Breaking the News

I find I’m still reflecting on my experiences from Widow Camp. In those few short days I feel like I moved forward leaps and bounds down the healing path simply by being surrounded by others who share similar past experiences. The friendships I made there still stand and the conversations haven’t stopped. The reward has been well beyond the investment.

One theme that has popped up in the discussions I’ve had with my new widow/er friends was the breaking of the news of Maggie’s death which reminded me how difficult it was to do. No matter the social context, it’s a challenge. About three months after Maggie’s Angel Day, I wrote the following post about a surprise phone call and how I dealt with breaking the news.

From August 2009:

8:30 AM

Phone: Ring, Ring!!

Me: “Hello?”

Voice: “Hi, is Maggie around?”

Oh, I’m wide awake now!

Me: “Uhm, can I ask who’s calling, please?”

Voice: “This is Jim.* I’m an old friend of Maggie’s and wanted to say hi. This is Chris, right?”

Me: “Hi, Jim. Uhm… Jim, I guess it’s been a while since you’ve talked to her. I’m sorry to say but…..”

* Jim is not his name. I’ve changed it because, well, I don’t know why but it seems like a good idea.

I’ve developed three modes of relaying that particular news. Mode I is pretty callous and nearly an attack. I’ve used it with bill collectors, mostly. I call it the I-Hate-You-And-Want-To-Hurt-You mode. Funny thing, though, if I’m throwing death-news daggers, it probably is at someone who will never be bothered by my pain. I might as well be throwing cotton balls at them.

Mode II is less of an affront and more just getting the information out. I use it with those who need to know but don’t know her, like, the Department of Transportation, AT&T, or Wells Fargo. Mode II is my default delivery method mainly for my own protection. It’s easiest and requires the least emotional commitment from me. Selfish, direct and over quickly.

Mode III is the most difficult. I only use this method when I really, really have to because the person I’m telling knew Maggie or me (or both!) well and I consider them worth special effort. I’d rather eat scalding hot pizza than use this method. Mode III almost always makes me and the other person cry.

For Jim, I used Mode II. I should have used Mode III but I just didn’t have it in me. I’m sorry, Jim. I hope the rest of your morning went a little better.

Sitting

I struggle to find something of substance to talk about. Each Sunday comes around, and the awareness that my post is due by midnight is always on my mind. Usually there is something that I have been mulling over throughout the day, or something that has been with me throughout the week, that quickly becomes my post. Today I just feel empty.

I'm not a numbers guy, I don't really turn to them to find order in my life. I don't usually look to them to validate where I am with each given day, which I know is of help to some. Yet it is September again, which for my sons means a new beginning. School begins for them on Tuesday. For me though, September will always be a reminder of the end.

Two years ago I was approaching the final week of my husband's life. I felt like I was running a marathon, as there was so much to do in his day to day care. Yet in my marathon there was no winner, and there was definitely no victory lap.

I'm always aware of how much my life has slowed down since that day. The majority of my life seemed to come to an end that day. And trying to regain the pace of life has not been that easy. I think the main reason for this has been a lack of motivation. I haven't fully come to a place where life feels worth much of the effort, or that there could possibly be a payoff worth the effort.

It's not like I feel this way 24/7. I work hard at my job, and I really feel a sense of pride when I accomplish a goal or receive positive feedback. I keep my family and home together, and have created a new life for us here in San Diego. I enjoy the benefits of being closer to my extended family, like having my brother and his family visit for the weekend. Yet, with each of these, I still feel so empty and stagnate.

I think I tend to compartmentalize each of these areas of my life, and feel the lack of something significant that should string them all together. At the end of each day I sit here and wonder if any of the day's events were really worth the effort, as I just end up in the same place, feeling the same sense of emptiness.

Okay, this is all terribly depressing. Yet, so is much of my life. There is really no reason to sugar coat this. I know it won't be like this forever. Well, I suppose I don't really know that. At least people tell me it won't always feel this way, and I being a trusting soul, want to believe them. Truth be told, I don't expect much to change. I busy myself with distractions. I put out some effort in hope that something will change for me. Whether it happens or not is really not in my control. All I can do us get up each day, get the kids off to school, go to work, come home, make dinner, take care of the household, surf the net, and sit.

After all, sitting is not a bad thing. It is kind of a reward after accomplishing all the trivial pieces of life that sustain me, but do not feed me. Some day something, or someone, will come along and give me reason to get up and do something new. In the meantime, I'm in no hurry.

Clean, Fresh Landing

 
We're moving. 
September 16 the packers come.
September 17 they take it all and move it to our new digs.
I've been clearing out,
getting rid of stuff,
And
bumping into him.

On Thursday, the kids and I emptied out his closet.
He had his own closet.
It was such a tiny thing for such a big man. (6'6")
At four months, I got rid of all the clothes of his that
I didn't like
plus
the ones on his side of the dresser.
In death, I rejoiced in the small pleasure of having extra space.

But the clothes I loved,
the clothes that meant something to me,
the ones I kept thinking that he would walk back into the house wearing,
those I kept.
A suit, his navy jacket,
the many favored t-shirts,
7 pairs of his size 14 shoes -- the black Chuck Taylors, the Kenneth Coles and the LL Bean slippers.
His smelly red cycling jacket,
his UVA cap and the shirt and tie my grandmother bought for him.
I kept them all,
trusting that "they" would be right,
I would know when it was time to shed his belongings.

"Tonight," I said to the kids,
"Tonigh we need to go through Daddy's clothes. You can each pick out a few pieces that I will put away for you but the rest will go to the Los Angeles Men's shelter downtown."

Just before we started, I warned "This may bring up a lot of feelings.  That's a good thing.  If you feel sad, it's good. If you don't, it's good.  Just remember, the grief will not hurt you permanently. I know you know this but I want to remind you that it will feel like the world is ending but it's not.  They are just feelings.  All feelings pass."  I used my most gently mom voice.

Then we go to work.
The result is his closet now looks like this.

A few days before, I was squatting in front of the black credenza by the front door. 
I peered in to see what was on the shelf.
And there it was.
His medical notebook.
The second notebook that detailed all his medical procedures,
drug cards with their omimous side effect warnings
everything is there except...
the fact that he was dying.

I go through the notebook, remembering names like adriamycin and neutrapenic. I find the tickets from the blood drive held at his school.  When I go into Cedars blood donation center a week after the drive, to collect those tickets, the head of the center stops me. "Who is Art Nagle?" My husband I said.  "Well he is one hell of man. In my 15 years of doing blood drives I have never seen such an outpouring of love. He's touched many people."

I'm holding those tickets in my hand now and smiling, remembering that in a way she saw more of him than I did.

Behind the tickets is a piece of paper.
It has his handwriting on it.
It is a list of all his symptoms before
we knew it was cancer.



















I stare at the list
angry at our stupidity.
"Honey, just write down all your symptoms.  It'll be easier than trying to remember it."  I told him.
The list was from the second time he had cancer. I know this because he wrote "loose stools." A stoic man from Maine would never write "loose stools"  had he not already understood that in illness, your body is not yours.

I can't take my eyes off the list.
I read it over and over and over again.

As I lay it down in the keep pile,  I want to smack myself, to punch myself in the face for being so fucking stupid, for not recognizing the signs of the cancer ... again.  For not believing that lightening can strike twice. 

Like it would have helped.

Nothing helps. He's gone.  I'm here.
Even in our new place, I see that death has taken away my ability for a
clean,
fresh
landing.

There is no such thing.

Proposal

You placed it onto my finger and our eyes met....making the agreement that from that point on our souls would be eternally connected....a searing of two hearts into one...no matter what lay ahead.

6 years ago you asked me the question that taught me that risk was a shorter word for following one's heart. Nothing has been more clear or absolute. Nothing has made me more honored and more proud.

The ring is more than a ring. Our love is more than love. We are more than us.

I cleaned it today with my toothbrush and the cleaner from the jeweler you purchased it at, who still makes an effort to send a card or gift on the day one ring joined the other. I look into it and don't see facets, colors or perfection...I see you.

I'll never know how our souls found each other or why I was lucky enough to be chosen by you...but I will not question the god's too much...as it has and continues to elevate my heart, life and soul to a level only you can push it to.

Yes...yes...yes...

I will....I do...I am....

Happy Engagement Anniversary, my love.

World's Best Husband

Special thanks to Matthew Croke for a guest post today!

I was at Denny’s restaurant on my lunch break, enjoying a turkey club sandwich, an iced tea, and reading the newspaper. Sitting in a booth by myself, still having another 35 minutes to go on my break, and kids away at school miles away from where I work.  I was in a peaceful state.  That’s when I heard it from the booth behind me.

“Mike has been such a jerk lately, if he wants to keep putting his friends above me, why did he even get married.  It’s like pulling teeth to have him stay home.” Said the woman whose voice sounded to be in her mid thirties.

“Consider yourself lucky.  Bill’s home all the time and all he does is watch TV.  Last night he asked to eat in front of the baseball game and then expected me to clean up his dishes when he was done.” Said the second woman.

My lunch was ruined.  I was angry and sad at the same time.  I felt like getting up, walking over to that booth and asking both women to marry me right then and there. 

 “Ladies, I use to be a good husband.” I would say on one knee “Marry me, and I will stay home with you, I will turn off the television, I will clean up my own dishes, and we shall go out afterwards and dance until midnight to the sounds of Dave Brubeck.”

I paid my check and left Denny’s very melancholy.  How could these guys treat their wives so?  Didn’t they know how lucky they were to have their companions still alive?  How dare all these people who are married treat their spouses with disrespect.  And yet, the guy whose would dote on his wife is a widower. 

I carried this anger all through out the rest of the day.  Then, on the drive home while I had the radio off, I felt the tears coming of anger, sadness, and pity of the greatness of my husbandhoodness that was being wasted.  Finally, I got my head together and said out loud to myself, “You’re full of crap.  You were no better and you know it.”

For the past few years my memories have strayed into rewriting memories.  I have turned regret of not fully appreciating my wife to false memories of me being this great husband who is alone.  I’ve done it because it hurts less when I think the world has done me great injustice instead of looking myself in the mirror.

I have to keep an eye out on this, I cannot let myself drift father and father into what is false realities and unreal expectations.  If that happens, I will create such a cyclone of anger trying to live a life that not only doesn’t exist, but never did.

They just don't get it...

I make no secret of the fact that I want a permanent teaching gig at the kids’ school.

I changed career a couple of years ago so that I could spend more time with my kids, and my aim has always been to work in a primary school, preferably the same one that the kids attend.

But those jobs are hard to come by.

So I took a position teaching maths and science at a high school just out of the local area. I’d done exactly one day on trial and the day I started my official new job there was the day Greg died.

The flashbacks to that day are etched into my mind: the text book I had to use using car crash analogies to teach speed and acceleration; the kids who were beautiful; the exact line on the concrete I was standing on when the principal came to find me and tell me that I needed to drive home Very Carefully now...

There was no way I could go back to that school.

A few days after Greg's funeral, a very kind person at my children’s primary school could see my problem and offered me a part-time, temporary position at their school to “help me get back into the swing of things”.

I am still doing this job almost 18 months later. (Two weeks shy of 18 months to be exact: Greg died 18 months ago today).

Partly because it suits me, partly because this particular person at school recognised my value and is doing everything in her power to keep me employed there.
She gets it.

At a recent meeting, my current boss asked the department to keep me: he knows I’m valuable and this is why he wants to keep me. It has nothing to do with my marital status.
He doesn't really get it.

I asked the department to keep me, explaining very clearly both my worth as a teacher (topped my year, highest possible ranking, maths-science background which is sadly lacking from most teacher’s repertoires); and the fact that my husband is buried in a nearby cemetery and nothing will move me or the kids away from him and our support network.

...and within a week of the meeting with departmental officers, I had the offer of a permanent position....

....at the other end of the State.

2000 km away.

O.o

I asked the departmental officer whether there was a footnote on my file explaining my compelling reasons not to do country service [i]and she said:

“Yes, but we thought you might like a permanent job and a change of scenery”

I’ve not yet quite got my feet under me properly, the kids are fragile and cling to everything familiar and the department thinks I might enjoy a major life change????

They just don’t get it at all.

.

.

.

(Thankfully, my psychologist DOES get it and has written a strongly worded letter saying that the kids and I need to stay put for the foreseeable future).

---

[i] All teachers in Queensland are required to work in regional areas for at least part of their working life. I maintain that I have already done this (for another government department) and know that it would kill me to go away from my home again.

Missed, Loved, and Remembered

August 31, 2011

Hi honey,

Six years ago today you headed out the door for what would be your final bike ride. You checked the tires on your bike, oiled the chain, filled two water bottles, kissed me good-bye, left, came back for some unidentified thing (I still wonder what brought you back, and if those additional moments cost you your life), and then kissed me good-bye again. After that last touching of lips, our lives would never again be the same.

Every August I approach this day with trepidation. I wonder why the reality that you are never coming home doesn't lose some of its sting. Shouldn't I be used to this by now? You'd think after 2,190 days I could open your cupboard in the garage without tears burning my eyes. And yet, on Saturday when I pulled open both wooden doors to reveal the "stuff" I haven't yet been able to move...the life I used to lead jumped out and smacked me right in the face. The force that was you screamed from each tire tube, sports watch, track shoe, Livestrong band, and trail map that are safely tucked inside that 2'X4' space. The memories of daily runs, weekend bike rides, day long hikes, and various family trips floated through the open cabinet doors, taunting me with the nearness of what was; I had to shut the doors a couple of times to take a breath.

Because your death still takes my breath away. Because it still isn't fair that you aren't going to need those stupid deflated tire tubes. Because I loved the life I had that included you. Because you were important to so many people. Because collectively, we miss you every single day. Because the world isn't the same without you in it. But when I opened that wooden cupboard, it was like time traveling. Whirling back through the moments that made up our life together at warp speed, only to come to a crashing halt on the door step of reality. You are still dead.

And yet, you aren't. I still feel you. Not in the ghostly sense, but in the warmth of love. You can be found in laughter, especially the laughter of children. I feel your determination and discipline when I want to quit; your confidence in me when my own wanes; your ability to let go of troubles, when holding on seems the much safer course, every time I face uncertainty. You know me, and knowing that you know moves me, changes me, and propels me to dig deeper, try harder, reach further...make a difference.

Your sense of fun has inspired many a silly conversation, and a number of pranks. Your dedication to the people you love has changed their lives, even after yours ended. Your ability to push yourself to achieve your personal best has inspired many an athlete, some who race in your memory. Your refusal to be anything other than who you were, has cemented your place in the hearts of every person who loved you.

But perhaps your greatest legacy is the fact that those whom you loved, know they are loved still. That is what I hold onto when the reality of your death sneaks up on me. You loved me. And you still do.

Damn cupboard.

I love you now and always,

Michele

Special thanks to Janine for sharing her writing day with me on this anniversary...and to each of you readers with whom I can share both the heartbreaks, and the unexpected joys, of life after widowhood.