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.

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.

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.

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…..

------

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.

My Struggles with the Death of A Hero

My grandfather died on January 1st. Unfortunate genetics punished him the last ten or so years with Alzheimer’s. His suffering also punished my grandmother who proudly stood by his side and cared for him until the day he died. As a fellow retired caregiver, I can understand some of her challenges. Others, I just can’t imagine.

However, instead of being 100% focused on my grandmother in her time of need like I should have been, I was distracted by so many other issues while simultaneously feeling terrible about being distracted.

One thing that just knocked me off center was that neighbors and strangers alike were showing up with support in droves. Some even brought food. Casseroles, chicken, bean dip – you name it, the food was showing up. My grandmother isn’t going to have to cook for weeks. But in the days after Maggie died, no one brought me food.  At least I don't remember anyone bringing me food.  In fact, after the first few days, it seemed like everyone disappeared on me.  I still don’t understand that and it still hurts.

Another thing that kicked me in the stomach were the reminders of stupid stuff that people say when death happens:

“He’s in a better place.” - Yeah, well maybe he liked where he was with my grandmother a whole lot. I know Maggie was pretty darn happy about us being together. She also liked our big plans. WE liked our big plans. Better place now? It’s hard to believe.

“He’s not suffering any more.” - How do you know? Maybe death sucks and it hurts a lot. I know for Maggie it certainly hurt a lot getting to that point. Maybe it gets worse.

“Everything happens according to ‘God’s Plan’” - Oh man, this is always a tough one. So God’s “plan” was for my grandfather to lose his hard-earned lifetime of memories and control of his body while my 90 year old grandmother struggled to feed, bathe and dress her loving husband as he faded farther into oblivion? Or God’s “plan” was that my wonderful wife died just when her life was starting to really blossom but not before she suffered miserably while I watched? This is a plan?!?!

And I could go on…. (I think we all have a list of these little sayings.)

Finally, why wasn't Maggie mentioned in his obituary?  Yes, I know the obituary is supposed to be about him but, damn it, all the other living in laws were mentioned.  Where was my sweetheart?  Does she not count anymore because she died?  As someone who is particularly protective of her legacy, this stinks.

I feel terrible for thinking all these thoughts. His death and celebration of his life is not about me or my sweet wife and it shouldn't be twisted to be made so.  I want to be strong, to be a rock for my grandmother. I want to exemplify what my grandfather taught me: integrity, honor, and respect. Instead, while facing the final stages of a life both long and well lived, I feel weak, selfish and angry. I feel like I've failed both my grandfather and my grandmother.

I try to always close out each of my posts with a bend toward the positive but I’m struggling with this one. Death sucks, even when it can be seen as a “release.” I don’t miss my grandfather any less because he was “released.” I don’t miss Maggie any less because she was “released.” Right now, I’m just angry about both losses, about how people have no clue and how I’m helpless to change anything. I think sometimes some things just suck. Is it ok just to sit with that for a while?

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.

The Love of Friends

Last Saturday was Maggie's 37th birthday.  Each year, her birthday was a huge celebration with literally hundreds of friends gathering to feast on food and wine.  She called it the wine party, or officially "Wine: It's What's for Dinner."  Instead of a massive celebration last Saturday, I spent quite some time reading back on my posts and remembering how life was a year ago or longer.  Two years ago on Maggie's birthday (12.9.2010), I was miserable.  I felt more alone and alienated than I had ever felt in my life.  While overwhelmed by feelings of abandonment from folks who I thought would never, ever leave my side, I wrote the following.

“Whacha doin’?” I asked.

“Nothin’” he mumbled, looking up briefly from his work to lock eyes, that warm, friendly gaze ever so familiar.

As he gently tapped another brick in place I continued with my story.  It was like all the others lately, sad and filled with heart-pain and lost love.  I spoke straight from my heart.  The comfort of being best friends for such a long time made it easy to be blunt.  He smiled as I spoke, occasionally looking up and mumbling confirmative grunts.  But he never stopped working.

After a while of me spilling guts and tears, he started talking.  His business was doing great, he said.  The future was very bright, he said.  You wouldn’t believe the success that was happening, he told me.  It was amazing, he said.  And it was.  All he told me was wonderful.  But I felt cold.  As he spoke he didn’t look at me.  The more he spoke, the more distant I felt.  While I heard his words, it seemed like what he was telling me was mumbled and hard to understand, like the message was possibly meant for someone else.

I began to feel alone.

He continued to talk but I stopped listening.  I heard the mumbled tones of his voice but I didn’t hear his words anymore.  Something was between us, something that was smothering me.  It was not familiar at all.  Finally, I stopped him and asked “What’s happening here?  Why do you sound so far away?”

Then I saw it.  It was like I was asleep and suddenly I had awoken.  Where I had only noticed that his hands were busy, now I saw the bricks, so many bricks – each staggered on top of another, layers and layers, ten feet tall and completely surrounding me.  All except for one small space where he stood, brick and trowel in hand, staring at me with warm, friendly, loving eyes.  I can’t imagine how this happened and when all this was done.  Yet here I was, trapped behind an almost-closed wall.

“What are you doing!?!” I asked.

“I’m helping you” he said.

“How are you helping me?”

“I’m protecting you from things that might hurt you.  And from me” he stated.

“I don’t understand.  Why do you seem so far away?  I miss you.”

“I miss you, too, my best friend.  I wish you’d come back.”

Me:  Every time we hang out you just talk about business.  I have so many other things I __need__ to talk about but I feel like you only want to talk about you, like you don’t see me anymore.  I feel so alone and it hurts my feelings.  So I’ve been avoiding you.

Him:  When we hang out, you are so sad that it hurts me badly.  You are hurting and I care so much about you.  To see you hurt, hurts me and I don’t know how to deal with it.  Then, when we talk, inevitably, the things I say end up hurting you more.  I can see you visibly cringe!  I talk about my wonderful relationship with my wife and it hurts you.  I talk about how things are going well in my life and it hurts you.  I don’t want to hurt you anymore.  It’s dragging me down.

Me:  I’m sorry.  I don’t mean to be a fun suck.  I’m so sad though and I just need to talk.  It didn’t used to be this way and it won’t be this way forever.  But I’m so, so sad right now.  You are my best friend and I trust you and we are so comfortable I feel like I can be really honest with you.

Him:  You are so raw and the things you have experienced and feel are so intense.  I don’t have the tools to handle them.

Me:  I’m sorry.  I don’t mean to cause any difficulties.

Him:  I’m sorry that all I’ve talked about is business.  It’s because I’m scared of hurting you more.  I see you hurt when I talk about certain things.  I see you cringe in pain.  It hurts so much to see you hurt.  I just want to protect you.

Me:  You can’t protect me.  You mustn’t try!

Him:  I can keep from hurting you by avoiding talking about things that do hurt you.  I keep conversations light and on topics that can’t possibly cause you pain, like my business.

Me:  How can you possibly anticipate what’s going to hurt me when, heck, I don’t even know myself?

Him:  I want to keep you safe but it’s so hard.

Me:  Please don’t try to protect me.  There’s no wall you can build that could save me from the world.  Besides, any wall you might build would only cage me in and separate us.

Him:  But I don’t want to hurt you.  I don’t want you to hurt.

Me:  Just talk to me.  Be my friend.  I give you my word that I won’t be angry at you for anything you might say.  I trust you.  Please give me permission to hurt.  I promise I’ll be ok.

Him:  But….

Me:  If you see me hurt, just give me a minute.  If need be, give me longer.  I’ll be ok.  Let me take the pain, sit for a second and regroup.  I _will_ regroup.  I’m strong.  But you have to give me a chance.

Him:  But if I say something that hurts you badly….?

Me:  I’ll still be ok.  Give me permission to hurt.  Then have faith in me that I’ll be ok.  This is how I heal.  This is how I’ll grow.  If you protect me, you are keeping me from healing.  If you protect me, you are stopping me from a return back to normalcy.  If you keep you from me, then you are starving me from our friendship, something I need more than anything else right now.

Him:  This is scary.  You are telling me that it’s ok that I hurt you?

Me:  Sort of.  I’m telling you that it’s ok to be you.  And I’m asking permission to be me, hurt and all.  If you’ll let me, eventually, I’ll be stronger and you won’t see me hurt so much.

Him:  It’d be nice to see you again.

Me:  It’d be nice to be me again.

Him:  I’m glad we are friends.

Me:  Me, too.

Him:  So, me and my wife were hanging out the other day.  Have I mentioned how much I love her?…..

Thankful

(Image from here)

As more holidays pass, like Thanksgiving last week, I find that it’s easier to look beyond my awareness of whose hand I’m not holding while I muscle through myriad family events.  Last week’s holiday marked my fourth national day of thanks that I quietly pondered things I’m really not very thankful for.  All too easily I can reflect back on our last Thanksgiving together: She was fresh off a tough chemo treatment toting around two automated pumps delivering both a slow drip of extended chemo drugs and meds to dull the pain of her worsening condition.  It seems like a different lifetime ago.

Thanksgiving Day I was privilege to share a poignant and unforgettable moment watching my grandmother lovingly spoon-feed my ailing grandfather who, by all accounts, was aware of little other than the gentle pressing of each portion of food into his mouth.  I empathized all too easily with the deep yet staid emotions my grandmother poorly camouflaged with a look of determination.  In her face I saw the reflection of my own memories.  Her humble service to my grandfather was nothing less than a glimpse of a wonderful love story that has played out for generations but is now crawling dolefully through its final chapter.  In those moments witnessing a most lovingly assisted dignity, I felt sadness and anger yet I couldn’t have been more proud of both my grandfather and my grandmother for they truly embodied what Maggie and I aspired to become.  It was heartbreaking and beautiful.

With our wedding vows Maggie and I declared proudly to the world our shared long-term dreams that ended with hearing aids and rocking chairs.  Instead, fate gave us final directives and morphine.  Our moment in time together hand-in-hand certainly didn’t last nearly as long as we planned.  I’d like to believe that if it weren’t for the damn cancer, that one day long, long in the future we would have ended up just like my grandmother and grandfather sharing poignant, loving moments until our last days.

Actually, now that I think about it, I suppose we did exactly that.  Just like my grandmother and grandfather, Maggie and me, we were good together to the end.  I guess that’s a love story, too.

I suppose I have more to be thankful for this Thanksgiving than I thought.

Aaaaaand… Full Stop

I’ve been pushing with all my might since October 5th and I can claim many little victories: The kitchen is now mine.  The living room is now mine.  The closets – all except for the big scary one - are all mine.  But the house is a wreck with piles of stuff.  I have one pile of stuff that’s the Keep This Forever stack (that pile is filled with emotional land mines and prickly pear.)   Another pile is the eBay pile.  Another pile is the Give To Others pile. (The process of distributing those gifts will be all kinds of fun.)(By the way, that was extreme sarcasm, just in case it wasn’t clear.)  Despite the enormous emotional effort, I feel like all I’ve managed to do is shuffle stuff around while making a complete mess of my house.

And everything has come to a complete stop.

My faithful helper texted me Monday to ask if I wanted to make another big push forward this weekend.  My heart went cold.  I didn’t even respond at first.  I feel like I’ve hit a wall.  Go figure.  The last big push I made three weeks ago left me a slobbering mess of a man.  It was the hardest of all by far, except, possibly for that first big step.  Now I fear I lack the resolve to push through to the finish, the last big push: to clear out our closet.

I dismissed my helper’s request with an honest self-assessment of my timidity: I’m seriously rattled from our last bit of work and need some recovery time.  But yet I feel I must continue.  This process is just simply unforgiving.  I get weaker with each step I take yet I know that that despite the pain, this is the right path.

For now, like a climber’s respite at the butt of the final summit, I’ve paused, out of breath, out of energy, and out of motivation.  But where my wind, muscles and drive fail me, my devotion will not.  I am devoted to the pursuit of a life that would make Maggie proud.  She’s worth that.  And so am I.  While I may rest for just a bit, I will not stop my progress.

(Damn this is hard.)

Halloween Be Damned

Halloween was one of our most celebrated "couple" holidays.  She loved to dress up.  I certainly wasn't shy about making a scene.  It's a holiday that we spent the year looking forward to.  Thus, it's one I've struggled with possibly more than any other holiday.  I'm glad it's over.  That said, this year was more gentle than the previous, which was a welcome change - a change that's been a long time in coming.

I stopped counting the days a long time ago.  There was a time when the idea of not knowing how many days it had been since I last kissed my sweetheart would have been unimaginable.  Today, the number of months since that moment isn’t at the tip of my mind.  But, for you today, I did some quick calculations: It’s been 1,279 days or more than 42 months or roughly 3 ½ years.  1,279 days.  That number just seems impossible to me to comprehend.  But facts are facts.  And, with 1,200+ days since that moment passed, it’s important that I continue to push forward toward my new life, no matter how difficult the process of pushing is.

My last big push was the most painful I’ve experienced while focused on the smallest space thus far. In other words, it was rather high on the the pain/density scale.  Last weekend, I (and my trusty side-kick), cleared out Maggie’s bathroom drawers.  We also cleaned out Maggie’s jewelry box, one earring and bracelet at a time.  It was exhausting.  It’s been a long time since I was droolingly bone-tired and brain dead, but Sunday evening, I could barely speak my own name.  But what needed to be done is done.  Now, instead of three little drawers full of memories of her life, there are three little cardboard boxes ready for her friends and relatives to sort through, picking out pieces that represent memories of their own.  It is almost done.

My psychologist tells me “you are moving very quickly through this.”  I laugh almost every time he says that because 3 ½ years doesn’t seem very fast to me.  Yet, the pain of every single step might prove him wiser than me.  This is hard.  Regardless, I refuse to stop.  This is my mission now and I will not deviate from the task at hand.  I have been lost too long and I will no longer sit idle.  Maggie’s lost life is a tragedy in the truest sense of the word.  Yet to lose two lives would be much, much worse.  We fought for her life with all we had.  To not fight now for mine would be beyond sad.  It would be... well....  For her, I will continue, no matter how difficult this is.  I’ve been buried in a deep hole for a long time and I will not stop until the magnificent potential of life’s opportunities again shines brightly.  For her, I will not stop.  For her, I will make it through this and shine.

It's funny.  Sometimes you see people in what you think are costumes and those costumes turn out to be representations of the type of person those people want to be.  It's sort of a twisted fake-it-till-you-make-it thing.  Hmmm...   Maybe I should get a tattoo.