Secluded Paths

Maggie kept the beat in our relationship when it came to social engagements. She injected me into a lively social world that held me captive to weekends packed with activities, most of which were not optional. Now, without her overwhelming influence, I find myself woefully disengaged with what I think most people would consider normal life.

We had no children so I don’t benefit from the continued social pressure that comes with little ones. The lack of children also often filters me from events in which I’d otherwise be included. Well-meaning friends intentionally don’t invite me to birthday parties and other kid-thick events “to protect my sanity,” so they say.

Except for the brave and determined, friends who only knew Chris as half of Maggie and Chris have had difficultly making the transition. Most fell aside quickly after Maggie’s Angel Day. My guess is that they were battle-weary from the 850-day fight. However, for me that was just the climactic end of one major battle in the still on-going war.

So here I am with my solitary habits but now with fewer friends. Fewer friends mean fewer easy opportunities to be social. Gravity has temporarily dragged me into a lonely world.

Thankfully, if there’s one thing that seems to be constant, it’s change. Life is transition. All of this will change and it will likely change again. The New Reality will become the Old New Reality. Rinse and repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

The picture that I chose for this post was taken on one of our many happy vacations. A framed version hangs by the front door of my downtown condo and right below it sits a patient walking stick I cut from a tree that grew at the house where we lived together happily for almost ten years. Every day when I leave the condo I glance at that picture. Almost every weekend, I take that walking stick on a mini adventure. Both remind me that my journey isn’t done; I’m just in transition.

I consider myself a world traveler. As of this writing, I’ve visited 11 countries (with three more coming up next month.) Every one of my journeys has involved at least one secluded and often scary path. Each time I’ve been delighted at what I found at the destination. Life is a grand adventure. I also consider myself one of the lucky ones because just like you I’m forever blessed to never again walk a path alone, even when I’m the only one leaving footprints.

The Backpack

(Image from here.)

The other day, a post-Maggie friend asked how I became so well adjusted, having put all the stuff that happened behind me. I was careful not to snort my drink through my nose upon hearing her well-intended question; such a reaction might have been confusing to her. When I asked what she meant, she described how she thought I had such a great perspective. Ah, perspective, my consolation prize.

It’s been more than five years now since the last day I kissed my lovely wife. She’s been physically absent from my life now more than half the total time we were together. That makes me sad. How can it be possible for my heart to hurt still so much? Of course (and thankfully), it hurts now less than it did. And it hurts indescribably way less than it did watching her slowly grow ill and eventually die. That’s perspective, too.

The oddest things strike me now. For instance, I get very confused about which TV shows we used to watch together or which movies she had seen. My brain innocently assumes that if I had seen them, then so had she, magically ignoring any minor little details about timing. My brain still has us inexplicably woven together and creating memories. Oh, silly, silly brain.

I have different friends now. Sometimes I can’t recall which of my friends had known her, which can create some remarkably uncomfortable social situations, especially with post-Maggie friends that never even knew I was married. Oh, silly brain.

How is it possible that my brain can’t keep these things straight? I’m pretty darn clear on when the “with Maggie” time transitioned to the “without Maggie” time. Despite that crystal clarity, the crisp edges of truth blur as if somehow my sanity is protected by gentle reminders that these little things don’t matter. Does this mean I’ve reached some state of acclimation to the New Normal? If so, I should get a sticker or something. Maybe I’ll make a t-shirt that says, “You think I’m awesome now? You shoulda met me before my wife died!” It’d be a big hit with a very select subset of society.

To my friend who asked how I seem so well adjusted, I asked her to imagine donning a new 250-pound backpack. For an unpleasantly long time, it’d be a dramatic struggle to grow new muscles and learn balancing skills. But with determination, help from friends, and hard work, she’d learn to walk, run, and maybe even dance again. Eventually she’d live a new type of life that only subtly hinted to that ever-present backpack.

Then I told her, you know those pesky rocks that life occasionally drops in your path - those little 1, 2, 10 and even 50 pounders? Those won’t seem like much of a big deal any more. In fact, most of them you won’t even notice.

Hollywood Does Death and Grief

(from the Washington Post)

I’m angry.  I don’t want to be but the more I reflect, the unhappier I am with how the last episode of How I Met Your Mother completely failed me AND the rest of the widowed community.

[SPOLIER ALERT] How I Met Your Mother is a TV sitcom built on the premise of a goofy guy (Ted) telling his teenage kids sappy-corny stories about how he met their mother.  Buried in those archives are touching moments I’ve replayed over and over as expressions of love and devotion exactly how I think love should be.  In the lives of Lily, Marshal, Ted, Zoey, Robin and (finally) Tracy, I saw moments of Maggie and my relationship played out over and over.   By the way, when we first meet Tracy, she’s just become a widow.  [Seriously, this is a SPOILER!] Last weekend, in the final episode, after 10 years of build up, Ted and Tracy meet, fall in wonderful love, have kids and then Tracy becomes ill and dies.

[Ok, I give up.  This whole post is a spoiler.]

Ten years I watched Ted search for love. My heat sang when I watched how he and Tracy bantered in much the same ways Maggie and I used to.  They exemplified a simple, honest happiness, just the way we liked it. It should have been love ever after.

Sadly, it wasn’t.  Tracy, his new wife and mother of his children became inexplicably ill and eventually died.  Surprisingly, that’s not what cracked my teapot.  What’s upsetting is how dismissive the writers were with regard to Tracy’s illness and eventual death.  On the emotional scale of life, as we here all know, losing a spouse is a big damn deal.  Tracy and Ted were in giggly love, building their lives and then, in two blinks, she was gone.  Yet, of the hour-long finale, less than 8 seconds were dedicated to showing her in a hospital bed.  None were dedicated to her getting really sick or Ted’s unfailing devotion and support (which I know he provided because that’s just what he’d do.)  And zero (that’s 0.00) seconds were dedicated to Ted’s incredible grief.  Hollywood failed.  Completely.  Instead of taking us all on an authentic and difficult ride of elation, shock and deep sadness followed by years of rebuilding, death and the entry into widowhood was treated like a minor speed bump on the way to true happiness.  All that was and could have been was brushed aside as nearly an afterthought.  And that makes me sad.

I will have another dream-come-true relationship, one like Ted and Tracy had.  She’ll be the yin to my yang and she’ll laugh at my corny jokes and find my sarcasm entertaining.  I’ll love her quirky nature and look forward to seeing what makes her unique.  But she’ll also know that there was a major upheaval that brought us together, that there was another path I was on, a path I had no intention of leaving.  She’ll know that when we, Maggie and me, were knocked off that path, it took me many years just to get my feet underneath me again.  That path, the upheaval, and my learning to walk again is big chunk of who I am.  Only by understanding and accepting each piece of that journey will it be possible for us to join together and start our own.  Hollywood be damned.  There will be no glossing over here.

It’s funny.  Tracy (Ted’s wife) would have totally understood and been supportive had Ted been widowed.  After all, she lost her husband just a short while before meeting Ted.  Why does TV have to sell such a rich experience so short?

My Battle Axe

(Picture is a selfie from last night and totally real. 

This is my "I'm a deep thinker" look.)
(Picture actually from here.)

(I'm filling in for Amanda because the storms in Australia have knocked out Internet access.  She'll be back again next week.)

I’ve got a battle-axe that I carry with me everywhere I go.  I’ve had it since Jan 5, 2007 when it was given to me by a doctor who said the words “cancer” and “urgent.” Its blade is sharp and still bloody from previous use.

Back after Maggie was first diagnosed, I didn’t even realize that I wielded such a weapon.  Quite innocently, I’d share Maggie and my recent experiences but I was oblivious to the carnage I was leaving in my wake.  In an innocent daze, I’d rambled on like a berserker, leaving broken and beaten hearts with every story I’d tell.

Often, the end of my stories would be punctuated by thick silence.  Damage would be everywhere.  People would be crying.  Some would be running for safety, with hearts bleeding.  Seeing the suffering I caused while entranced in my own recounting of the awesomeness of what was happening to us caused even more pain. I felt reckless and selfish.  My sharing had made things worse.  I felt like a clumsy yet huggy Edward Scissorhands.

Eventually, I learned to be gentler with my battle-axe.  I learned that the best way to share the latest news was not all at once, but instead, in very small pieces and with many pauses.  I also learned that often more detail is worse than less, even when asked.  And that people can’t handle raw, honest grief and fear. I even decided that often it makes sense to say nothing at all, even when the voice inside my head was screaming and my heart was aching.  There was a time and place and I got to choose.

Last Thursday, my colleague’s father died.  Several of us sat in my office, distraught and discussed how difficult death is.  They talked about what it was like in the last days and moments.  They talked about how hard it was with the morphine and shallow breathing. They talked about how hard it was to accept that their fathers were gone.  Then, they turned to me and asked:  Chris, have you had to deal with your father dying yet?

The me from not too long ago would have carelessly unsheathed my battle-axe and begun to swing it around.  It would have been messy.

The new, wiser me last Thursday did something different.  Instead of pulling out my axe, I calmly said “no” and then nothing more.  Carnage avoided.  It wasn't the right time or place.  And, truthfully, I have no idea what it’s like to lose a parent.

I don't know if staying silent at that moment was a good idea but I think it was.  On one hand, no one at my new job and in my new life knows about Maggie which makes me sad.  On the other hand, no one runs from me or feels sorry for me.  I'm accepted for simply who I am right now and that's a very good thing.  Eventually, they'll find out.

But hey, if things ever do get rowdy, I've got this here battle-axe I can whip out.  I'm not afraid to break stuff.  >:-)

Almost time to say goodbye

Maggie died in May 2009.  I’ve been writing on Widow’s Voice since April 2011.  I don’t write as often as the other bloggers because I guess I’m the quiet one.  Yet I hope that my infrequency has been inversely reflected in the intensity of my posts; I’ve been open and honest and shared all that I’ve been working through.  My path – the same path you are on – sadly leaves only one set of footprints in the sand.  Yet, for some reason and maybe you feel the same, I’ve felt that my job is to keep drawing another set of footprints.

I’m now ready to stop drawing footprints in the sand.  It’s time for me to walk alone.  I’ve cleared the closet.  I’ve gotten rid of the shoes.  I’ve sold the house.  I changed jobs.  Our dog is no longer with me.  I’ve moved.  If there’s anything “us” that’s left, I don’t know what that might be. I guess my only last difficult part is saying goodbye to you.  That's hard, too.  For us, saying goodbye has a very, very, very different meaning than the rest of the world.  We have all been very seriously affected by goodbyes.  I, like you, take goodbyes very seriously.

Thus, it’s unlikely this will be my last post.  Hell, Michele (the founder and editor of Widow’s Voice) is likely spitting her coffee all over the keyboard as she reads this post because I didn’t warn her (Sorry!)  But it’s also unlikely that she didn’t know this was coming.  She's been watching me working hard at climbing out of the dark pit of despair for years.  You have all bared witness since April 2011 - more than three years.  For three years I’ve been struggling and while I’ve not “won” anything, I’ve survived and believed.  I’ve survived long enough to get my feet underneath me and my head back on straight.  Finally, I feel like I'm just at the beginning of start of my new life.

There are three things you must know:
#1.  No matter how hard it hurts, now matter how alone you feel, no matter how difficult it is to breathe, you can do this.  You can survive.  You can do this.

#2.  You are not alone.  You are not alone.  You are not alone.  (Yes, I typed that three times because damn it, no matter what anyone tells you or what you think when the lights are out late at night or when you are sitting on the train looking around or when you are at your best friend’s wedding, you are not alone.  We are everywhere and we are with you.)

#3.  You will never be “over it” but you will live and love again.  You will be happy again.

A Final House Goodbye

It’s been a long time since I cried for three straight hours.  I forgot how many rolls of toilet paper I can go through per hour.  (Yes, I use toilet paper instead of Kleenex.  TP is more efficient, less messy and much cheaper.  When you are clocking nose blows at between 2 to 3 RPH – rolls per hour  - cost matters.)  I also forgot how bad the headaches can be.

Last night was all about saying goodbye yet again.  Today at 4PM I finally hand the house keys to another person so last night some friends and I enjoyed one last hurrah at the house Maggie and I planned to live in for the rest of our lives.  The phrase of the evening was “final paragraph of a chapter” followed by other phrases like “long, amazing story” and “exciting adventure.”  Many memories were stirred up and stories were told.  It was a wonderful gathering.

The house Maggie and I shared is so, so rich with legends, most of which involve wild parties, alcohol and ridiculous number of cars filling up the cul de sac we lived on.  Other legends entail demonstrations of devotion, hope and love.  A comparative few are stories of difficulty and sadness, but those thankfully are far outweighed by powerfully positive stories.  That house has a positive karma energy buffer strong enough to withstand years of a love drought (although I hope that the new homeowners keep making positive karma deposits by building a fantastic life while living there.)

My new life with my new job and new condo downtown has kept me so incredibly busy that I’ve not had the opportunity to sit and reflect on the enormous changes that have happened.  Maybe that’s a good thing.  I often chided Maggie about a lack of pre-decision reflection.   That girl was always a ready-fire-aim kind of gal.  Somehow, despite the lack of reflection and premeditation, she sure managed to get a lot done in her short life including steal my heart.  Maybe a little more fire and a little less aim would do me good.  Actually, now that I’ve thought about it, I don’t really have time to sit here ponder.  I have a lot of wonderful things I’ve got to git to gittin' done.

Let the New Life Begin

So much has happened in such a small amount of time that my head is spinning even as I type.  I now live in downtown Austin with cars and people and dog walking and concrete which, for a country boy, is quite the change.  I have a new job that’s challenging, engaging and, quite frankly, fun.  Life is completely different than just a few weeks ago, let alone a month or a year ago.  So much has changed.  And I’m ok with all of it.  A new world of possibilities has appeared in front of me and I’m happy to be right where I am.  Wow, it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to say that.

Not for one second have I forgotten my past, my sweet wife, or my journey that brought me to where I am now.  Yet, despite the relevance and overwhelming daily influence of it all, oddly, I can’t recall the last time I brought up my experience in conversation.  I do use it as a little shit test when I’m faced with unpleasantries or difficult circumstances: Does what’s happening right now really mean diddly shit compared to watching my lovely wife slowly die?  Pretty much 100% of the time, the answer to that question is “No” which makes it really easy not to get over involved in things that would previously wrap me up into a tangle.  I guess that’s one of many consolation prizes – perspective.

It’s taken me a long time to get where I am right now.  I’ll never be the same as I was before and I can’t say I’m very happy about the journey.  But I’m happy that I’m here where I am right now starting over.  Let the new life begin.

Of Moving Vans and Big Plans

The last two weeks have zipped by in a blurry whirlwind of packing and tossing.   By staying steadfastly focused on the shiny adventures that I believe are just ahead, I’ve managed to brute force myself through uncountable difficult choices. Take with or store, give away or garbage – eventually the stuff in this big house was reduced to four piles.  While moving stuff around, we uncovered emotional  land mines everywhere.  We all suffered.  But by pushing through, I feel like we’ve all healed just a little bit.

Maggie’s mother and sister played crucial supportive roles in helping me push through this giant chore. Almost every night and both weekends we dug in and, to my amazement, we are almost done.  All that remains in the house now is some final bits still spread among the furniture that will stay for staging.

Maggie’s sister reminded me during my many moments of weakness that an elephant can only be eaten one bite at a time.  At times, it seemed like the elephant we were choking down was liberally seasoned with fresh onions with an occasional surprise habanero.  But we are pushing through.

Elephant: 100
Chris and Company: 101

We are winning both the battle and the war.  The spoils go to the victor.

The Big Leap

One good step begets another and who am I to not abide.  So since my last post about finally cleaning out the closet I've kept the momentum going.  I quit my job.  Then I joined a new early-stage high tech startup.  Then I put my house – our house since 1999 - up for sale and am making plans to move downtown in about two weeks.  It’s been an absolute whirlwind of chaos.

I can’t say I’m thrilled with all the upheaval.  But it’s about time I sat in the drivers seat.  Today, a friend asked me how I was coping with all the stress of the change that was going on in my life right now.  I brushed off their question with a dismissive statement saying, “Oh, I’ve been through a lot worse.”  Funny thing, though, is that even though I’ve been through days where walking barefoot on salt-coated glass would have been less painful, this upheaval still strikes my heart cold from fear. After what I’ve been through, you (and I) would think such a simple task would be trivial.  Yeah, well, nope.

Wrestling this great big house full of crap into a packing van and subsequent storage space is beyond my comprehension and my capabilities.  But I have this little secret weapon now: faith.  I have a very simple faith that frees me to believe that even without a clear path I know I’ll land on my feet.

So I’m leaping.  It’s time.  It’s going to be a wild ride.

One Really Empty Closet

It’s done. It’s been a long time in coming but all her clothes are gone. There’s now a large gaping hole in our closet where just days ago a whole bunch of happy cotton and polyester reminders used to hang. The sight of the half empty space is jarring but I feel rather numb about it all.

This was my last big rip of the band-aid, the last big step that needed to be taken, my last mountain to climb. The thought of starting that task still somehow strikes me cold, a mental game I’ve practiced so many times in the last four years. But then I remember the task is done and suddenly I panic with questions:

· Did I forget to save that special whatever?
· What if I forget about that time she wore whatever?
· Blah blah blah whatever?

The questions are rapid fire and they all lead me in one direction – the past. Since I can’t go back in time (And, oh trust me! If there was a way to mentally force time to go backwards, I’d have figured it out by now by sheer willpower and mental force!) by standing looking backward I’m still moving forward, just not the direction I choose. I’m in the passenger seat letting life drive me around while I sit and wish for what can’t be had.

It’s time I got in the drivers seat again. It’s been a long time.

The Secret

I’ve finally figured something out.  I’ve struggled so much with how to move forward.  I’ve gotten stuck over and over again and then I flogged myself mercilessly.  I somehow am stuck with a stubborn commitment to the belief that the life I used to have will spring up and restart because, well, because of how much I love what it was –my wife, our life, our friends, our puppies, our future – all of it!  I struggle still with the acceptance that that life is now gone.  Crap.  I suck at acceptance.

However, every once in a while, I burst forward toward my new life with big ol’ confidant strides.  I can usually feel those bursts coming and I’ve written about them here on Widow’s Voice, but until now I’ve never quite understood where that energy comes from.  But now I finally understand.

The secret is travel.  Getting outside of my house.  Living outside of my comfort zone, my familiar paths, my pig trails.  Changing my reality, even temporarily.  That’s the secret.  Seeing the world, in all its glory, with people from different cultures eating different foods speaking different languages and trying to figure out how to use different types of toilets while I wrestle with the brain-melting hugeness of how big this planet really is.  This is it.  This is the secret.

Upon returning from each of my travel adventures, my path to move forward is crystal clear.  I know exactly what to do, how to do it and I’m excited to get started.  Then, that enthusiasm hits the goo that is sentimentality.  My hard push hits passive resistance from my heart.  Small but important bursts of forward movement happen but my progress quickly slows like an arrow shot into a tub of molasses.  The molasses of sweet memories win the battle and I’m stuck again, walking the same familiar paths and tracing the same pig trails.  Familiarity is comfortable.  Sweet comfort of days gone by keeps me stuck, reflecting backward, not moving forward.  But it’s different now.  Now I’ve figured out the secret.

I need to book a flight.  To anywhere.  Right now.  Who’s coming with me?  Where shall we go?

So Happy She Died!

(This great image is from Cory Parris' web site)

On Maggie’s Angel Day, at the suggestion of friends, I hosted a simple get-together.   When asked about hosting such an event, I immediately felt…  Yuck!  Why the hell would I want to have a party on the day my sweetie Maggie died?  She DIED that day.  What is there to celebrate?

Reflecting on that day four years ago is an exercise rich with many layers of emotion, no matter what the impetus.  My feelings that day were so complicated and fluid moment to moment that it’s difficult to capture in words.  It’s a day like no other I’ve experienced or frankly wish to ever experience again.  But I wouldn’t have rather been anywhere else on Earth.  I was right where I was supposed to be - by her side.

Just moments after she died I remember being so peaceful and happy.  I was relaxed and quite simply just happy.  Until now, I’ve tried not to dig too deeply into the psychology of why that would be a good moment for me to be all smiles and while I can assure you that the happiness didn’t last very long, for a while that evening, I was quite relaxed and happy.

My guess as to why I was Mr. Smiles that evening is, quite simply, that for the first time in way, way too long, my sweet wife wasn’t suffering.  I wasn’t watching her body slowly being eaten by an awful disease.  Our lives were no longer being painfully ripped apart.  Our futures weren’t being destroyed, one happy dream at a time.  We weren’t saying goodbye anymore.  The beatings had stopped.  It was over.

Last Saturday for Maggie’s Angel Day v4.0, while others were here having fun, enjoying the hamburgers and company, I celebrated that happiness again.  It may seem twisted to some but I never, ever want to forget the happiness that I felt that day after Maggie died.  I hope that feeling stays with me for the rest of my life.

I believe that the happiness that I felt just moments after Maggie died is my super power.  It reminds me that I have felt love and have loved so powerfully that my soul rejoiced when her suffering ended.  Yes, I realized that I had a lot of grief and more hurt was coming my way.  But that evening, while time warped around me, my tired soul savored the end of the suffering.  It was the happiest sad moment I’ve ever experienced.

That night four years ago, blissful and shell-shocked, I spent the next several hours in the kitchen with friends, laughing, telling jokes and just being not sad.  Oddly enough, the get-together for Maggie’s Angel Day ended the exact same way - me in the same kitchen with friends, laughing, telling jokes and just being not sad.  Perfect.

I’m very, very careful to not say things like “Maggie would want” because I learned early in our relationship that I really had no ability to predict her preferences, but in this particular scenario I’ll say with confidence that Maggie would have wanted me to spend that day just the way I did, in the kitchen with friends, laughing, telling jokes and just being not sad.  Thar.  We dun did it.  And fun was had by all.

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....

Reflecting and Persevering and Pushing

"You have one, maybe two weeks left," the doctor at MD Anderson told Maggie exactly four years ago today as I held Maggie’s hand. Such a statement, after all we had been through, was not a surprise to either of us. That moment will sit forever in my gut like a block of emotional lead. If you are reading my words today, I suspect you’ve felt that same feeling in some fashion, the feeling of your blood running cold. I hope neither you nor I ever feel that again.

As Maggie’s Angel Day approaches, I’ve been trying to live my life, to not reflect back, to not deeply ponder – or dare I say even savor – those last few days. I feel like I should in some way hold those painful memories close but then I feel like I’m doing exactly what some of my “friends” have accused me of – milking this situation or not moving on or choosing to being dramatic. Thus, I tell no one about my trips back to those poignant moments only four years ago, except you. I know you know and understand and don’t find fault in my continued sadness. Yes, I miss my sweet wife. Yes, after nearly four years I still carry a torch. Neither my tears nor the judgmental spit from others have managed to extinguish that flame. Damn it. Why does this still have to be so difficult? Haven’t I paid my dues?

Not helping my sanity is the unpleasant surge in difficult situations. I have three friends right now dying slowly of the same disease; two are married while one is sad she’s not. Another very dear friend of mine lost her dear friend suddenly last week; he was only 37. Then there’s the nightmarish mess in Boston last Monday and Wednesday’s tragedy down the street in West, Texas. Even tonight as I type, an MIT guard has been killed. Death, it seems, has become strikingly obtrusive. I can’t help but wonder how many of us they leave behind.

I’ve been told that I should feel invincible since I’ve lived through the unimaginable. Then riddle me this, Batman: Why do I feel so miserable… still? Is it because I’m watching many of Maggie and my friends get divorced? Or is it because I’m a sideliner to many of our friends sharing the joy of parenthood? Or is it because Maggie and I were just never given a chance? For whatever reason, being widowed is hard in ways that others can’t possibly understand, despite their wild, judging imagination. This widowed journey is only for those who aren’t living the life they dreamed with their loved one because their loved one died. It’s semantically obvious but simply incomprehensible.

I’ll keep trucking on, trying to figure out what to do with my life now. I don’t have any answers and, frankly, I feel stuck. Four years is a long time to be stuck. Maybe it’s time for one of my big pushes. It’s been a while since I’ve made a big ol’ painful push.

Hmmm….. Damn. There goes the weekend.

Where Your New Friends Are

It’s barely one month away from four years since the last time I kissed my sweet wife.  Without my intent and certainly without my permission, the sharp memories of the weeks leading up to that kiss have been invading my thoughts relentlessly: the cough, the desperate call to our doctor, hospice, the last trip to MD Anderson, friends everywhere, the moment that time stood still, then emptiness.  Looking back on these past four years plus the 850 days we spent dealing with the illness, it feels like I’m looking back on a lifetime.

I’m surprised at how much my recollections of those indelible moments hurt, despite all the hard-won emotional mileage.  The pain is not as sharp as it used to be.  But most importantly, and superseding any pain, I know I’m not alone in my hurt, no matter how dark the cave of loneliness may seem.  There are others – many others – who walk the same path as me.  Numerous lovers have come before me and many heartbroken souls follow now in my footsteps.  We are many, we are still in love and we are hurting.  But we are not alone.  For the suffering soul, knowing that simple fact is magic.

On Friday, August 12, 2011, I was welcomed into a new family – a family I already belonged to but just didn’t realize it.  On that day, I walked into a room filled with widows and widowers who knew and were living the same life I was living.  There were tears.  There was understanding.  There was laughing.  And, best of all, there was acceptance – no judging, no averting eyes, no blames, no sad looks, no avoidance – just acceptance.  On January 5, 2007 Maggie and me – our lives - were knocked off balance.  On August 12, 2011 my life was tipped back toward center.  Camp Widow and the people I met there changed my life.

Two weeks from now, a wonderful group of widows and widowers will descend on Myrtle Beach. There will be tears, laughter, drinking and merriment.  Best of all, there will be compassion and understanding.  If you have lost your companion – married or not – you should be there.  There, you will find more healing than you’ll find in 20 years on your own.  There, you will find friends who understand you more than you can understand yourself.  There, you’ll find that you’re not alone.  There you will find a new beginning.

Memories of Pulling Weeds

Tuesday night I finally connected with a widow that I had reached out to last September.  We talked briefly but the conversation was difficult.  We really didn’t click which made me sad.  Maybe it’s because she’s about two years out while I’m pushing the 4-year mark.  After we got off the phone and using my personal blog, I traveled back in time to remind myself where I was when I was two years out.  It’s amazing how crystal clear the memories of the feelings are of my life back then - a moment that seems not that long ago.

From March 2011…..

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You’d think after almost two years I’d be used to the silence in this big house on Sunday mornings.  I’m surprised at how thick it still is.  Sundays were fun days for me and she.  Inevitably, she’d spring out of bed with a little dance, a smile and a plan:  work in the garden, go for a walk with the pups, brunch, paint, something.  She was always moving, it seemed, moving and smiling.  Now Sundays, once my favorite day of the week, are my most lonely.

Today will be a continuation of a process that started a long time ago.  But today is different; I’m bringing in help.  Mom Mary and Sister Lori are coming over and we, together, are going to sort through some more of Maggie’s stuff.  There’s still so much to go through.  I’m not sure how much we will get done but any progress is movement forward and movement is good.  Still, I both fear and look forward to the work.

I suppose until Mary and Lori get here I could go work in the garden.  It could certainly use some love.  It’s been several years since we tended it together and working alone seems so….  Pointless. But watching the plants and flower grow do make me smile still, just not as sweetly.  I always felt as we worked the dirt together we were building a foundation for happy times to come as a couple.  Now, I’m not sure why it’s worth the effort.  Sure, it looks nice.  I enjoy the flowers.  But it just doesn’t seem as meaningful.

Over the last number of years I’ve let the yard and garden really go.  It used to be a breathtaking work of nature (and our hands.)  We loved working in it, on it and watching it grow.  It was a labor of together love.  But as she got sicker, priorities had to be rearranged and the gardening fell out, that is, unless she wanted to go play in it.  Then, later, I pretty much lost interest.  Well, that’s not quite true.  I still love the garden.  I just didn’t care about anything anymore.  It’s funny how this garden has reflected the health, both mental and physical, of the people in this house.

….

Even though moments have passed since you started reading this post, hours have passed since I started typing it.  And in the hours, I did go out and work in the yard.  I didn’t do much; I evicted some quite large weeds that had taken up residence and had been bothering me for quite some time.  It was cathartic.  I was surprised, actually, at how hard it was to pull some of them from the hard dirt.  They really, REALLY didn’t want to go.

When Mary and Lori got here we started our work for the day: underneath Maggie’s bathroom sink.  It’s not particularly complicated work but nonetheless it’s kept me perplexed now for, well, nearly two years.  Various bottles of hair stuff and face stuff and nail stuff that took up residence when we moved in or soon after had all but spoiled.  Many garbage pails of stuff had to be thrown out.  It surprised me at how hard it was to pull some of them from underneath the sink.  (I think it surprised Mary and Lori, too.)  But it was time for all that stuff to go… Some to Mary…. Some to Lori… Some to unknown recipients… Some to the garbage.

After we finished the monumental task of clearing out one (exactly one) counter, we were emotionally drained.  We packed up the dogs and headed to Red Barn Nursery to peruse the fresh spring plants.  It was quite a contrast to just moments before when we were separating out hair gel from hand lotion while unearthing under-the-sink emotional land mines.  Here, while we looked at caladiums and oxalis, my mind raced through years of memories of Maggie and me (and Niko) spending hours (and many, many dollars) at Red Barn, picking plants for our garden.  Now, I was there with Maggie’s mom and sister (and Niko and Kali) while they picked out plants for their gardens after spending a couple of hours throwing away my wonderful wife’s, their wonderful sister’s and daughter’s things.

I wish I could avoid the metaphor here.  I was certainly relieved when I finally pulled out those pesky few weeds that had been bothering me for so long.  I can’t really say I can feel relief about clearing out one more stack of stuff of Maggie’s.  Right now, when I look at the places her stuff used to be, I see great big holes, just like where the weeds used to be in my yard; there are big divots in the ground that are all dirt and no grass.  These empty holes dot the yard, just like the empty spots on Maggie’s side of the bathroom sure do stick out.

But I know grass will grow back in the yard and fill in those holes.  The grass around it may be a little shocked from the winter, but it’s good strong grass planted in good strong dirt.  It’ll take time but eventually, I won’t even be able to tell where those weeds used to be.  Heck, I might not even remember that they were there.  Ya know, before we started clearing out the cabinet, I took pictures.  Maybe I should have taken pictures of those weeds, too.

Please Just Let Me Be... The New Me

It’s remarkable to me how present the feeling of loss remains after nearly four years without my sweet Maggie.  Much of the endocrine-pulsing sharpness has been dulled by time, thankfully, but it shocks me how often my mouth forms the words “Maggie and I” which gets quickly and silently censored into just “I” so I can avoid any social discomfort.  (The “Maggie and” part becomes my own silent chant - a personal nod to a past that doesn’t feel so distant.)

Sometimes, my omissions force me into comically uncomfortable situations that require linguistic judo to escape.  Most recently, a post-Maggie-era friend has started dating Maggie’s sister.  During the discussion with the new boyfriend, I stated that the situation was a little awkward for me to which he naturally inquired why.  In keeping with the censorship that I’ve practiced (specifically in regard to mine and her relationship) I replied, “She’s my sister.”  A barrage of hilariously uncomfortable questions ensued.  Maybe I should have stuck with the truth.

Despite my daily filtering and censoring, and much to my surprise, I recently learned that some of my friends believe that I am still waving the grief/death flag way too much.  Apparently, I am sitting in my grief and refusing to get over it.  Some even believe I’m taking advantage of my situation for attention and milking it.  Sadly, I’m told that by associating with others who have also lost spouses, that I’m choosing to stay stuck or being enabled to wallow instead of what ever it is these blessed innocent folks would rather I be doing.  This makes me sad.

It’s so odd and so surprising to me how difficult it is to measure up to what other people think I should be doing.  At first, I was moving on too fast.  Now, I’m not moving on fast enough.  I guess, according to these experts, I should be over all this by now.  Gosh, I can only wonder how people would react if I were to outwardly display all the inner turmoil I have with coming to terms – yes, still – with my Maggie being gone.

I’ve noticed something, though.  I now have several post-Maggie-era friends.  Many, if not all, know about Maggie even though it’s never been a conversation.  Of these post-Maggie-era friends, not one has even hinted that I might be clinging to my past or whipping out the ol’ death flag too much.  I’ll bet if I were to ask any of them, they’d probably be surprised that I asked.  It seems, at least from this widower’s perspective, that the only folks who think I’m stuck are those who still miss Maggie, too.  This makes me sad, too.   But I can’t help them.  They have to figure this out on their own.

So, I’ll continue to aggressively build my network of post-Maggie-era friends.  I fear that ultimately, those who knew and loved Maggie will represent a smaller and less influential percentage of my current friends.  It makes me sad that I’m going to have to let them go but those people can’t seem to see me for me anymore and that’s not helpful.  Now, more than ever, I need to be able to be, well, just me - the new me, the post-Maggie-era Chris – who ever that may be.  Fortunately, the post-Maggie-era friends like the post-Maggie-era Chris. He’s a fun and happy guy with a bright future.  What’s not to like?

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.

Freedom is Nothing Left to Lose

We all have our times of year that stick out as the most difficult.  The December through February time is mine.  The list of breathtaking days is long.  Maggie’s birthday is December 9.  My birthday is mid-February.  Our anniversary is February 28 (and, every fourth year, the 29th too.)  So there’s those.  Now, with this year, I get to add a few more new losses.  As of January 1st, I get to add the loss of my grandfather.  As of last Thursday the garage has become very empty where Maggie’s Cool Car used to be. Most difficult for me to deal with is that on January 17th of this year I get to add another angel day for Maggie and my only child, our puppy Niko.  That’s a loss that has hung over my head as the unrecoverable, the one I couldn’t imagine, the one that just couldn’t happen.  Well, it happened January 17th.  It was awful.

I’m still here though.  I’m not sure how.  My meltdown was epic but reasonable.  Niko was the one single thing in my life that I just couldn’t imagine I could survive losing.  Well, as we all inherently know, nature doesn’t care about our preferences.  Nature is efficient and, in this case, strikingly violent.  In an instant, my baby – OUR baby was taken away from me.

Niko was the one living thing on this Earth that knew our entire journey from the beginning.  She was my last remaining connection to a past that I so, so adore and miss.  With her loss, my last remaining deep tie to Maggie was severed.  My heart is broken.

I feel like the last several months have served up more than my fair share of losses.  It’s like a larger force is giving me tough love – ripping the Band-Aid off without my permission, like I’m being given no choice but to be disconnected from what used to be my life – OUR life.  It hurts.  Damn it, it still hurts.

I try to be positive.  There’s nothing that could have hurt worse than losing Niko. So now, sadly and happily, there’s nothing that will hurt that bad again. Freedom is nothing left to lose.  Sure, there are more things that’d be bad.  But the freaky precision of picking off the one single thing that was the absolutely most important thing – I suppose that’s my freedom.  Now, I can breath easier because the last of the worst is done.  Now, I feel like I truly can begin to rebuild.

Maggie's Cool Car - Part II

After many months on the market, Maggie’s Cool Car finally found a new home.  The nice lady who counted out a cash deposit shook with anticipation as she hinted at the car’s new life, using phrases like “kids out of the house”, “single” and “PAAARTAAAY!”  (Yes, that is a direct quote.)  Clearly she was very excited and happy about our exchange.  I on the other hand, was melancholy, although her overwhelming joy about the new adventures awaiting her and Maggie’s Cool Car softened the blow of each hundred-dollar bill hitting the dashboard as she counted.   It’s the saddest I’ve been in a long time about receiving money.

She’s coming to get the car Wednesday so the cool car and me have one last weekend together.  I haven’t made any specific plans for us yet, but it’ll get some love between now and then.  Weather be-fitting, we’ll take many a top down, radio blaring ride.

Since it has been on the market, I’ve kept Maggie’s Cool Car in the garage, stored safely away from door dings, windshield chips, dust and mud.  While driving it today I quickly realized I had forgotten how this car turns heads.  When people see this fun car with its top down and radio blasting, the look on their face screams “I wish that was me in that cool car!”  Oh boy.  If they only knew the rough roads this car has seen, the want might not be quite so strong.

Most of the ride has been sweet, undeniably.  From the moment I picked up Maggie’s Cool Car, we had a grand adventure.  A lot of memories were made in and around this car and those don’t leave when it drives off on its new life. Yes, it’s one more thing I’m letting go of, but the feelings and memories, those will stay forever in my heart.  I like to believe that all the powerfully positive energy that Maggie and I generated together imbued Maggie’s Cool Car with a lifetime magical aura.  It’s a wonder that car didn’t fly.

Hmmm….. Maybe that’s why everyone was staring when Maggie’s Cool Car drove by.  The wheels weren’t touching the ground.