Day by Day

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I'm often still taken by surprise when being able to do some tasks are often a day by day proposition.  Mostly these are tasks to do with Ian, but not always. Often this freeze is not so much in the sense of having a 'bad' day, but just a day of not wanting to go there.

Just prior to Christmas I was working on swapping which rooms are used for what around in my house. In order to achieve the swap around I needed, I reached a point I had to do something with a pile of Ian's clothes.  This was his 'not much of this is in regular use' pile of clothes that took up a closet and a dresser, that I'd been ...umm...  asking... him to sort through for a good year, if not longer.

The first day of the swap around, there was no way I could have gone through the clothes and parted with them.  I was so frazzled simply trying to juggle stuff so we had room to work and paint, that it made trying to make decisions on keep/donate/toss just impossible and I would have been screaming like a banshee if I attempted it. 

But the next day, I was surprised how easy a task it was to work through a pile of clothes that, for the most part, I never saw Ian wear AND to actually make decisions on what to do with each individual piece.  I'd planned to pack them all away in a box or suitcase to be dealt with at a later time, but I found I could do the keep/donate/toss right then and there.

There were some items I kept aside as they did hold memories, but I still filled my trunk with clothes and was even able to take them immediately to an emergency assistance shelter so they could be used, rather than sitting in my house, frankly mocking me because he'd not done the sort out before he got sick. 

I've had a couple more days since where I've been able to work through a box here, folder there - I'm learning to grab them when they come; the desire to tidy the place up and de-clutter pre-dates Ian's illness and death, and is still there. 

It's just some of the decisions are harder.

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.

Yes, Her Clothes Are Still In Our, uh... MY Closet

(James, Maggie, and Mark Ludwig at one of our wine parties, Dec 2003.)

My friend Mark Ludwig died on June 27, 2004, just a few months after Maggie and I got married.  He was killed unexpectedly in an auto accident that wasn’t his fault.  He was the nicest, most engaging, friendliest guy you’d ever meet.  I was proud to call him one of my closest friends.  Lots of people were.  Just like Maggie, he had a LOT of close friends.  Just like Maggie, he was the glue that kept many different groups of people together.  He was the social center.  His death marked the end of an era.  It was truly a tragedy.

When Mark died, I got to witness first hand how vicious, greedy, callous, and shallow people could be, people whom I thought I knew well – very well.  Mark, like most of us back in those glory days, had lots of toys: big TVs, a pool table, extra refrigerators, a big fancy gas grill – all these things were now declared homeless.  But people weren’t shy about laying claim to them.  In fact, they came out of the woodworks with greed in their eyes while not being afraid of using shifty measures to acquire things they suddenly deemed theirs.  Since Mark didn’t have a significant other, there was no one who really could have spoken for Mark.  It was a disgusting free-for-all.  It was nasty.

There was name-calling, accusations, theft, and flat out warfare tactics.  At one point, two girls locked themselves into Mark’s house (that he owned) and decided it was their job to go through all of Mark’s personal possessions and divide things up as they saw fit.

Months prior, Mark had borrowed from me a pressure washer that Maggie had given me for Christmas.  While it wasn’t fancy or new or expensive, I loved that power washer.  But Mark needed it to clean off something to prep for one of his parties (one of many that I attended) so I was happy to lend it to him.

I had heard about the two girls who had taken over sorting through his stuff so I went over to his house to retrieve my power washer.  After I rang the doorbell, one of the aforementioned girls answered the door, but just barely cracked it open so she could poke her head out.  Seeing the look on her face and feeling her attitude when I asked about the power washer, I turned around and never looked back again.  I never saw that power washer again.

Later I heard that things were way worse than what I saw.  Some people even laid claim to the money Mark had in his bank account.  I said, “Laid claim.”  I meant, “Demanded.”  It was ugly, nasty and I vowed to never be a part of any of that, even if it meant that I’d have to sacrifice something that I really cared about to avoid being a part of a nasty experience at the end of someone’s wonderful life.  As difficult as it may be, I’ll never willingly let stink trump beauty.  Call it ideology.

I’ve never forgotten the terrible lack of humanity and the overabundance of selfishness that I saw during those difficult days.  I was scarred.  It was hard enough living through the shock of the sudden loss of a best friend but to watch vicious vultures gnaw at the remains of what was once a huge life being lived by a wonderful man - it crushed my soul.

Five years later, Maggie died.

Maybe I’m oversensitive.  Because of what I saw, I have an enormous minefield built up around her clothes, her shoes, and her jewelry.  It’s bigger and more explosive than you can even imagine.  The mental picture of people treating her treasures like a rummage sale boils my blood beyond reasonableness. But I can't keep her stuff around here forever.  Maybe I just don’t know how to merge appropriate homage with practicality.

These aren’t nice shoes that you might like to wear one day with that little slinky outfit you bought.  These are the shoes Maggie wore on our third date.  This is the dress that she wore to San Angelo to meet my family.  These are the jeans she paraded around the house wearing, beaming because she knew that I knew that she knew she looked fantastic.  These “wardrobe additions” or “estate sale bargains” are some of my life’s fondest moments.  There’s no haggling on the price, if they were even for sale!

These are also anchors to my past, a past I’m hesitant to let go of, a glorious past that I’m still mourning the loss of.  Despite my absolute, genuine, totally committed, and even enthusiastic anticipation of moving forward and living a grand life after Maggie, it's not any easier to drop off my favorite miniskirt of hers at Goodwill.  Or her favorite pair of flip-flops.  Or her fancy heals that she loved to wear that made her about an inch and a half taller than me.

So it all sits.  The shoes sit in boxes in the foyer.  The clothes still hang on her side of the closet.  And I struggle with what to do.  I’m definitely ready to do something but I cannot allow a feeding frenzy to take place.  Such a display would sicken me beyond any recoverable point and bitter me to anyone who participated.  At the same time, that closet is filled with thousands of dollars worth of clothes, maybe tens of thousands.  I'd feel a fool to just give it all away.  I don't know what to do.  So it all sits.  And I feel like a fool.

But I’m not a fool who gives up.  It may take another month, or maybe another year, but one day I’ll do what needs to be done.  I’ll keep pushing myself to move forward.  Maybe that sacrificed power washer served more purpose than I realized.  Maybe it set a standard for what is truly important – the stuff, or the life around the stuff.

Hmm….  maybe Maggie’s clothes really aren’t that important any more.

the little things

I wore Jeff's work coat the other night - Halloween night. It was the first time I have worn it in the three years since he died. I haven't wanted it to lose any of his smell, cells or presence by donning it myself. But with it on, I felt warm, cuddled and protected from the cold Autumn wind biting at me as I followed the kids down a variety of driveways while they asked strangers for candy.

Although I could have used his coat many times in the snow or stacking wood in the days since his death, it has hung in his closet collecting dust and the smell contained within said closet.

Later in the evening after staying warm and dry wrapped in his jacket, I reaching in the pocket hoping to find a tissue to wipe Briar's chilly little nose. Instead, I found a slip of paper. Written on the paper in both my and his signature font was our last grocery list together. My bubbly and embarrassingly juvenile scrawl married with his fluid, grown-up handwriting.

I marveled at the thought of how unknowing and naive we both were while jotting down these items. I tried to remember the meal. I wondered what we had talked about and if we had eaten fish or chicken along with the green beans, mushrooms and basil.

It also made me realize how far away that life is now. How far I've come without him. And although I really, truly never thought that the vacuous minutia of everyday would ever slip back into my life, it has.

My grocery lists now only contain my print/writing with the occasional kid-written word "candy" or "juice". But I am still doing buying the groceries. I am still feeding our kids. I am still walking upright. And although I still live everyday missing him, I can keep part of him close. His coat, or his kids, or his memory. He is with me. In my heart. In my memory. In my closet.

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.