate from him on a daily basis I grieve the reality of him in my life less and less as my life grows and changes.

What almost made me fall off that stupid ladder was the size of his shoes. There they were so very real, not ghost like at all. Every time I looked at the proof that he lived, I experienced the loss of him all over again. Holding a huge garbage bag of his t-shirts (that are waiting to become a quilt someday) I was overcome by the power of yesterday. I wanted to hear him make fun of me, instead of imagining what he would say to me as I dither over whether I can give away his dirty, old lunchbox. I know without a doubt that he would instruct me to let go of all the stuff. What I want to know is will he be gone when all the literal evidence of his existence is sorted into one of those neat piles in our garage? Seven years, one International support organization, one million widowed people impacted, one happy remarriage later...and death still sucks. I am pretty sure there is a lesson in there somewhere.

The hopeful lining? My life now is really good despite of, and because of, the path my life has taken. Phil's love changed me, and so did his death. I know now that the pain of losing him is part of his legacy to me. That sharpness around his loss reminds me of how very much he was loved. Every tear still has a meaning, I will try to remember that the next time I get pretty cocky.