Maggie's Angel Day v4.0

So I’ve been sitting in front of this keyboard now for about an hour waiting for the inspiration to hit me.  I’ve never been one to search for things to say (or type) but tonight, while the oddly cold Texas wind blows a gale outside and the house tries to expunge the smell of freshly delivered Indian food, I sit stymied at the keyboard, not lacking in things to say, but instead, wondering where to start.  But it’s my day to write and I’ve got to start because I need to finish because I have a date with a glass of very old scotch and I need to show a box of Kleenex who’s boss.

Maggie and I met in the oddest way – a mutual acquaintance brought her to my house as one of a cadre of girls.  His carrot for them was “He’s got a boat!”  His carrot to me was “I have girls!”  Obviously, the man knew how to work deals.  Days later, on June 14th, 1999 she and I were stuck together for life (although we didn’t quite realize it yet.)

The more time we spent together, the more strongly we bonded.  Unlike all the other women I dated (and the numerous other guys she dated, the little floozy), I liked her more and more every single day!  It was a new experience for me and for her.  We shared much later about how our respective pasts were filled with frequent exercises in gently crushing our ill-matched dates’ hearts.  But when she and I met, it was if everything lined up perfectly.  Ms. Yin, meet Mr. Yang.  It was as if our souls exhaled, saying, “Ah, there you are!  I’ve been looking for you!”  So, on February 28, 2004, we called it a done deal.

Now, I wasn’t exactly the “I want to get married” type.  I may (or may not) have put up a little bit of a hissy fit (but there's no evidence since the only witness went off and died on me.)  My compromise was that we’d have two weddings: one for her and one for me.  HER wedding was February 28, with all the frilly and food and flowers and penguin suits.  MY wedding was the next day, February 29th….  In Las Vegas… with Elvis…. With me dressed as James Dean and her as Marilyn Monroe with 30 of our closest friends in assorted movie star costumes in tow.  Tell me that’s not awesome!  ☺

Fast forward only a few happy years and she was following her dream in law school at Baylor.  My dream of business school was just around the corner.  Then the shit hit the fan. In December 2006, at her birthday party, she pressed my hand against her chest and asked, “Does this bump feel weird to you?”

That was how it began.

Tomorrow, at 7:30 PM CST, just four short years ago, after she said, “Come closer” and after I skooched my body up against her as tightly as I possibly could, it ended.

I cannot imagine the man I’d be today had all I just described to you never happened.  But I can tell you these things without a doubt:
- I am a better man because I had a friend who unabashedly used me for my boat
- If you think you need a doctor’s opinion, GO TO THE DOCTOR!  NOW!
- Like keys fit locks, souls definitely have a “Oh, there you are!”
- Wishes, hopes and dreams don’t mean shit.  But believing they do make for happier days.
- You choose your state of mind.  But damn, sometimes it seems like there’s a huge crowd arguing against you and they are very convincing with their logic and/or threats
- When in doubt, don’t be afraid to apply a good scotch and lots of Kleenex… liberally

... And, Maggie, just in case you are reading this, Good night, My Love.  I love you no less today than I did yesterday.  And no more than I will tomorrow.

Now, about that scotch.  And Kleenex....

Grabbing at Small Things

I’ve not been shy about my February challenges.  Last Thursday was yet another birthday without her.  Next Thursday is our 9th wedding anniversary.  Adding more spice, January this year was filled with its own new craptastic days.  I really feel like I’m due some amazingly great things to balance this all out.  But I suppose that’s the same ridiculous last minute mumble a soon-to-be-broken gambler utters as he slides what’s left of his life savings toward red after twenty bank-breaking ball bounces into black.  Surely, after all this, it’s bound to turn around.

Well, I’m tired of waiting for it to turn around.  I can’t change what happened last month.  I can’t (and wouldn’t) change what happened 9 years ago.  And if I wasn’t born 43 years ago on the 14th then you certainly wouldn’t be reading what I’m typing, for sure!  So, to hell with it all!  So how about some things I’m positive about?

Kali, who lived her entire life in Niko’s (my baby’s) shadow, has been spoiled rotten with love and treats since Niko’s Angel Day.  Much to my surprise, she’s been learning every trick I’ve been teaching her (slowly).  I always thought of her as, well, special in the kind of ride-the-short-bus and please-stop-eating-glue kind of way but maybe I’ve been wrong.  No matter what, we’ve been having a great time bonding, playing Frisbee, learning tricks and just being buds.  Yeah, it’s obvious at times that she misses her sister, just like I do, but we’ve been doing that together, too.

The garden is starting to come alive again. That means it’s time to start planting. Bring on the jalapeños, caladiums, hydrangeas, and lilies!  Of course, there are sprinkler heads to repair and myriad dead plants to cut back, but spring is coming and with a little push it’ll be beautiful.  I love putting down the little springlings and watching them bloom into wonderful plants.  This year, I’m going to put down more flowering plants than I have in years.

Motorcycle weather is almost upon us.  My beautiful beast of a bike has been sitting patiently waiting for some much-deserved attention.  In just a week or two, I’ll be back on two wheels pissing off soccer moms and grumpy old men all over Austin again with my loud pipes.  It’ll be fabulous!  The road is calling me.  There just might be a multi-day trip in my near future.

It’s going to be a good year.  I’m going to make it a good year. You’ll see.

…....

Yeah, I’m reaching.  I’m grabbing at small things and I won’t stop. I know what great is and I’ll be back there again.  I’m not sure when but I can tell you when I won’t give up and that’s today.  Today is a great day, even if it’s just because the garden is growing and Kali and I play Frisbee together and I get to ride my motorcycle.  Tomorrow, hell, I’ll do the same.


It has been almost four years now (four years in May, for those who are counting) and you’d think that by now it’d be like reflecting on when I skinned my knee back in ’09.  At least that’s what people would like it to be.  But it still hurts, although not as much. Now, it’s still a matter of redefining who I am.  I can tell you this for sure: I’m not done yet.

My Christmas Gift

It’d be impossible to explain to a non-widowed person how I can be sad and happy at the same time or how having many of our shared friends over at the house – OUR house – is both wonderful and miserable simultaneously.  While it seems obvious to me why it’s appropriate, it’d be a train wreck to suggest that we set one more place setting for that one very special person who is with us but isn’t going to eat any food, not even desert.  No one is going to even see my sad eyes late that evening when the lights go out on unstuffed stockings.

On Christmas morning, not one of my friends or her friends thinks about that absolutely perfect present that’s not sitting on my pillow when I wake up.  No one misses that wonderful smile and happy clap that signals I nailed my gift for her.  And not one person in my world realizes how much I miss her and what a huge part she played in my life and how loud her absence is on every single day of the holidays while it seems like all the other families are celebrating their perfect little Christmas gatherings.  All those other families, with their happy gift unwrapping and their family bickering and their taken-for-granted togetherness have no clue how much I would sacrifice just to have one miserable, boring, regular ol’ plain Christmas with my sweet wife.  Just one more time.  One more time.

I say the following because maybe I’m trying to tell you or trying to tell myself but nonetheless, I say it and I mean it.  My gift to myself is that I recognize that I am one of the few that walk this earth who have experienced true, deep, passionate, respectful, honest love.  That experience and that love can never be taken away.  I win and I lose. Thus, I’ve been given more gifts and more riches than most people will ever know.  For that, I am thankful.  For that, I count my blessings.  I may have not had a Christmas present sitting on my pillow on Christmas morning, but I have a very wonderful gift sitting forever in heart that can never be taken away.  For I have known and shared in true love.  There’s no greater gift than that.

Maggie's Cool Car - A Goodbye

It’s been a long time coming and a lot of emotional work to get to this point, but Sunday a guy is coming over to look at Maggie’s cool car.  I put it up for sale about a month ago.  It only took me about 2 ½ years to do that.  I’m terrified that this jerk is going to want to pay me for it and then do something really crazy like drive off with it.  I can’t imagine what it’s going to feel like to watch that car head down the street.   If it’s ok, I’d like to tell the story behind Maggie’s Cool Car as I originally told it on my personal blog on September 2009.  It’s long.  I think you’ll see why it’s so hard for me to let go of Maggie’s Cool Car.

September 28, 2009
Today the Mercedes dealership called to congratulate Maggie on three years ownership of her car.  Apparently, I bought the car back on September 28, 2006.  While I didn’t realized it had been three years, I clearly remember the event but it seems like so long ago.  The car was an early graduation gift from me to her.  She was so, so happy about it but she was also studying for her finals or something else important that my show of kindness was interrupting so celebrations were brief.  Nonetheless, she posed for a few photos and then shooed me off so she could continue her colligate grind.  It was a fun day and one of my favorite memories.

Maggie and I had a master plan.  She was going to graduate law school and then I was going to head off to business school.  It was a grand plan and one we were both quite excited about.  The end of that plan, at least where the specifics started getting fuzzy, was when I graduated from school in May 2008.  The finale, we decided, was for her to be pregnant with our first child as I marched across the Acton finish line, diploma in hand.  From there, we weren’t really sure where we’d go but hey, we made the plan back in 2002-ish.  And having a first child set in motion a whole new plan of in and of itself.

When Maggie started law school, we had two cars: a Corvette (2000, white, awesome) and a Jeep (Wrangler, 2000, bright yellow, bad ass.)  Both were amazing vehicles in their own right.  But the Corvette was mine and I certainly didn’t trust my crazy, phone-talking wife to drive it.  That left the jeep as Maggie’s daily driver, yup, even to and from Waco on I35.  Now, in case you’ve never driven a stick-shift, jacked up jeep with massive 32” tires on I35 at Texas highway speeds, trust me to say that it’s unpleasant.  Big tires on short wheel-based vehicles tend to wander.  And big tires don’t stop rolling very quickly, making for some hair-raising moments each trip.  Making matters worse, this particular jeep didn’t have cruise control (you don’t need cruise control for rock crawling!)  But she drove that jeep every day and never complained once.  She was a trooper, a real champ.

Maggie had never had a go-fast, sexy, wind-in-yer-hair car.  And with children soon coming, there was a short window for her to live that dream.  So, in keeping with the plan, we decided to buy her a fun car she could sport around in while I’d get a family car that would hold baby seats.  She could drive passionately until the day came when we needed to trade cars.  Then I’d drive the sports car and she’d take over the family-mobile.  It was a great plan.  Have I mentioned lately how happy I was to be married to my sweetie?  We were perfect together.  But I digress…..

After a fun bit of looking around, she decided that the Mercedes SLK 350 was the car for her.  It’s a fun convertible and, really, just an impractical car but it wasn’t for practical; it was for her smiles.  So I went a-searchin’.  I had to special order the car with the options we/she wanted and (apparently) it showed up on September 28, 2006 at the dealership.  Eagerly, I showed up a few hours later with Niko riding shotgun.  A long hour or so afterward, me and puppy were headed to Waco in a brand new SLK registered in Maggie’s name.

Maggie was still in class when we arrived, which was all part of my master plan.  She didn’t know we were coming, see.  <insert evil laughter here>  I headed over to the flower shop that, by now, knew me (or my credit card, rather) by name, Baylor Balloons.  There, after introducing myself after nearly three years of constant business, I left with a single red rose in hand.

In the parking lot of the school I found the jeep, which weren’t too hard cuz it’s big.  REALLY big.     And yeller.  Did I mention cool?  Leaving Niko safely in the car I started up the jeep and, whoops….. where the heck was I going to put the jeep?  Did I mention it’s big?  And very, very yeller?  Finally, after some mental debate, I figured I was going to have to break the rules and, thus, parked it around the side of the law school in staff parking.  I figured if the rent-a-campus-cop showed up then I’d explain the gag, take my licks and move on.  (For the record, they never did.)  Good, jeep was gone.

Back where the jeep used to be parked, I placed the very shiny, very brand new Mercedes SLK 350.  Under the windshield wiper blade I placed my single red rose.  Now the waiting game began.

Over to the side of the law school building parking lot is a quaint little park with some benches and grass.  Niko and I took up temporary residency there and I started my light reading while waiting for my soon-to-be-quite-surprised sweetheart to break out of the building.  And wait we did.  Fortunately, I was somewhat engrossed in my book and the time kind of flew by.

Finally, after a decent sunburn on both me and Niko had developed, I spotted my sweetie walking out of the building.  I can recognize that walk from miles away.  Immediately, my heart spun up to full on rumba.

Oh how slowly she walked from the law school doors to the place where she thought she left the jeep.  Her saunter was making me sweat with anticipation.  Finally, as if she was in another universe on the way there, she stopped and looked a little puzzled.  She looked around (like she was going to find the jeep!), probably wondering “Where the heck did I park?”  No, she wasn’t fooled for long, my smart girl.  She knew she parked it right where this…..  this…. really pretty, really shiny car is.  Then, one gigantic smile appeared blinding out everything and making my heart burst through my chest with joy.  She walked over, picked the now-wilted rose from the windshield and began looking around, but this time not for the jeep but for the perpetrator of the crime.  Of course, I wasn’t very shy and bounced over, all grins myself.  I figured she would have figured out it was me eventually.

The next few minutes were all about hugs and kisses, Niko kisses included.  She was just thrilled.

Maggie loved that car.  She drove it around proud like it was a Ferrari.  She beamed when she talked about it.  Top down, top up, in the rain, in the sun – she loved, loved, loved that car.  780 days.  That’s how long she got to drive it. November 14, 2008, the day they hooked up that damned pain pump, I did something I still have a very difficult time coping with to this day – I took her car away.  You can’t possibly imagine how bad that hurt, or rather, still hurts.

I’ve never been a controlling person.  Gosh, couldn’t be with Maggie.  She had her own way and she was quite good at convincing you she was right.  Ms. Independent and I loved her for it.  Very much.  But, with this, I put my foot down and did not budge.  It was heartbreaking.  It made me sick.  I was fighting for something I didn’t want, fighting for something that represented something I hated and for something I didn’t believe in.  Oh, gosh, it was tough.  She argued.  We fought.  She cried.  I cried.  Repeat weekly.  Heck, repeat daily.  She pushed.  I held fast.  Then one day, she quit fighting.

Something came up months later about the car and we touched the subject again, but not in our fighting stance.  She said that she was still angry with me but she could tell that it was something I felt strongly about so, while she still didn’t agree, she agreed to go along with what I wanted, for me, for us.  We never spoke of it again.

I’ve driven her car nearly everywhere I’ve gone since, well, since she’s not with me anymore.  I try to always put the top down and pump loud music through the speakers.  I don’t always feel like singing but I do anyway.  And I drive fast, like Maggie did.  There, flying down the highway, music blaring and me singing, I feel a little bit closer to her.

Whoosh of Memories

Taken by Me at the Cliffs of Moher in Ireland

I’ve been sick since last Friday, which is truly an unusual thing for me – I’m one healthy horse.  So this morning I finally headed to the doctor.  She didn’t take five minutes with her stethoscope to diagnose pneumonia.  Then she went on to explain that pneumonia was collection of bacteria that had taken up residence in the crevice of my lung and it’s good that I came in because those pesky critters tend to spread.  Then she ran down the list of party treats I get to take home: antibiotics, codeine cough suppressant, and prednisone. That’s what started the memory avalanche.

When Maggie and I took our trip to Ireland, while stand there, overlooking the Cliffs of Moher, it started – her little cough.  We didn’t know it then, but that little cough was the signal that our days together were running very low.

Back in Austin, CT scans showed the culprit.  Little tumors had taken up residence in her lungs and were spreading.  This was a battle that there were no weapons to fight. So the doctors gave us codeine cough suppressant to try to minimize her discomfort and prednisone to try to cut down the irritation. And then they gave her just a few weeks to live.

I hadn’t thought about those days or the month and a half that followed in quite some time.  Those were hard days for us both.  But today, as I coughed uncontrollably, I found myself sad, like I was getting to experience life a little bit from her side of the bed, even if it was just a laughably small taste. But I also felt an unexpected warmth, or maybe even a feeling of compassion. Because of today, I feel like I understand her a little bit more. And, because of that, I’ve changed.  It sounds odd, but it feels real.

It’s interesting how still to this day things can happen that give me more insight and perspective on what has happened.  Just this experience of a week spent coughing up a lung has further enriched my memories, if that’s even possible.

I truly wonder how many new experiences I’ve yet to have that will continue to enrich both my new life and the precious memories of my old life. I still have a great life to live.

Bookends and New Friends

“Oh, hey! Did I tell you that our interior decorator finally died of lung cancer?”

The off-hand declarative struck my heart ice cold.

“Was she married?” I asked.

“Yes, I think so” came the reply - innocent because he was oblivious.

The enormity of the moment was sweetly coated with blessed ignorance. “Of course she died – she had cancer. It couldn’t have been a surprise. And sure she had a husband.” (None of these things were actually said, but these are the things that the innocent say. Heck, these are the things I said before I was less… innocent.)

“Can you connect me with her husband?”

Right now, somewhere in Austin, there’s a man sitting by himself who has no idea how he’s going to live another day without the sweet touch of his wife.  All-too-fresh and tender last-moments coat the inside of his eyelids. Somewhere in Austin, he’s wandering around a suddenly quiet house, picking up the shoes she last wore, smelling them and then putting them down; picking up the glass she last drank from; looking at her toothbrush, hat and socks she was wearing just days ago and wondering what the hell just happened. Somewhere in Austin, there’s a man drowning and Austin is oblivious.

------

Saturday I’m attending (yet another) wedding but this one is very special. One of Maggie’s closest girlfriends (and for the last three years, one of mine) is getting married. He’s a nice guy and they are going to have a wonderful, long life together. Maggie never met him but I’m positive she would approve. Walking down that isle, she’ll wear not only a fancy white dress and big grin but also the ring that Maggie wore every day after our wedding day as her “something borrowed.” It’s the closest thing she’ll have to Maggie’s blessing. I’m truly happy for her. That night, the whole world will celebrate the joining of these two lives.

So there it is – Saturday night, one couple is committing to walk forever together while one man can’t grasp why his wife is never, ever coming home.

We, the ones who read with this blog, are truly gifted because of our shared experience and loss. We know all too well what the bookends of a relationship look like. In contrast, most people only know what it looks like when the books fall chaotically off the shelf. Our experience is our gift and our curse. Experience has made us rich but at an unbelievable price.

Riches are worth nothing if they are stuck in a mattress (or in my case, on top of a mattress - unshaved, unshowered and crying.) We’ve all had this gift shoved down our throat. But it takes another kindred soul to point us the way and explain that it’s going to be ok; that this is a gift; and that we will survive. Camp Widow 2011 did that for me. Now I feel like it’s my job to make sure that other people see the gift they’ve been given underneath all the rubble, starting with a big ol’ dose of you-aren’t-alone.

Mr. Sleepless In Austin, I’m coming for you. I never wanted to meet you and I wish you and I had nothing in common, but that’s not where we are right now. Regardless, we have a lot to talk about, you and me. See you soon.

Digging for Widower Gold

So I’m dating someone.  It’s difficult.  She has been absolutely patient, respectful and thoughtful.  Better than that, she’s been curious my past and yet delicate.  I could not ask for a better partner as I travel down this challenging path.  The problem is that, as a new relationship partner, I’m causing all kinds of difficulties.  I’m Mr. Drama, it seems, because every time we take a step together, I stomp on a memory.

Last weekend, we spent the morning at a garden show buying herbs and the afternoon planting them.  It was a perfect day filled with dirt, plants bugs and laughs.  But just under the surface, my memories were stirring up myriad emotions.  More than once, while she was planting, I went off to “cut back a bush” (which, just between you and me, is code for “try not to cry.”)  See, Maggie and I planted this great big garden with our hands, together, with the intent of building a future together and watching it grow.  Our marriage was filled with glorious days just like these: mornings at the garden store and afternoons getting dirty, chasing the dogs, and swatting bugs.  How could I even possibly let someone else be right there in that very spot planting where Maggie once was?  But I did.  She didn’t really ask.  Of course, I didn’t really volunteer.  I just let it happen.  But instead of being supportive, I was a bit distant, off “cutting back bushes.”  Much later, after we were all finished, she told me that she realized what that garden meant and that she understands that I probably felt a lot of emotions that day.  (She’s very perceptive and prone to understatement.)

Back when things were getting really bad with The Cancer, Maggie's caller id had a very specific ring tone.  It was the most obnoxious and loud ringtone the iPhone had to offer and Maggie didn’t like it; it wasn’t sweet and romantic in any way.  Always the pragmatic one, I knew that I could hear that ring tone across a loud room no matter what.  Well, the other day at supper, my new relationship’s phone rang that same ring tone.  I jumped straight up in the air like a panicked Pavlov dog.  She was startled by my reaction.  Heck, I was startled by my reaction.  But when I explained briefly why, she said she understood why that must have given me a shock.

Maggie loved her iPhone.  Rather, Maggie LOVED her iPhone.  She was always fidgeting with this or that and reprogramming mine when I wasn’t looking.  One day, she figured out that she could attach a picture to a caller id phone number.  From that day forward she was always taking pictures of people and attaching them to their phone numbers on our iPhones.  Back while sitting the chair at the cancer treatment center, she had plenty of time to take pictures and attach them to phone numbers, especially phone numbers related to her that were in my phone, like her cell phone or our home phone.  Well, two days ago, my new relationship called my cell phone from the phone at my house.  When my iPhone rang, up popped a picture of Maggie I hadn’t seen in years.  In the picture, she was sitting in the chemo chair hooked up to the chemo pump but beaming her wonderful smile.  After I finished up my call, I sat in the car and cried for 10 minutes.  (She doesn’t know about this little incident.)

Relationships aren’t easy.  Everyone knows that.  But I feel like without even trying I’m doing my best to complicate things.  I try to be reasonable and insulate my new relationship from all the things that pop up but good grief!  It’s like walking side-by-side with me while I stroll through a mine field!  And it’s certainly not her fault that these things are happening (although, just to be clear, SHE chose to plant stuff in the garden and SHE selected that specific ring tone and SHE called me from my house so maybe all this IS her fault…. Hmmm.…  I’ll have to keep a little closer eye on her.)

Despite how badly I keep trying to screw things up by throwing all these emotional monkey wrenches around, things are going really well.  And, oddly enough, she actually appreciates that I had a wonderful relationship with my wife.  In her own words, she thinks it’s wonderful that I was once very happy and, thus, I know what being in a great relationship is like.  I suppose it is all perspective.  Many women I’ve met have seen in me a river full of treacherous rocks, dangerous rapids, and deep water.  My new relationship sees a perfect place to pan for gold.

Neither of us knows where this will go.  But I can say for sure, I’m so happy to know that people like her are out there that see that being widowed isn’t the end.  Instead, it’s deep, meaningful experience that will add richness to the next relationship, no matter where that next relationship goes.

Through the Looking Glass

(Click for source.)

I’ve now made it through her birthday, both our anniversaries, the 3rd Christmas, 3rd Thanksgiving and 3rd Halloween. And I’m coming up on the 3rd anniversary of my sweet wife’s Angel Day. I feel like these are wins in some ways… and losses for us both. But what stands out the most is that I have a new perspective that I’ve begun to recognize. The perspective is neither good nor bad but that familiar widower guilt is stubbornly attached.

I see, or rather, feel two worlds now. The first world is made up of ‘us’ and extends backward for 10 years back to when we met. The new world is mostly ‘me’ and goes back not very far, actually, maybe only six months. (Oddly, I don’t really know what exists in the in-between years. I call those the “dark days.” All several years of them.)

When I think about the first world, the ‘us’ world, it’s like looking into a fogged mirror. Actually, it’s as if I were standing above a deep, still lake looking into the water watching my former life play out underneath. It’s sort-of clear but the visions are warped. While many moments are clear, other (poignant) moments are dream-like, especially the last weeks with my sweet wife.

When I reflect on the new world, the ‘me’ world, I’m struck by how emotionally dry and uneventful it is. The new world has less taste, less color, less smell, and less everything than the old world, yet it’s more familiar to me now. It’s like the “awesome” has dialed down. Maybe the awesome was never actually there and life now is the way life should have always been. Maybe I was just imagining things.

The best I can describe the sensation is that of just exiting an amazing sci-fi movie and re-entering the world of the real. Where there were flying cars, now are just cars. Where there were fantastic creature of wonder and mystery, now there are just cashiers and pizza delivery folks. Dramatic orchestral soundtracks are replaced by wind and road noise. And deep, emotional climaxes have been replaced with simple tasks like paying electricity bills and taking out the garbage.

The two worlds exist in different planes of reality and it’s hard to get my head to accept that one of the starring roles in the last world is the same two-bit actor in the world of the ‘now.’ And when I do get it, I feel guilty. (Ah, yes, that widower guilt - guilt for being happy, for living life, for NOT being sad or for NOT being completely and utterly obsessed with the old world.)

But because I can see two worlds that can only mean one thing – that I’ve begun to rebuild my life as a new person beyond my grief. I’m definitely re-engaging in life and creating a new world for me. Good lord, it’s about time. It’s been almost three years. Good grief. Part of me feels like a complete failure that it’s taken me this long. Another part of me feels terrible for even seeing two distinct worlds. And another part of me just wonders when all this will be over. A big part of me sees what the old world looked like and wonders how the hell I ever made it through all of that with any sanity left.

Geez. I wonder what today will look like through the looking glass next year.

Screw February

February is my landmine month and the only way I think I can make it through is chin down, teeth bared and feet moving. So far, it’s been a blur.

February 14^th is my 42^nd birthday. I cringe at the idea of celebrating without my sweet wife but time doesn’t stop, whether I want to recognize it or not. My 40^th was my first birthday after Maggie’s Angel Day and I couldn’t in my wildest dreams imagine a reason to celebrate that day without her so I didn’t. Since then, I’ve felt no love for my birthday. How could I? How can I celebrate another year in my life when she’s not with me? We were supposed to travel together to our old ages and celebrate our rocking-chair days. Yet now it’s just me. Celebrate? No. I’d much rather just forget.

February 28^th is our 8^th wedding anniversary. Damn. I’ve commiserated before about what to call that day. “Our anniversary”? No. She’s not with me any more. “My anniversary”? It’s hard to have a “My” wedding anniversary. Damn semantics.

February 29^th is MY wedding anniversary. This date is easier but the humor of it all feeds my sadness. See, we were married twice: once on the 28^th which was OUR wedding and then once again on the 29^th which was MY wedding. (MY wedding was in Las Vegas. She dressed up as Marylyn Monroe and I dressed up as James Dean. Elvis married us in the Little White Chapel with about 20 of our closest friends attending while dressed as their favorite movie stars.) Our simple plan was that HER wedding anniversary was more important and was to be celebrated every year. MY wedding anniversary, however, came just once every four years and was to be a par-tay! Unfortunately, we didn’t plan for this particular outcome.

Making this month more difficult is that a very good friend of mine’s brother is dying as I type this. His brother has been ill for some time. My friend is keeping a bedside vigil. I know all too well what that looks like and how that feels. My friend has told me many times during this time that he better understands how my life has been. His experiences have brought back many painful memories.

Making this month even worse (and some of you will laugh when I say this but stay with me), a friend of mine’s cat died last night. Yes, we widow/ers have all had that pale comparison made. But my very intuitive friend nailed it this time. For months he had been nursing his poor, ill-health kitty with various caretaking, around-the-clock tasks. Then, suddenly, he was relieved of his position of caretaker. Many of us know all too well that sudden cessation of duties. He was in shock. And all he could do was think of how it was for me back in early May of 2009. More memories for me.

But here’s the real kicker. Yesterday, an old friend of mine sent me a whole bunch of digital memories all wrapped up in a zip file. There were thirty or more pictures and about twelve videos of Maggie and me together. When were these little time capsules from? February 28, 2004 – our wedding day.

Maggie and I both agreed not to videotape the wedding. Jokingly, we said we didn’t want any chance for either of us to play out those sad scenes you see in movies where there’s a dark room and a wedding video playing where it becomes clear that a spouse had died. We only had pictures from that day, pictures I haven’t looked at in years. Now there’s video. As for as I know, these are the only videos in existence of her. It’s like the only proof she was even alive. I feel like I’m sitting in a dark room with a lit match and a stick of emotional dynamite that I haven’t lit yet.

I really try to leave each post I write with a positive message. I’m truly reaching this time for anything more than a message of determination. By taking many steps, a journey will take place. Keep putting one foot in front of the other. You will be surprised at where you’ll end up. (Right foot… left foot… right foot… stumble… right foot again… left foot….)

Part of my journey is writing these words to you. I’ll never know how they affect you. I hope they help in some way, if in no other way, knowing you aren’t alone; I truly want to help. But part of why I write is to know I’m not alone. Surely, I can’t be the only one who lived a dream… and lost.

“Don’t cry because it’s over; smile because it happened.” ~ Dr Suess.

A Week and Counting

Time marches on, and quickly!! It was only May when I got engaged, and the big day is coming up next week! I can hardly believe it. I make that statement with double meaning. I can hardly believe how quickly the time has passed since May, but it's more than that. I can hardly believe it.

I remember a time when I was convinced I'd never remarry. I loved Daniel more than anyone in the world (excluding Grayson :) and there was no way I would ever find someone like that again, much less allow them in. I wasn't even going to look. Dating? Maybe. I mean, I'm human so it wouldn't hurt to at least go out every once in a while, but long term? Forget it. Men are generally stupid and I'd already had the cream of the crop. Marriage? Forget about it. It would be a cold day in hell before that happened....well, it looks like the temps in Hades are dropping rapidly!

I think Carl slipped in when I had a rare moment of "guard down". I had decided I was interested in finding someone - I had arrived at the conclusion that I wanted someone in my life for real, not just a fun date. But, I had become the two date master. I could eliminate a guy in two dates (a couple of posers made it past my radar, but those are another story), and I had serious doubts that I'd find anyone 3rd date worthy.

Along came Carl. He charmed me with his easy humor, his fabulous smile, and his ability to talk to me about our bumpy past lives. He disarmed me completely and when I looked up...it was date 3, and we were booking a trip to New Orleans...and he hadn't even kissed me yet! Seriously? When did he slip me the love potion!?? Fast forward a year, and Carl, on one knee, blew me away. I still don't think I've recovered from that romantic moment :)

Almost two years later, we have bought a house, and the big day is coming up fast. I can hardly believe it! Who knew this was possible? I think several of my friends wondered if I'd go this route and had serious doubts - much as I did. I didn't, and still don't think that "moving forward" after Daniel means finding a man. "Moving forward" means finding yourself again and building a new life for yourself. I moved forward - and buckets of tears and a few years later, I found myself. A stronger, harder, more cynical version of me, and also a softer, more sensitive, and more loving me... but still me.

Who would have thought that new me would end up counting the days until her wedding? Certainly not ME! ;-) A week away and counting....I can hardly believe it!!

It's Just A Wall

Why would a wall hurt my feelers? It’s just a silly wall made of stucco, wood, drywall, paint and trim. No significant events happened on or near the wall. Actually, if I really, really thought about it, I’m not totally certain the wall was even the topic of more than just a few conversations. It’s just a wall. Yet, as I watched it slowly being rebuilt over the last few weeks from how it’s been since about a year before Maggie’s Angel Day, it has hurt – every single step.

I don’t recall when exactly I decided to tear it down. The reasons why I took down the wall are irrelevant, really. I know she wasn’t there at the time otherwise she would have been in the middle of it, directing and participating, swinging a hammer and going to town. I wish I could recall where she was. It’s likely she was at MD Anderson for one of the many, many visits she made (and one of the very, very few I didn’t attend.) I remember the look on her face when she saw the mess I had made while she was gone. Thankfully, she had accepted early in our relationship that my exploits were my little missions and they made me happy. So she grinned and asked simply “What are you going to now?” Apparently, as time has proven up, I was going let it sit for more than three years.

What’s interesting is that as the wall has been slowly rebuilt over the last week, every step that was completed was a punch to my heart. The more complete the wall, the worse it hurt. Walking into the room after the drywall was attached hit me like a ton of bricks. Adding texture made it all the more real. Right now it sits textured but not painted with no trim yet talking about it drives me to tears almost immediately.

Maybe to my heart the wall represents the incomplete dreams Maggie and I had. We definitely had wonderful plans for that room but that was before the cancer came calling. It was going to be a beautiful room filled with pictures we both took of the flowers from our garden. We even named it, appropriately, The Flower Room. But she never saw that dream completed. Instead, she let it go like she had to let go of so many other things she cared about. And I had to watch that little dream die.

I’m going to finish that wall. It’s almost there and I’ve asked some friends to help me because for some reason I can’t seem to do it myself. I feel silly when I cry every single damn time when I say that Maggie will never get to see that wall finished. It’s just a stupid wall. But for some reason that wall has a very real connection to my heart.

Hurt or not, I’m going to finish that wall. Hurt or not, I’m going to rebuild. Even if I don’t understand why it still hurts.

A Talk of Death

I just returned from visiting with my parents and aunt. I take the two hour drive every other weekend, as I know that my folks, and their generation of family members, won't be around forever. Of course none of us will be around forever, will we? It's just that my parents are in their late 70's, and with many health problems. My aunt is in the final stage of her cancer, and I'm all too aware of how precious time becomes when you know someone is leaving sooner rather than later.

Each time I take this trip, my car is loaded with my kids, my daughter's boyfriend, and on a few occasions, Abel, my new boyfriend. Today's trip felt quite intense. We visited with my folks first, then had them join us for a visit with my aunt. While at the visit my cousins were sharing with me that my aunt has chosen to end her chemotherapy. She has decided that her last days will be healthier and happier days without the misery that chemo can bring. It was kind of a sobering occasion.

On the long drive home Abel and I had a long conversation about health, death and aging. We talked about the various diseases that have affected our family's of origin, and how illness and death have touched each of our lives. At one point there was a pause, and Abel turned to me to ask, have you had a physical lately?

Funny timing. I do have a physical scheduled for this Monday. My health is definitely not something I take for granted. Although my kids are now teenagers, and young adults, I know that they still need me. I know that I still have much more parenting to do, and want to be sure that I am around for a long time. Remember, I will become a grandfather in less than two months. Last time that I met with my doctor, he told me that he was concerned about my blood pressure. It has always been borderline high, but now it is looking problematic. He reviewed my medical chart, and asked how long I have been on my anti-depressant.

Too long.

Like Janine, I have struggled with depression for many years. My depression has not been helped by the mental health problems that my two sons suffer from, nor has it been aided by the death of my husband. In the past two years I have tried twice to go off my medication, each time without much success. I usually do well for a couple months, then find myself sinking deeper and deeper.

I told my doctor that while I was not sure about going completely off the medication, I preferred to try going off the anti-depressant rather than adding another medication for high blood pressure. I'm worried, because I'm not sure I am making the right decision, but once again I feel that it is worth a try. I suppose that if there was an optimum time to try it would be when I am happily in a new relationship and looking forward to the arrival of new life. Is that enough? Is anything enough?

All I know is that I do feel a deep sense of responsibility to not die. Well, just not right now at least. One pill? Two pills? I will make that decision on Monday. Suddenly I have someone holding my hand, reminding me that he is quite invested in my being around for quite some time.

Immovable Objects vs The Business of Change

The Business of Change that I started back in mid-September continues on. There’s just so much stuff to go through and just so little willpower on my part. Despite all the difficult work packing her 118 pair of shoes into boxes, only one box has made it to a new home. (I remind myself that one is better than none – and even one is still a change.) That one box full of Adventures Not Taken was dropped off yesterday. I’m sure the nice lady at Safe Place found it odd that “Do you need a receipt?” was a reason to burst into tears. But I took the receipt, tried to drive straight and by the time I was half-way home I had stopped crying. That’s a real improvement.

Two weekends ago, I attacked a different part of the house, the back closet, where I uncovered landmines I didn’t expect. You’d think that things that have gone untouched (even unseen!) since Maggie and I moved into this big house would be way easier to sort through than, say, shoes. This was the closet where Maggie and I stuffed things we carried with us when we moved in but didn’t want to throw away. We’ve all got such a place filled with random stuff. Yes, you know the place.

Eventually it looked as though the closet had thrown up on the living room floor. I unpacked Halloween costumes from all the years we were together. I found her memory boxes full of newspaper articles she had saved, letters from old boyfriends, report cards, school reports, and even a picture portfolio from high school when she was trying to make it as a model. I even found the piece of paper on which I wrote her phone number for our first phone call and, just to the side of that, her address so I could pick her up for our first date. And this is just the stuff I saw. I didn’t dig but there a number of boxes I haven’t even opened yet.

Two things kicked me in the heart more than everything else that day. The first was an unusually large, unmarked white box that stuck out because of its size and the way it was carefully taped shut. Curious, I cut it open. Inside was a sealed plastic bag. Inside the sealed bag was a wedding dress. And in an instant, like a flash of insight, I also realized that the big bundle of frilly stuff I kept moving around the living room was her wedding headdress, complete with hair clip that I hadn’t even noticed until that very moment. Instant, painful clarity.

The second kick in the heart was in discovering the contents of a simple duffle bag. It definitely wasn’t something of mine. It was old but in very nice condition; it had obviously been well cared for. I pondered not opening it but I had to know what such a bag could possibly hold. After unzipping the zipper, I noticed two pink ribbons tied neatly in bows. The ribbons were carefully wrapped around a very soft, worn pink blanket that was rolled up perfectly into a neat roll. I couldn’t imagine what it could be. It was old but soft, fluffy and pink, kind of like the one someone would use as a …. A baby blanket, a very old baby blanket, I’d guess right around 36 years old.

…..

As of today, the Halloween costumes are gone; I took them to Goodwill this morning. This past weekend, I threw away a full trashcan of nonsense stuff that, as I did, I wondered what the heck we were saving this crap for anyway. But still sitting in my living room are several boxes of papers, folder, trinkets and knick-knacks, most of which the significance is only known to Maggie. Most notably there sits one large, nondescript white box that’s been recently re-taped. Beside that sits an old, simple, well-kept duffle bag.

The Business of Change meets the immovable objects.

Hope and Rope

After a week of being less social that usual, last Friday night sucked. Really, really sucked. I have no idea what triggered the mess. I wasn’t wallowing around in old wedding pictures. I hadn't gone back in time to read our Great Cancer Adventure blog (reading about our last days together still transforms me into a wailing mess of a man.) But for some reason, Friday evening was the night an ugly freight train of emotion hit me like never before. Maybe the train’s always been there but I have always had some judo to derail it before it picked up speed. Friday, it was just me, dark thoughts and a fast moving train.

From December 2006 (just prior to the diagnosis), I’ve been fairly good at staying positive or at least letting the negative waves of emotion and fear wash over me without pulling me endo via a riptide into unsafe depths. I’ve learned to control my thoughts and, when powerful negatives start echoing around in the emotion-amplifier called my brain, I just change the subject, quite literally. I don’t try to resolve the un-resolvable (“Why us? Why now? How can this happen?”) I just hear the questions form in my brain-chatter and let them run right out, giving them no energy or focus. Then I immediately change the subject to ANY other subject. I don’t avoid them but I don’t let them control me either. I just acknowledge them and move on. I’ve always been careful not to give them any energy because without energy, those thoughts starve and die.

...At least until last Friday night. That night, for some reason, I was weak. My idle mind filled quickly with widower-style un-resolvable questions (“How do I rebuild? Will I always be alone? Are my best years lost?”). Every question led to worse follow-up questions. Down and down I went. Eventually I was building doomsday scenarios, each more terrible than the previous. (Oh, I’m very resourceful and creative with my doomsday scenarios!) Each one played out like slowly falling dominoes clicking together to create my destiny. Eventually, I had built up multiple scenarios that painted my life so bleak that within just a few falling dominoes, I’m homeless, friendless, starving and living under a bridge. I’m never seen from again and no one bothers to look. Good riddance of that widower guy, they all say (in my head, of course.) My existence fades into a timid whisper between old friends at parties, much like Maggie’s has become, it seems. My life is over.

On and on I piled the punishment. For hours I whipped up a furious storm of morose self-abuse. Then came the Big Question: Why don’t I just call it quits right now?

That last question scared me. It wasn’t really the question. It was the feeling that drove the question. It felt like the only option. And that’s the key part – it seemed like the ONLY option. In a matter of hours, I had built an impenetrable wall that forced me down one path in my future that led to one inescapable conclusion. There was only one way out: call it quits – suicide.

Now this had gone too far. Something inside me sat straight up, wide awake and screamed “ENOUGH OF THIS!” But I wasn’t quite sure how to rescue myself. I felt like a panicking drowning victim, quite aware of the danger but not clear on how to escape. I was stuck under negative emotional debris while the riptide of a dismal future was carrying me quickly out to sea. It sucked. I was scared.

Then something simple and unexpected happened. I got a message with a casual invitation to lunch Saturday. It was sent from a person whom I had met exactly once but found engaging. Simple, yes, but it was just the rope I needed. That imagined impenetrable wall forcing me down the inevitable path of doom cracked. This unexpected lunch invitation wasn’t on that predetermined path. Instead, it was a trailhead of many paths, many I hadn’t considered. And if there were many paths, especially ones that I hadn’t seen yet, then there couldn’t possibly be only one option. And if there are lots of options, then there’s certainly no needed to call it quits now, with so many options still to explore. With that one simple message, the whole carefully-crafted notion of a single path of doom-and-gloom unraveled. As yet unseen options and opportunities were out there! Yay, hope! That was just the rope I needed to pull myself out.

The lesson: Even when it’s darkest, believe with all my heart a trailhead is just around the corner. No matter what, I just have to keep trudging forward. (And keep more rope handy for use around pesky sinkholes.)

Troubles with Facebook, Women and Badges

Hanging out a while back I was chatting with a female friend-of-a-friend having a great (non-romantic) time. Eventually, we decided we should become Facebook friends. I suggested she find my profile and send me a “friend request.” She typed and searched as I spelled out my name (‘C’, ‘H’… yes “Chris”. “Weaver” – ‘W’, ‘E’…. Apparently there are a lot of Chris Weavers on Facebook.) As she scrolled I looked at the little profile pictures and, when I saw my mug, I pointed and said “Ah, that’s the one!” She clicked and I went about my other business while she read my profile. Then it happened. She said something loudly I didn’t see coming: “OH! You are a WIIII-DOOO-WEEER!!”

Now, it isn’t what she said but how she said it: “WIIII-DOOO-WEEER!!” She managed to cram about six syllables into a three syllable word. Yup, yup, Texans are known for our linguistic latitude. (If you’ve ever heard a respectable Texan stretch out the word “good” then you understand what I mean.) But this was different; she didn’t have a discernable Texas accent. It was more of a declarative statement of discovery, like she had finally found that hidden meaning behind a puzzle that had long been pondered. But what the heck did she mean?

Her response wasn’t negative or positive. It was just matter-of-fact and more like a surprised utterance. Regardless, for a brief moment, I felt like I was exposed, standing naked at that bar, with everyone staring and pointing. I felt like I had just been seen kicking a dog or something otherwise aberrant. I wanted to both apologize and defend myself, like my bad choices had led me to this awkward Facebook moment. Part of me wanted to run and hide. I was ashamed.

Purely out of shock, I said “Yeah.” She said “I’m sorry” and the moment passed.

I’ve pondered that five-second moment many times since that day. Why did she react like that? My best guess is that maybe she was wondering why I was not married. My second best guess is that she had never imagined that a widower could be someone like me: young-ish, high-spirited, and happy, having fun in a bar with lots of friends and living life. My third best guess is that this was her first time to see the word “widower” and she was simply trying to sound it out phonetically. Hooked On Phonics. Long live the 80s.

While I’ve added her reaction to my loooong list of Things I’ll Never Understand, it’s pretty easy for me to turn her reaction into a negative. I’ve said before that attending Camp Widow was a huge step forward for me on my journey of becoming more comfortable with what happened and who I am now. Knowing that I’m not crazy, alone, or a societal misfit just because my wonderful wife died has been healing and gives me the strength to not own her reaction. Nope, that’s all on her. I am a widower, strong and proud. I did what I did out of love and that can never be taken away or minimized, no matter what misguided notions people might have. I have certainly faced more difficult emotional challenges than one girl’s visceral reaction to my Facebook relationship status. Supporting my beautiful wife, upholding our wedding vows, and loving like there was no tomorrow are things I’ll never be ashamed of. I will forever stand tall knowing that I did right by her. She and me, we were good together all the way to the end.

But why do I feel like I wear a badge of courage and honor but that same badge is going to keep women from ever getting to know me?

Are You Over It Yet?

Lately, I’ve been testier than usual. Very testy. One of my Widow Camp friends, Cassie, and I have shared many back-and-forth, four-letter-filled texts that have succinctly summarized our not-so-happy assessments of our similar situations. (I’m so thankful to have a widowed friend just a text away who understands what my non-widowed friends will hopefully never. Thank you, Widow Camp!) Maybe it’s the approaching holiday season. Maybe it’s the pushing forward I did with the Business of Change. Maybe it’s because last week was a full moon. Maybe it’s because one of Maggie’s friends is getting married and another is having her first child. Regardless and undeniably, I have been much more touchy than usual.

It’s difficult to explain to those who haven’t lived this nightmare why losing Maggie isn't something I’ll just one day get over. Not that I need to explain it to you, fellow widow/er, but there is no cure for what is ailing me. There is no medicine to vanquish my sorrow. My discomfort is not temporary like that that comes from a miserable cold or the sharp pain of a broken bone. It’s not a healing thing; it’s a coping thing. I really want them to understand but I’m careful with that wish; I’d never want anyone to fully understand the sadness I feel. So, I offer up yet another analogy even though I suspect my friends have long tired of my attempts to explain.

Imagine, I tell them, if one day someone walked up with a machete and, without explanation, chopped off your right arm. Blood would spray and it’d hurt quite a bit. You’d spend time in the hospital with drugs and stitches and visitors. But eventually, you’d go back home. The helpful visitors would disappear. The physicians would stop prescribing drugs. Then it’d just be you, your left arm and your memories of how things used to be. Meanwhile, you’d be learning how to tie your shoe with only one hand. Or shampoo your hair. Or button your shirt. Or put on a necklace. Or floss. Other things that you used to do, things you did daily, took for granted and loved, you just couldn’t do anymore. No more playing guitar. No more texting on your phone. No more driving a stick-shift. No more hunting or playing baseball or lifting weights. Or carrying both dogs. Everything is different now. Life will never be the same.

Imagine someone asking you, who just lost your arm, “Hey, when are you going to get over that whole losing-your-arm thing?”

Then imagine raising your one remaining hand to show that person your one remaining middle finger.

Did I mention I’ve been a little more testy than usual lately?

Adventures Not Taken

Shoes. We take for granted that these little bits of leather, plastic and rivets will be ready for any adventure that pops up. We assume they will support and protect us as we walk over hot sidewalks and soft carpets. And at the end of the day, it's nice to take them off and place them next to another pair of still-warm, well-traveled shoes. Shoes are at the start and the end of every adventure.

Maggie loved shoes. Her eyes would light up when she saw a pair that tickled her fancy. She’d be so excited to bring them home that she’d walk around the house wearing them like she was a model putting on a show. I don’t know for certain but I imagine that in each pair she saw a lifetime of adventures to be experienced. She loved adventures, large and small. I loved seeing her happy. Ergo, I loved her shoes.

Sunday I packed up 118 pair of adventures not taken and put them into boxes to be given away, or rather, set out on adventures that wouldn’t include she or me. The careful process of moving each pair from the closet where they’ve sat for more than two years frozen in time was painful. Each pair represented a thousand adventures we’ll never have together and a million memories we’ll never create.

Some shoes looked pristine as though they had never been worn. The mysteries surrounding these shoes made me wonder what grand adventure she was dreaming about when she bought them. Where was she planning to go or what was she planning to do while wearing these shoes? I am sad that she never got the chance to walk a mile in those shoes. I’m sad that each of these pair of untouched pumps, flats, boots or heels represents so many unrealized dreams and adventures not taken. For each pair, I mourn the loss of what we didn’t have. I’m sad because she was sad that life was cut short too soon. She definitely wasn’t done living. She, rather, WE had miles and miles still to go together, hand-in-hand.

The others, obviously her go-to shoes, showed her love with well-worn soles. Touching those shoes hurt because so many of those scuffs and scratches we made together and I miss her and those moments dearly. I suppose now is the time to be reminded of the sage advice of Dr. Seuss: "Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened."

Crap. Why is it that the shoes hurt so much? They are just f-ing shoes.

Crap.

Because it happened… Yes. I’ll smile. I’ll keep smiling through my tears.

The business of change presses on.

Meaningful Moments

This weekend I was out running a few errands with my daughter. We were at Lowes buying a replacement microwave oven. And, because I love gardening, anytime I'm at a store that has a garden section, there you will find me. I was walking down the isle, pushing my cart, and looking at all the varieties of plants. I had something specific in mind, but at the same time realized that I didn't really need another plant, nor did I have a place for another plant.

I began to wonder, what am I doing here? What am I searching for?

Suddenly I felt a bit light headed, and lost. I stopped moving, and looked to see where my daughter was. Within seconds she was walking up to me, asking if I found what I was looking for. I told her that I felt like I was wasting my time away. I felt like whatever it was I was doing at that moment was insignificant.

Why is it that after two years, my life still feels somewhat insignificant? I explained to my daughter that before Michael died, every moment was significant. I was always busy taking care of my family, researching cancer trials, filling prescriptions, and being mindful of every waking moment. Everything I did was either for Michael, or with Michael. Every moment of joy was spent with him. I didn't want to lose a single second of my time with him. I didn't want to look back and regret moments that could have been spent loving him.

I remember how after he died, I felt like time just stood still. It was like nothing else mattered anymore. Now of course my children still mattered, but what I was feeling was about my adult self, my married self. Suddenly my other half was gone, yet the void wasn't half of me, it was all of me. I have since struggled to regain a sense of feeling complete, and finding joy as a single adult once again. And, there is joy, and there is pleasure. Yet at times like this, walking casually down the isle in a nursery, with nothing, or no one to rush home to, time doesn't really seem to have the same value.

The rest of my weekend went the same. I did absolutely nothing. For many people, the idea of doing absolutely nothing is highly valued. Others complain about being too busy, and having no time to slow down and appreciate what they have. Yet for me, at least for now, I still have too much time on my hands. I think that in time my daily life will be filled with more moments of value, but I also think that I'm just not wanting to fill it with a bunch of insignificant moments. I don't want to busy myself, unless I become busy with things that truly mean a lot to me. What those will be I'm not sure.

So, I will continue to remind myself that as long as I find myself contemplating these thoughts while I'm out and about, then I'm on the right track. In time, moments like this will begin to feel significant once again, and I will find myself valuing every one of them.

Business of Change

Today marks 869 days since Maggie’s Angel Day. Being that specific implies more preoccupation than is truly representative of my mental state. But being that specific makes me think about how far I’ve come and how far I’ve still to go. (I’ll save you the math: 869 days is roughly 124 weeks, 29 months or just nearly 2 ½ years. From official diagnosis to her Angel Day, 850 days passed. So as of today, 20 more days have passed since her Angel Day than the length of her “official” illness.)

For nearly 2 ½ years I’ve let a bouquet of roses sit on the counter on her side of the bathroom. To me, those dried flowers were just part of the room. I can’t even say I really noticed them every day. Beside the vase that held the dried roses sat her driver’s license, placed there the day I stopped carrying it around in my pocket several hundred days ago. Several hundred days - it’s uncomfortable to call that out but it’s very real. It’s my life.

So, without fanfare or grand circumstance, I made a change. No lighting struck. No drums rolled. No sad music played. It was just me, the puppies and my staid emotions as I carried the dried bouquet of roses to the back of our my house. I grabbed the bunch by the stems, crunched them together as the brittle peddles disintegrated, and tossed them onto the compost pile. It was done.

How is it that I’ve been ok with a bouquet of roses that has been sitting in the same spot for years? My psychologist, the one I’ve seen weekly since Maggie became very ill, calls this state of inertia “business as usual.” In my professional life, I’ve never stood for business as usual. Yet, in my personal life, I had a bouquet of roses sitting on the counter in my bathroom for years – more than 850 days. From now on, business as usual is now the business of change.

What started in the bathroom has been spreading. A few days ago, the business of change overthrew a pile of crushed dreams in the corner of the kitchen that has gathered much dust. Stacks of receipts from closed bank accounts, letters from the court, change of relationship forms, and unused death certificates have lied where they fell after completing their last call of duty. Now, untouched for probably more than a year, these papers have become a pile of pins and needles that I occasionally ran my hand through but mostly avoided. As of today, that pile is gone and its contents appropriately sorted and filed in the filing cabinet under “Crap That Sucks.”

While I was meddling in that area of the kitchen, I took down five pictures of Maggie that I had taped up to the tile years ago. In some of the pictures, she was cuddling Nurse Jolie’s new-born daughter Anya making loving baby faces I’d never get to see as she held our own new-born children. Another picture was a favorite that she had given me to keep in my briefcase as I traveled. Her glowing smile reminded me of happier, more-innocent days. All those pictures are packed away now and that wall looks bare.

It’s an odd feeling, doing this. Yes, I feel sad but I also feel a sense of cleansing or of refreshing. I don’t feel like I’m betraying Maggie and that’s the best thing. I really thought I’d be struggling with that but that specific feeling is conspicuously absent and its absence is, well, welcome. In fact, I feel less like I’m putting away and more like I’m making room.

The Closer

Special thanks to guest author M,atthew Croke, for his excellent guest post today! Kim is moving and will be back next week!

I want to be a closer in baseball. Or at least I want to think like one.  I was watching a game on TV and one of the best closers in baseball gave up back to back home runs and his team lost the game.  The next night he gets another chance to close out the game. This time: he walks the first batter, hits the second batter, and the third batter hits a double which scores two runs.  They lose again.

Reporters swarm the closer after the game, hoping to get a swearing, out-of-control athlete who will throw equipment and have a meltdown for all to see.  The network news will then reply his weak moment over and over again, happily letting the world see a man who has failed.  The viewing public will stop everything they are doing to see this piece of entertainment every time it’s shown.

However, to the dismay of news producers, the baseball closer sits at his locker; ten microphones shoved in his face, and without flinching, tell the reporters what they don’t want to hear.  “If you are going to be a closer in baseball, you have to have a short memory.  You walk off the field and take the loss, you forget it happened and get back out there the next day and do your job.” He says picking a piece of string off his jersey as if the cameras don’t exist.

“But you’ve blown two in a row, do you feel you’ve lost your confidence?” barks a reporter from the back, trying his best to get the player to lose his cool.

The closer, looking at the piece of string before tossing it over his shoulder, looks back at the reporter and shrugs his shoulders.  “Those games are over, they’re irrelevant to me.  Tomorrow I will wake up and start all over again.”

A few nights ago, I had a bad night putting my kids to sleep: they took forever getting their pajamas on, they were playing instead of going to the bathroom, and every time I’d get one in the bedroom I would see another one come back out to play. By the time I had them all in their room to read stories, I was yelling and told them “no books” and left the room to crying children as I turned off the light and barked one more “Go to sleep.” for good measure.

I went upstairs and without turning on the lights, sat in the living room; the darkness allowing my brain to form a complete thought. It didn’t take long for me to be disappointed in myself for not having enough patience.  I wanted to the day to be over and what were kids being kids, I used as an excuse so I could get out of going through their entire nighttime routine.  It was the end of the day and I blew the final inning. I walked the first batter, hit the second, and then gave up a double to lose the game, kids crying and all.

“I blew the game tonight.” I told myself. “I need to have a short memory, for when I go to bed and wake up in the morning, I will be given the ball again, and if by chance, I happen to blow it two nights in a row, then the day after that I will go back out and try again.”

The difference between a Hall of Famer and a player in the minors isn’t the blown saves, everybody loses games. It’s the ability of the Hall of Famer to walk off the field and forget about it before he steps into the locker room that makes the difference.