I learned how to make homemade candles at girl scout camp. Each scout sat in front of a large coffee can of melted wax, dark blue. A smaller can contained cold water. With those two cans and one piece of string, we created candlesticks - a dunk of the string into the hot wax followed by a dip in the water to cool it. Wax again, adding another layer. Water again. It was slow, but tangible and satisfying work. By the end, a misshapen, bottom-heavy, drip of a candle was there to show off the patience and the repeated motion building it up. I think of that process often when I'm feeling inexplicably strong or layered with extra insulation from hurt or sorrow. Like my navy blue scout candle, that insulation I feel is both slowly built of many, many layers and very easily melted.
I've been trying to write for almost a month. Below my cursor are many started, but unfinished paragraphs, thoughts, beginnings that aren't quite how I feel. But today marks a month after the anniversary of this loss and a desperate need to finish my thoughts crept in when I realized the date.
The week leading up to October 17, 2014 was a terribly long and miserable one for me - it is amazing what the broken heart and the wandering brain can do when they are conspiring together. I was weak and waiting for that Friday, for family to come into town, for my half marathon race the day after, for the year to be over. I was also terrified to know that I would soon be unable to say, "a year ago we were here/there/doing this/saying that/happy" - that I'd know he'd been gone for over a year. I'd have to say he'd missed two Christmases, two of Daphne's birthdays, everything two. I'd have to do it all over again. My brain had turned reaching the year mark into such a goal, it slammed into me with the force of a tidal wave that it was not finished, but just starting over again.
I was at the bottom and the week was a mountain. Saving my injured leg for the half-marathon, I couldn't run, so my nervous energy came out at work. I felt a little crazed and a little too outwardly cheerful for the crumbling happening inside. How strange to know your energy is unusually manic, but with little power or desire to stop it.
Originally, I signed up for the half marathon in order to have something positive to strive for during that time since my natural tendency is to wallow. I'm good at it (the wallowing) and knew that I could choose to roll about in it or I could choose positive endeavors. So scared by what my life could become, I've been trying to choose positivity to avoid the abyss - this was no exception. The timing was perfect. It was the first day of my second year without him. I wanted to honor his life by accomplishing something I never before believed was possible. Something I knew he'd be immensely proud of.
I knew it would be emotional. I knew it would be incredibly difficult for this unnatural runner - both physically and mentally. I wasn't expecting my body to unleash a physical reaction to the stress of the past year and the emotions I carried through the run - pride, reverence for his memory, utter sorrow because no matter how hard I ran, I would still have to be without him. I finished that race, but only with the strength of the people who left notes or messages, those who showed up to cheer me on and the women who literally surrounded me, held my hand and pushed me up hills while I was on that trail. I left a lot of things out there that I can't explain. I also took a lot home with me when I crossed that finish line. I regulated breathing through tears, ran through physical pain, focused on the mantra (I AM STRONG) written on my hand in black Sharpie, and conquered my biggest physical challenge (other than childbirth) to date. I triumphed over something inside - a wall made of fear, sadness, doubt, uncertainty. I did it for him, but it turned out to be for me, too.
After all of that, I felt like I had been dipped and dipped and dipped in wax. In the days prior to October 17th, I was increasingly panicked. After closing that year and running that race with so many supporters, I was insulated somehow - on my way to being a whole candle once again. For a few weeks anyway, I slept a little better, my tears were fewer and the world seemed a little easier to tackle without Matt by my side.
This race was not everything, but it is an accidental symbol for my year. So much work. So many long stretches to navigate. Such a mental struggle requiring so much resolve to keep going. So many giant hills that are defeating in so many ways. A lot of people helping me, cheering me along. Accomplishments I never thought I'd be able to (have to) claim.
As I nurse my injured leg (four sad weeks of healing and counting), I miss my training - the release of anxiety, the camaraderie, the choice to do something for me and for Matt. At the bottom of a year again, unable to run, settling into winter, headed for the holidays, sadness creeping back in, I feel my outer layers threatening to melt. The extra bulk my candle gained in that last weekend of my most awful year is starting to go, but I'm so thankful to have had that extra boost for even a short while.
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Blue and Pink
I don't believe the sky has been so breathtaking my entire life. Call it global warming, tunnel vision, or all in my head, but it has been beautiful more than I've ever noticed since last October. I would have considered myself a sky person, too - not just sky, but mountain, quiet forest, large body of water, fog, sunset-over-a-cornfield kind of person. And what I mean by that is that there is something spiritual about those things, the way they make you feel. Powerful and so small all at the same time.
I recently found a journal with some of my notes from a family trip to Colorado. While full of embarrassing nonsense about some old fixation with a boy who does not matter, those notes also contain my first ever written attempt at expressing my appreciation for the spirit of nature, specifically a sunrise over the Rockies, and its effect on me. I wrote them ten years ago. This is my second attempt.
I might as well just say it. I think Matt might have something to do with the sky - the light, the clouds. I also think I might be losing it.
The day of his funeral was the first time I noticed. The pink and purple ropes fanned in every direction, glowing like something I was supposed to hold onto. Something I couldn't reach or capture on film.
The highlights...
I'm facing the water on lake Michigan on a day that has been nothing but clouds. I'm missing him like mad. I need him and his hug. At the moment welled-up tears become too much for my eyes to hold in, the sky abruptly opens up and light reflects in one long line from a point on the horizon all the way to mere feet in front of me where waves are crashing. The clouds are moving fast and the sun is both setting and bursting. A few minutes of bright. Just as quickly, it is gone and does not appear again until the next day.
I'm about to go for a run with a friend. I am at the tallest point in a small public park and have already silently noticed every fluff against the bright afternoon sky. Hoping that he'll shield me from some of that sun and make this run more bearable. Before I put in my headphones, she points to the horizon and asks me if I've seen what my man made for me.
I'm driving with Daphne and she talks about the clouds. She tells me about how they are "getting bluer" and how much she loves them. Thinks "they are beeootiful and perfect for outside." Her frustration over the dump truck in front of us blocking her view is palpable.
Daphne asks my sister who painted the sky on our way home from an event that was important to Matt. He wanted to make it a tradition to bring Daphne there every year. Sister tells me I should write Daphne's poetic question down and that she doesn't know how to respond because she doesn't know what I'm telling her about things like that. I say nothing.
Today's morning sky was brilliant - another one of those days when the sun and sunrise were pretty, but more than that. They were contagious. In all four directions, the sky was pink and orange. And blue. And purple and white. Daphne asked me again who painted that sky.
She said, "The sky is so pink today. It is so beautiful. Who painted it, momma? Is it a man? I really love him. That pink is so beautiful for you."
I have not said these things to her. Maybe someone else did. I simply say I love the sky and I think it is beautiful. Those other blanks... She filled those in herself. For now, I'm opting out of anything more than agreeing with her.
I recently found a journal with some of my notes from a family trip to Colorado. While full of embarrassing nonsense about some old fixation with a boy who does not matter, those notes also contain my first ever written attempt at expressing my appreciation for the spirit of nature, specifically a sunrise over the Rockies, and its effect on me. I wrote them ten years ago. This is my second attempt.
I might as well just say it. I think Matt might have something to do with the sky - the light, the clouds. I also think I might be losing it.
The day of his funeral was the first time I noticed. The pink and purple ropes fanned in every direction, glowing like something I was supposed to hold onto. Something I couldn't reach or capture on film.
The highlights...
I'm facing the water on lake Michigan on a day that has been nothing but clouds. I'm missing him like mad. I need him and his hug. At the moment welled-up tears become too much for my eyes to hold in, the sky abruptly opens up and light reflects in one long line from a point on the horizon all the way to mere feet in front of me where waves are crashing. The clouds are moving fast and the sun is both setting and bursting. A few minutes of bright. Just as quickly, it is gone and does not appear again until the next day.
I'm about to go for a run with a friend. I am at the tallest point in a small public park and have already silently noticed every fluff against the bright afternoon sky. Hoping that he'll shield me from some of that sun and make this run more bearable. Before I put in my headphones, she points to the horizon and asks me if I've seen what my man made for me.
I'm driving with Daphne and she talks about the clouds. She tells me about how they are "getting bluer" and how much she loves them. Thinks "they are beeootiful and perfect for outside." Her frustration over the dump truck in front of us blocking her view is palpable.
Daphne asks my sister who painted the sky on our way home from an event that was important to Matt. He wanted to make it a tradition to bring Daphne there every year. Sister tells me I should write Daphne's poetic question down and that she doesn't know how to respond because she doesn't know what I'm telling her about things like that. I say nothing.
Today's morning sky was brilliant - another one of those days when the sun and sunrise were pretty, but more than that. They were contagious. In all four directions, the sky was pink and orange. And blue. And purple and white. Daphne asked me again who painted that sky.
She said, "The sky is so pink today. It is so beautiful. Who painted it, momma? Is it a man? I really love him. That pink is so beautiful for you."
I have not said these things to her. Maybe someone else did. I simply say I love the sky and I think it is beautiful. Those other blanks... She filled those in herself. For now, I'm opting out of anything more than agreeing with her.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
Stages Three
Grief is so unique and so recursive that I'm not sure I can explain my personal experience accurately, but I feel like it is important for me to reflect on this process, lest it sweep me away like an angry river. Since losing him, Matt has been just as much at the center of my world as he was before, but in such a different way. And at some point, I realized I was letting sadness swallow me and I made a promise to myself not to force anything that didn't feel right, to try and feel what I need to feel and process what I need to process. It is important for my healing - important for Daphne. I want her mom to be a whole person who is not defined by losing her love. Shaped by it, yes, irrevocably, but not defined by it.
I know when I've moved on to a new stage or phase or mood, only when I have a moment (hour, day, week) of regression. I fall off that platform and when I'm back down at the bottom, that is when I notice where I had been, what place I had reached. This week has been one big crash and the trigger is unknown. At this point, it could still be anything and sometimes the catalyst is something small that only I would connect to Matt instead of something obvious. What would have been my fourth wedding anniversary passed weeks ago with incredible sadness, but not the giant, slow, lingering pit of sorrow I had planned to battle for a whole week. I went to dinner at a bluff top winery and left for a trip the next day which were welcome distractions. But now I'm back home and the little things are hitting me harder than they had been before we got out of town. I hadn't realized all of that had let up a little bit until now.
It could be Daphne. She is talking about him. A lot. Today she asked me, "Where's my daddy? We gonna go find him at the restaurant?" She asks everyone where their dad is. Twice she has woken up from sleep and in her groggy babble, she has told me about him. A dream? Or is she seeing something reflected in me? I knew she would start to ask about him one day, but I'm not quite ready and I'm not quite sure what is triggering these questions now. The eery way she asks as she sits quietly makes me believe she thinks about him more than she might verbalize. The way she asks me if I need a hug from him when she is in trouble is unnerving at best - both because of her mention of the very thing I need when she is acting like a true toddler and because her level of skill in the art of manipulation terrifies me.
Maybe her questions have me slipping, but I just really think it's the ebb and flow happening. So far I've outlined these three stages of my personal grief and the only one I haven't revisited multiple times is the first one.
1. Utter shock and devastation on a level I cannot accurately describe. It was as if reality was suspended and language, visuals, sounds, smells, no longer made sense even though I knew they should. Speaking was difficult, tiresome. I alternately fought urges to stay in constant motion or sit catatonically on the couch. The exhaustion was so deep that sleeping eventually became possible, but waking was excruciating because I had to remember. Other people literally held me up - held up my body so I would not fall over. Apparently someone took care of Daphne. My clothes didn't fit after not eating for two weeks.
2. Continued shock and surprise over the facts. Sometimes I just can't believe it. A friend recently told me it still all seems surreal. That's true. Absolutely. But I've had to deal with the nuts and bolts of survival for the last nine and a half months so it feels pretty damn real a lot of the time. The nuts an bolts have been distraction enough to grant me brief reprieves from descending too far into my sadness. But then, brushing my teeth, driving to the grocery store, or visiting the coffee shop where we met, it will hit me all over again. Bam. Alone. Widow. He's not coming home tonight. How can this be true? I am still swiftly rocked by the idea that he's gone and that I can't hear about his day. Sometimes I have to hide or wait it out in my car. If I'm at work, I just go to the restroom. Everyone is kind enough to pretend not to notice.
3. Missing him. A month or two ago, I realized I was physically aching for his presence. Instead of shock, losing him is a horrific reality I am constantly aware of, but not surprised by. It isn't the sharp pang that stops breath momentarily, but instead a deep missing him so great I can barely stand it. My whole chest feels like it is caving in and it sticks with me for long periods of time without a break. At first I thought this was a better phase - not so sneaky, constant, a little more predictable. I was wrong. It is persistent, unquenchable and never-ending. In this stage, I've been predicting how he would feel about something, what he would say about this or that, picturing him there, thinking about how we'd be planning to expand our family, wondering how it would be if it hadn't happened this way or what we would look like as the old couple at the grocery store. Hating that old couple at the grocery store because I feel so cheated. Dangerous.
I've found myself mentioning him in small ways just to test the waters. I don't realize I'm doing it until it's out of my mouth and I see my friends and family brace themselves when they hear his name. Is it just a mention, or a floodgate bursting? That all depends who I'm talking to and where we are. Mentioning that he liked a certain food/tv show/song/city in conversation with a friend is just a shout out. Mentioning that we lost her dad to Daphne's new preschool teacher is a floodgate.
I wish I could say I understand it. Not understanding is something I don't handle well. At all. I don't need to be good at a task as long as I comprehend the logistics, but none of this is logical and I swim back and forth between stages two and three without conscious choice. For a person who likes to be in the know, needs to be in control of herself if nothing else, and has a difficult time with change, it is still a rough journey. The fact that my thoughts are coherent enough today to delineate my biggest grief stages is a step toward understanding that I'm beginning to believe is essential. I may not have answers to most of the questions my brain asks every day, but I can at least start by analyzing where I've been and how I'm changing. Maybe one day the crumbs will all fall into a pattern on the floor.
I know when I've moved on to a new stage or phase or mood, only when I have a moment (hour, day, week) of regression. I fall off that platform and when I'm back down at the bottom, that is when I notice where I had been, what place I had reached. This week has been one big crash and the trigger is unknown. At this point, it could still be anything and sometimes the catalyst is something small that only I would connect to Matt instead of something obvious. What would have been my fourth wedding anniversary passed weeks ago with incredible sadness, but not the giant, slow, lingering pit of sorrow I had planned to battle for a whole week. I went to dinner at a bluff top winery and left for a trip the next day which were welcome distractions. But now I'm back home and the little things are hitting me harder than they had been before we got out of town. I hadn't realized all of that had let up a little bit until now.
It could be Daphne. She is talking about him. A lot. Today she asked me, "Where's my daddy? We gonna go find him at the restaurant?" She asks everyone where their dad is. Twice she has woken up from sleep and in her groggy babble, she has told me about him. A dream? Or is she seeing something reflected in me? I knew she would start to ask about him one day, but I'm not quite ready and I'm not quite sure what is triggering these questions now. The eery way she asks as she sits quietly makes me believe she thinks about him more than she might verbalize. The way she asks me if I need a hug from him when she is in trouble is unnerving at best - both because of her mention of the very thing I need when she is acting like a true toddler and because her level of skill in the art of manipulation terrifies me.
Maybe her questions have me slipping, but I just really think it's the ebb and flow happening. So far I've outlined these three stages of my personal grief and the only one I haven't revisited multiple times is the first one.
1. Utter shock and devastation on a level I cannot accurately describe. It was as if reality was suspended and language, visuals, sounds, smells, no longer made sense even though I knew they should. Speaking was difficult, tiresome. I alternately fought urges to stay in constant motion or sit catatonically on the couch. The exhaustion was so deep that sleeping eventually became possible, but waking was excruciating because I had to remember. Other people literally held me up - held up my body so I would not fall over. Apparently someone took care of Daphne. My clothes didn't fit after not eating for two weeks.
2. Continued shock and surprise over the facts. Sometimes I just can't believe it. A friend recently told me it still all seems surreal. That's true. Absolutely. But I've had to deal with the nuts and bolts of survival for the last nine and a half months so it feels pretty damn real a lot of the time. The nuts an bolts have been distraction enough to grant me brief reprieves from descending too far into my sadness. But then, brushing my teeth, driving to the grocery store, or visiting the coffee shop where we met, it will hit me all over again. Bam. Alone. Widow. He's not coming home tonight. How can this be true? I am still swiftly rocked by the idea that he's gone and that I can't hear about his day. Sometimes I have to hide or wait it out in my car. If I'm at work, I just go to the restroom. Everyone is kind enough to pretend not to notice.
3. Missing him. A month or two ago, I realized I was physically aching for his presence. Instead of shock, losing him is a horrific reality I am constantly aware of, but not surprised by. It isn't the sharp pang that stops breath momentarily, but instead a deep missing him so great I can barely stand it. My whole chest feels like it is caving in and it sticks with me for long periods of time without a break. At first I thought this was a better phase - not so sneaky, constant, a little more predictable. I was wrong. It is persistent, unquenchable and never-ending. In this stage, I've been predicting how he would feel about something, what he would say about this or that, picturing him there, thinking about how we'd be planning to expand our family, wondering how it would be if it hadn't happened this way or what we would look like as the old couple at the grocery store. Hating that old couple at the grocery store because I feel so cheated. Dangerous.
I've found myself mentioning him in small ways just to test the waters. I don't realize I'm doing it until it's out of my mouth and I see my friends and family brace themselves when they hear his name. Is it just a mention, or a floodgate bursting? That all depends who I'm talking to and where we are. Mentioning that he liked a certain food/tv show/song/city in conversation with a friend is just a shout out. Mentioning that we lost her dad to Daphne's new preschool teacher is a floodgate.
I wish I could say I understand it. Not understanding is something I don't handle well. At all. I don't need to be good at a task as long as I comprehend the logistics, but none of this is logical and I swim back and forth between stages two and three without conscious choice. For a person who likes to be in the know, needs to be in control of herself if nothing else, and has a difficult time with change, it is still a rough journey. The fact that my thoughts are coherent enough today to delineate my biggest grief stages is a step toward understanding that I'm beginning to believe is essential. I may not have answers to most of the questions my brain asks every day, but I can at least start by analyzing where I've been and how I'm changing. Maybe one day the crumbs will all fall into a pattern on the floor.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
On Daphne's Memory
Daphne is a seriously like her mom in one way: she notices details and has a very specific, but sometimes selective, memory. She pulls out references to exact phrases I know I said only one time and months ago, but can’t (won’t) remember to sit, instead of stand, on her chair at the dinner table. I remember what I wore to the Forest Park Balloon Races with my immediate family and maternal grandparents when I was about nine years old (a long-sleeved technicolor t-shirt and jeans), but I remember surprisingly little about my master’s thesis or what I had for breakfast yesterday.
I’ve made it through a few sad milestones lately and I think she knows. It started when I began to pack up all of her baby clothes. I took them out of their clunky tubs in the closet and put them in vacuum bags that shrink down and save space. I touched all of those small outfits and soft shirts and couldn’t help but sink into sadness over their lack of use. They were intended for more babies. More babies I was supposed to have with him. And he touched them and folded them and put them on our baby girl. And now he’s gone and there will be no more babies and no more Dad caring for Daphne in that way. I was not yet crying, but I was quiet and had my back to her as she read books in her rocking chair. Without saying a word, she came to me and grabbed my cheeks in the adorable way she has been doing when she wants to kiss my forehead. But instead of giving a kiss, she said, “Momma is sad?” And then she gave me a hug with a pat.
I’ve stopped lying to her. I tell her I am sad, but that I’ll be okay. When she asks me if “Daddy is sad, too?” I just tell her how much I miss him. And that I love him so much. And that’s usually all I can choke out.
Here’s the thing. Every time I talk about him with her, I start to cry. I want to build memories and fight science, the laws of nature, and developmental speeds to make her - force her - to have real memories of him so she can confidently say she remembers her father instead of feeling like her memories are fabricated by pictures and stories told. So that she knows how much he loved her and supported her every move. I don't want her to be sad when she thinks of him. But I can’t do it yet, and I have to wonder if I just should rip that bandage. We say goodnight to him every night. She tells him to have sweet dreams. That might have to be enough for now.
A few weeks ago she asked me if we could go to the garage door in the laundry room and wait for him to come home. We used to do that a lot when we arrived home before he did in the evenings. It has been eight months (yesterday) and I have not mentioned it to her once. I haven’t told her how much I miss it because I thought it would confuse her, make her think he’s coming. Does she really remember that? She must, but how? And good god, how can I make her keep it? I know I can’t really force those memories - even training her to think about them now would be planting them in her little brain, but lately she’s been asking if he’s “just not home yet” or if he’s “just driving.” She tells me that she “loves Daddy. I miss him. He’s in heaven.” Or when I was crying (secretly and silently, I thought) on the way home from Saint Peters on Father’s Day, she asked me if I was a little sad and if I needed a hug from Daddy.
She also told me he was in the brown closet with some dirt. She struggled to spit it out, but said it was a “Different closet. Dirt in the closet. He’s all fixed now.” This was also on our drive home, and she was in and out of sleep, so I am choosing to call that some dream talking instead of thinking about it further. I have too many other waves to jump.
Eight days ago would have been his 34th birthday. Three days ago was Father’s Day. Twenty-nine days from now would have been our 4th wedding anniversary. It’s a minefield. I’m sad and I’m treading lightly. I’m trying to be strong but also nice to myself and make sure I’m in a safe place when I need to be, but she is watching me. She understands and I can’t decide if that is good or bad. She is mine and I am hers and we have to do this together either way. Maybe she’s the only one who really understands even if she can’t tell me how or why or what she actually remembers. And that might be all I need from her - just to remind me of him and to know what I am going through on some primal, animal cub level.
Eight days ago would have been his 34th birthday. Three days ago was Father’s Day. Twenty-nine days from now would have been our 4th wedding anniversary. It’s a minefield. I’m sad and I’m treading lightly. I’m trying to be strong but also nice to myself and make sure I’m in a safe place when I need to be, but she is watching me. She understands and I can’t decide if that is good or bad. She is mine and I am hers and we have to do this together either way. Maybe she’s the only one who really understands even if she can’t tell me how or why or what she actually remembers. And that might be all I need from her - just to remind me of him and to know what I am going through on some primal, animal cub level.
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Goose
Do geese mate for life like emperor penguins? I'm not sure. We had two geese growing up and one of them was named Charlotte, but the other name escapes me now. Maybe Fred? No matter. I was four or five years old and whenever I asked, my dad always told me that the one on the left was Charlotte. Always. They did move as one, almost synchronized, so I believed him and didn't realize why his own answer made him giggle until much later in life. I don't remember what happened to those geese, but I remember them being together always, and then they were gone.
In my part of town, I don't see a lot of geese. If I do, they are usually flying across the sky instead of walking in duos like Charlotte and her friend. A few stressful and gloomy mornings ago, I saw one goose fly over the highway while I was on my way to work.
I watched it and watched it. It was airborne and headed south, but it seemed wobbly and unable to stay consistently at the same elevation. Hurt maybe. It also struck me as odd that it was alone since I usually see pairs or flying V formations. This time, there was just one lone bird headed in the right direction, getting the flight done, but struggling to make it happen.
I can relate.
In my part of town, I don't see a lot of geese. If I do, they are usually flying across the sky instead of walking in duos like Charlotte and her friend. A few stressful and gloomy mornings ago, I saw one goose fly over the highway while I was on my way to work.
I watched it and watched it. It was airborne and headed south, but it seemed wobbly and unable to stay consistently at the same elevation. Hurt maybe. It also struck me as odd that it was alone since I usually see pairs or flying V formations. This time, there was just one lone bird headed in the right direction, getting the flight done, but struggling to make it happen.
I can relate.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Billy Bob
March 18
This morning I heard a song that brought me to tears on my way to work. I think I've started every day this week with puffy eyes. My hope is that the chilly air in my face gives me an excuse. The song was "John Deere Green" by Joe Diffy. This is not my normal taste in music, but I was listening to local radio and my choices were to listen to a commercial or change it to the country station. It doesn't make much sense that I would instantly start crying at this song - at least it didn't to me at first.
When I was in fifth grade, I started to care about music a little bit. Up to that point, I just listened to anything presented to me. By the age of ten, I know I loved Soul Asylum’s “Run Away Train” and Blind Melon’s “No Rain,” however, I live in an area where country music is difficult to avoid. Now I listen to mostly folk and indie music, but I still know all the words to Tim McGraw’s “Don’t Take the Girl,” Sammy Kershaw’s “She Don’t Know She’s Beautiful” and Joe Diffy’s “John Deere Green.”
Before we had Daphne, Matt and I spent a lot of time alone together in the car - traveling home to visit our families, taking road trips for vacation, weddings. We drove to New Orleans to honeymoon and to Alabama for spring break. We’d casually hold hands and just talk and talk. About nothing sometimes. Future plans, promises, politics, family issues, and even disagreements other times. We’d keep each other awake as we drove to the next stop on the map and one of the rules was that the sleepy driver was allowed to rule (and blast) the radio if the other person dozed off. I’m terrible at driving long distances, so I was usually the dozer. Back then, on every trip over a half hour’s drive, I would ask Matt to interrupt the rock he was listening to and turn on the Sammy Kershaw Pandora station - just for giggles and nostalgia’s sake. He thought it was hilarious when I would belt out the words to the dorky country songs of my past, so he would humor me until we heard a few good hits. He would cut me off, but he would laugh and laugh. before he’d cut me off. I know I was crying for those memories.
Then I actually listened to the song and thought about the lyrics - the characters are so damn proud to be together despite the town thinking they are of foolish. Their love was expressed their way (in letters three foot high) and their love language wasn't quite understood by anyone else. I think we really had that.
I don't think my "town" thought we were foolish, but I had many friends tell me that we seemed to be all the other needed or that we were obvious about our feelings. Many times, I felt just slightly judged by this - like I was some sort of love nerd who couldn’t be cool, be cool….in front of others. Someone once razzed me because they “didn’t know I was a hand-holder.” I met my with wine group the weekend before I lost him. On the way home, after I complained to a girlfriend about a small ongoing disagreement we had been having, she told me she was glad to hear that we argued sometimes because it seemed like we never did. That was far from true. We argued but made sure we always left lines of communication open even when we were upset. We didn't follow the rule about "never going to bed angry" but we always said I love you before we slept. Anger didn't change that. Judged or not, I never wanted to change it. We were obvious about our love. Instead of a green painted message on a water tower, Matt proclaimed his pride over being my husband to his co-workers, to our family and friends, on my Facebook wall, through handwritten cards, in every email.
The week after our wedding, I sat on the bed in our New Orleans hotel to check for a wedding photo sneak peak from our photographer on Facebook. Instead, what I found was a note from her second shooter. She wrote to me to tell me how much fun she had at our wedding, but also that she knew I had snagged a good one. She knew this because he was so proud to call me wife. She was assigned to photograph the boys getting ready for the ceremony, and she heard him talk about the card he picked out to exchange through bridesmaid messenger - how he really wanted me to like it because cards (and the artsy store he bought it from) were important to me. I frantically looked for that Facebook note tonight. I found it. She said,” I overheard him bragging to people about how incredibly artistic and creative and multi-talented you were. It wasn't in a boastful way but in a "My wife is just absolutely astoundingly talented" way. It was adorable.”
He always saw the best version of me and I’m pretty sure that version existed because of him - I always used to joke that he was a far nicer, more generous person than I could ever hope to be. I was loose around him - I laughed without thought and sang ridiculous twangy songs and made goofy faces and was unself-conscious about his hand resting on my knee as we drove south down a highway in Alabama.
“He wrote Billy Bob loves Charlene. In letters three-foot high. And the whole town said, ‘The boy should have used red’, but it looked good to Charlene in John Deere Green.”
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Sleep
I've had a lot going on lately - shopping with friends at the lake, a trip to see a much-loved musician, a film festival in my town that is becoming one of my most favorite events ever. All of these have been made possible by my friends and family, whether they bought me a ticket, just kept me company or babysat my girl so I could try to be normal for a while. It has been nice - wonderful. I would do all of these things all over again, and am so grateful, but I am so tired. Maybe I'm not yet ready to be normal again - maybe normal doesn't exist for me anymore.
What I'm learning is this: If I put myself in situations that require me to stay "on" for too long, I start to lose it. And by "it," I mean a combination of composure, a filter, positive thinking, and hope. Even the length of a normal work day can sometimes test my limit for holding it all in depending on how much sleep I've had or what triggers I came in contact with (and then tried to suppress) throughout my day. Last week I got a reminder card for Matt's eye appointment. I didn't know he had made it at his last appointment over the summer. It sent me spinning into thought about what an 8:00am appointment would do to our morning routine - the old routine that is. The one I wish I could have back. Really remembering the intimate details of our family's morning routine was the saddest thing I had done all week until I had to call and tell them to stop sending reminder cards.
I constantly look for distraction, but feel like even when I appear to have found it, my brain won't let it fully happen. I might be having a conversation about iPad end-of-the-year-procedures at work or posing in a silly photo with my friends or sisters, but I guarantee that I am focused on the task of just keeping my concentration, focused on trying not to miss him. The constant film reel of sad in my head does not seem to take a break - I simply ignore it until I'm alone again. This usually makes the ride home from work every day my first blurry moment to decompress. I am grateful that it is usually drowned out by the radio so Daphne cannot hear my voice crack. If I can pull it together before we go inside, I can usually make it through the few hours before she goes to bed, all the while focusing on not focusing. Exhausting.
Because of my full life, I like to think that I'm not lonely, but I am. I hope that doesn't hurt anyone's feelings. I am so lucky for you all. So lucky. I know that. But I had a person who wanted to know everything - all my secrets, all of my plans and dreams, all of the boring details of my boring, cherished, life. I saw seven documentary films this weekend and instead of snuggling on the couch to tell him about each one, I am sitting alone. I know I could call someone, but I want to talk to him.
The intimate connection of a spouse is so much more than romance, plans, shared stories, family histories. It is the knowledge you didn't realize you even had - the little things. The small details that didn't matter until you didn't have anyone knowing yours. I have months of mundane to tell someone and it's spilling over. I haven't done it, but the thought to text his phone just to feel like I have someone to talk to while I'm here at my house alone every night has crossed my mind. Then I realized how crazy and unhealthy that sounds. I know it doesn't make sense, because if he was here I wouldn't be crushed by this sadness, but I really just want to tell him about it. He would make me feel better and he might not even need to say anything at all.
I cannot seem to think of anything else, so I was surprised my first dreams about him took as long as they did to occur. I actually remember this one. Maybe this means I am sleeping better. I did start sleeping more normally last week - no longer am I at the foot of the bed.
Like dreams so often are, one of these first dreams was set in a place that did not look the way it does in real life. It was set at a Wal-Mart, a store I cannot stand to visit. The ceilings were taller, the aisles much more open - like an arena. At this "Wal-Mart," Matt and I were participating in a game show with a live audience. We made it through a physical challenge that I cannot remember, but I think it may have involved a hula hoop. The second round was set high atop a set of bleachers or risers and was in front of a live audience. Teams were made up of one man and one woman. Each team was required to finish a task - the girl had to shave the man's face and head. Barbershop style with the old-fashioned blade and the painted on shaving cream.
Throughout this dream, my dream self was conscious that Matt was sick. Also, I was acutely aware that knowing about his illness ahead of time was so much worse than losing him suddenly. I was conscious of being married, but also strangely broken up or not together. He was not assigned to be my partner in the competition, but instead, I was paired with one of my former students. When we climbed the bleachers to race-shave the men, I asked Matt if he thought it would be too weird if I took over as his partner. He said he did not think it would be strange at all, so I moved to his station, abandoning my student. The horn sounded to start the race, but I wasn't tall enough to reach him. My dream self thought she was really clever and planned to win by using a doggy swimming pool from the pet aisle as a step-stool. While I was hunting for a pool, the competition ended. I missed the whole thing.
When I dream, I usually do not see real faces. The characters are not creepy, but they are blurry. This was not the case with my dream about Matt. I could see his face exactly - the square angle of the tip of his nose, the crooked smile, those eyebrows he passed on to Daphne, everything.
When I returned to Matt's station, he was still sitting in the barber's seat, waiting for me to return. He was clearly resting - his body relaxed and leaning sideways in the chair the way he used to fall asleep in the car from time to time. We were still very aware of his grave illness. He realized I was back and ready to try again in the next round of the competition, but instead he looked at me calmly, smiled and said, "It's time." Everyone around us in the competition seemed to understand that this was something we just had to do. Reluctantly, I took him to the hospital where we both knew his body would fail. Dream over.
He smiled. I could see his face and he smiled in that way that was supposed to convince me to get on board with something. The dream has been haunting me for over a week and I have not had one since.
I could go on and on about what I do or do not think it means. Or if it means anything at all. I'm not going to get into that, but I do know that I woke up so sad I could barely get up early and shower before Daphne started to stir. I'd like to dream him every night so I could tell him about my day, but again, that doesn't sound healthy. I also don't think I could handle the wake-up since I'm still recovering from this one.
What I'm learning is this: If I put myself in situations that require me to stay "on" for too long, I start to lose it. And by "it," I mean a combination of composure, a filter, positive thinking, and hope. Even the length of a normal work day can sometimes test my limit for holding it all in depending on how much sleep I've had or what triggers I came in contact with (and then tried to suppress) throughout my day. Last week I got a reminder card for Matt's eye appointment. I didn't know he had made it at his last appointment over the summer. It sent me spinning into thought about what an 8:00am appointment would do to our morning routine - the old routine that is. The one I wish I could have back. Really remembering the intimate details of our family's morning routine was the saddest thing I had done all week until I had to call and tell them to stop sending reminder cards.
I constantly look for distraction, but feel like even when I appear to have found it, my brain won't let it fully happen. I might be having a conversation about iPad end-of-the-year-procedures at work or posing in a silly photo with my friends or sisters, but I guarantee that I am focused on the task of just keeping my concentration, focused on trying not to miss him. The constant film reel of sad in my head does not seem to take a break - I simply ignore it until I'm alone again. This usually makes the ride home from work every day my first blurry moment to decompress. I am grateful that it is usually drowned out by the radio so Daphne cannot hear my voice crack. If I can pull it together before we go inside, I can usually make it through the few hours before she goes to bed, all the while focusing on not focusing. Exhausting.
Because of my full life, I like to think that I'm not lonely, but I am. I hope that doesn't hurt anyone's feelings. I am so lucky for you all. So lucky. I know that. But I had a person who wanted to know everything - all my secrets, all of my plans and dreams, all of the boring details of my boring, cherished, life. I saw seven documentary films this weekend and instead of snuggling on the couch to tell him about each one, I am sitting alone. I know I could call someone, but I want to talk to him.
The intimate connection of a spouse is so much more than romance, plans, shared stories, family histories. It is the knowledge you didn't realize you even had - the little things. The small details that didn't matter until you didn't have anyone knowing yours. I have months of mundane to tell someone and it's spilling over. I haven't done it, but the thought to text his phone just to feel like I have someone to talk to while I'm here at my house alone every night has crossed my mind. Then I realized how crazy and unhealthy that sounds. I know it doesn't make sense, because if he was here I wouldn't be crushed by this sadness, but I really just want to tell him about it. He would make me feel better and he might not even need to say anything at all.
I cannot seem to think of anything else, so I was surprised my first dreams about him took as long as they did to occur. I actually remember this one. Maybe this means I am sleeping better. I did start sleeping more normally last week - no longer am I at the foot of the bed.
Like dreams so often are, one of these first dreams was set in a place that did not look the way it does in real life. It was set at a Wal-Mart, a store I cannot stand to visit. The ceilings were taller, the aisles much more open - like an arena. At this "Wal-Mart," Matt and I were participating in a game show with a live audience. We made it through a physical challenge that I cannot remember, but I think it may have involved a hula hoop. The second round was set high atop a set of bleachers or risers and was in front of a live audience. Teams were made up of one man and one woman. Each team was required to finish a task - the girl had to shave the man's face and head. Barbershop style with the old-fashioned blade and the painted on shaving cream.
Throughout this dream, my dream self was conscious that Matt was sick. Also, I was acutely aware that knowing about his illness ahead of time was so much worse than losing him suddenly. I was conscious of being married, but also strangely broken up or not together. He was not assigned to be my partner in the competition, but instead, I was paired with one of my former students. When we climbed the bleachers to race-shave the men, I asked Matt if he thought it would be too weird if I took over as his partner. He said he did not think it would be strange at all, so I moved to his station, abandoning my student. The horn sounded to start the race, but I wasn't tall enough to reach him. My dream self thought she was really clever and planned to win by using a doggy swimming pool from the pet aisle as a step-stool. While I was hunting for a pool, the competition ended. I missed the whole thing.
When I dream, I usually do not see real faces. The characters are not creepy, but they are blurry. This was not the case with my dream about Matt. I could see his face exactly - the square angle of the tip of his nose, the crooked smile, those eyebrows he passed on to Daphne, everything.
When I returned to Matt's station, he was still sitting in the barber's seat, waiting for me to return. He was clearly resting - his body relaxed and leaning sideways in the chair the way he used to fall asleep in the car from time to time. We were still very aware of his grave illness. He realized I was back and ready to try again in the next round of the competition, but instead he looked at me calmly, smiled and said, "It's time." Everyone around us in the competition seemed to understand that this was something we just had to do. Reluctantly, I took him to the hospital where we both knew his body would fail. Dream over.
He smiled. I could see his face and he smiled in that way that was supposed to convince me to get on board with something. The dream has been haunting me for over a week and I have not had one since.
I could go on and on about what I do or do not think it means. Or if it means anything at all. I'm not going to get into that, but I do know that I woke up so sad I could barely get up early and shower before Daphne started to stir. I'd like to dream him every night so I could tell him about my day, but again, that doesn't sound healthy. I also don't think I could handle the wake-up since I'm still recovering from this one.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Maybe this is why...
I don't really believe in "meant to be." I don't believe in "all things happen for a reason." And I certainly don't believe god includes terrible things in his plan for our lives. I wish I did - finding comfort might be a little easier. Although I'm feeling a bit abandoned, I don't blame god. That seems too easy. Blaming, throwing blanket statements of dismissal at it - these seem to only postpone the hurt. Instead, I've been trying to let myself feel as much pain as possible so I don't explode by holding it in. How else can I heal enough to function when I haven't dealt with all of the chaos inside?
It is not difficult to understand why these comforting ideas are tempting and I frequently have thoughts in the same vein before I wake up from what feels like an illogical dream. I've never been so exhausted to just be in my own head so the mental and emotional break does me some good. If I did believe, I might have some things to say.
I might say that maybe this is why we fell in love so darn fast. Why we bought a house before we bought a wedding. It could be why we had such a terrible time trying to live apart when we thought we were going to transition to a new city. Why I missed him so much when he was away for referee assignments. Maybe this is why Daphne was a wonderful surprise. Maybe this is why we didn't move to that other city - so I would have my group of friends and a stable career to lean on. Maybe this is why Daphne talked so early - so her dad could get to know her as much as possible. Maybe this is why she walked a little late - so he could hold her a little longer. Maybe this is why "our song" was actually a very sad song when the second verse was included.
If I entertained the idea that there was reason behind it all, I might think that this is why I was so unsettled the weekend before I lost him - I was crabby and hung up on (and a bit panicked about) getting the perfect family photo at a fall festival we attended. It's probably why we held hands in the car all the time. It didn't matter the length of the trip. I'm sure it's why we said I love you so much. If we said our morning goodbyes, and I came back into the house to grab some forgotten item, he would say it all over again. I love you. I'm sure it's why we actually had many conversations about how happy, how lucky, we were to have found each other.
The sunset was stunning on the day we had to say goodbye. After his funeral, my family scooped me up and brought me to stay with them for the week. Before we left town that afternoon the sky looked like something unreal. Purple and orange streaked the sky in rope-like clouds that shot out from the sun in every direction. It was the most vibrant October sky I can recall. And when I rode east, away from those clouds and my house, I felt like I was leaving him behind. Like he was physically being ripped away from me all over again. If I thought it was real, I might say those clouds were there for a reason.
Two Sundays ago my family surprised me with a birthday party at my house. A day I didn't think I could bear alone was made tolerable and even happy by their presence and thoughtful gestures. Still, they had to leave hours before I could reasonably go to bed so I felt incredibly alone before they even left. When I walked them outside on this gorgeous, unseasonably warm January day, that airbrushed sky was back. This time, the color was more pink than purple. The clouds were smoother, and instead of radiating from a specific point of light, they were smeared across the entire sky. I spun around in my driveway to see that in every direction it looked like someone had pressed a handful of color. Science tells me that this is because the temperature literally dropped 40 degrees that night and those clouds were a front moving quickly. This is true. But if I really wanted to believe it, I bet I could convince myself that it was him - everywhere and in every direction for just a few minutes until another day ended with the sun.
It is not difficult to understand why these comforting ideas are tempting and I frequently have thoughts in the same vein before I wake up from what feels like an illogical dream. I've never been so exhausted to just be in my own head so the mental and emotional break does me some good. If I did believe, I might have some things to say.
I might say that maybe this is why we fell in love so darn fast. Why we bought a house before we bought a wedding. It could be why we had such a terrible time trying to live apart when we thought we were going to transition to a new city. Why I missed him so much when he was away for referee assignments. Maybe this is why Daphne was a wonderful surprise. Maybe this is why we didn't move to that other city - so I would have my group of friends and a stable career to lean on. Maybe this is why Daphne talked so early - so her dad could get to know her as much as possible. Maybe this is why she walked a little late - so he could hold her a little longer. Maybe this is why "our song" was actually a very sad song when the second verse was included.
If I entertained the idea that there was reason behind it all, I might think that this is why I was so unsettled the weekend before I lost him - I was crabby and hung up on (and a bit panicked about) getting the perfect family photo at a fall festival we attended. It's probably why we held hands in the car all the time. It didn't matter the length of the trip. I'm sure it's why we said I love you so much. If we said our morning goodbyes, and I came back into the house to grab some forgotten item, he would say it all over again. I love you. I'm sure it's why we actually had many conversations about how happy, how lucky, we were to have found each other.
The sunset was stunning on the day we had to say goodbye. After his funeral, my family scooped me up and brought me to stay with them for the week. Before we left town that afternoon the sky looked like something unreal. Purple and orange streaked the sky in rope-like clouds that shot out from the sun in every direction. It was the most vibrant October sky I can recall. And when I rode east, away from those clouds and my house, I felt like I was leaving him behind. Like he was physically being ripped away from me all over again. If I thought it was real, I might say those clouds were there for a reason.
Two Sundays ago my family surprised me with a birthday party at my house. A day I didn't think I could bear alone was made tolerable and even happy by their presence and thoughtful gestures. Still, they had to leave hours before I could reasonably go to bed so I felt incredibly alone before they even left. When I walked them outside on this gorgeous, unseasonably warm January day, that airbrushed sky was back. This time, the color was more pink than purple. The clouds were smoother, and instead of radiating from a specific point of light, they were smeared across the entire sky. I spun around in my driveway to see that in every direction it looked like someone had pressed a handful of color. Science tells me that this is because the temperature literally dropped 40 degrees that night and those clouds were a front moving quickly. This is true. But if I really wanted to believe it, I bet I could convince myself that it was him - everywhere and in every direction for just a few minutes until another day ended with the sun.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Time Stop
I turn 31 on Sunday. This has sparked thought about time and its passage and even though I hadn't realized it until tonight, I guess I've been thinking about it a lot lately. Friends, family, authors - they all say time will make things easier, heal the wounds. At first I thought they might be misspeaking - isn't it just that the shock will fade and the pain will become my norm? Now, I'm beginning to worry that they might be right for I have had moments of laughter and my 365 Gratitude project has helped me focus on something wonderfully distracting and positive each day. For three months and five days I have endured waves of forgetting only to remember, stifled pain and one step at a time. I ask for relief, but tonight I think maybe I could fend it off forever.
I work in a high school. I went to high school. The usual stint is four years which is longer than the length of time we were married. I lost him three years and three months to the day after I married him which is shorter than the blip of time I was a high school student. How is that for cruelty?
So since I'm over 30, high school was about half my life ago. Think about what you remember from high school. Are those memories clear? Are they only brought to mind by a rare scent or song? Are they fresh and present in your daily thoughts or are they faded and worn, sparked by a few old pictures? Mine are the latter. I see pictures of myself from high school and occasionally I don't recognize that person. I don't remember sitting at that restaurant or owning that sweatshirt. Some of the long lost friends in these photos are merely familiar faces without easily recalled names. Now there are the stories, the special nights, the events you relive in your mind over and over. That vision, those friends, those experiences are still with me, but the day-to-day of being in high school is gone. I am losing what it felt like. When I was there, I thought it was intense and forever. But now? I'm sure if I went back there the building would feel small and the smell would be unrecognizable.
Certainly, it is absurd to compare my marriage to my high school career in many ways, but in length of time? I can't stop myself. What if I can't remember my every day with Matt in 15 years? I cannot bear it. I've been so focused on worry for Daphne who won't remember her own experiences with her dad that I haven't stopped to worry about my own memories turning into old glory day stories. He is not just some old boyfriend, boiled down to the five stories your friends hear whenever his name is conjured. But like an old boyfriend, my memories created with him are finite. The pictures are already no longer current. So how do I make sure I save each experience and not just the photos? And not just the special stories. How can you file away the millions of seemingly unmemorable pieces of a life?
I want to remember how he made a goofy and dramatic face when he had the sniffles. He used one of those protein shake bottles with the metal ball inside about six hundred times a day and the sound drove me nuts. His handwriting - he always hated it. His tooth that overlapped just a little in the front and only from certain angles. All of his made up lyrics to real pop songs. That time when we had a big argument before he stormed off to work, only to come back after having driven all the way there so he could hug me and then hash it out even though he would be late. The way he put on Daphne's diaper cream far too thin and not nearly enough. The way the skin between his forefinger and his thumb was always dry and how his eyes crinkled when he open-mouth smiled at our baby's every word. How it felt to just sit on the couch near him even if we weren't talking or touching and how Daphne and I both went straight for the laundry room entrance to greet him when we heard the garage door lift. I want to remember these things, but not just in this list. Writing the list may have ruined them already - now they are trophy stories, the highlights of a life that can never actually add up to everything that he was, is, for me.
Faced with the idea that I might one day forget that he really loved to warm his feet (frigid) up with mine (warm) in bed or the way he always presented his grocery store purchases to me like they were prizes from a treasure hunt, I'd rather stop time now and keep every knife of pain. I've said recently that I feel stuck. I've also said that the farther away we get from October, the farther away he feels. Panicked, stuck, drifting, healing... None is better than the others and I find that thinking about it causes me to feel like I can barely breathe.
I work in a high school. I went to high school. The usual stint is four years which is longer than the length of time we were married. I lost him three years and three months to the day after I married him which is shorter than the blip of time I was a high school student. How is that for cruelty?
So since I'm over 30, high school was about half my life ago. Think about what you remember from high school. Are those memories clear? Are they only brought to mind by a rare scent or song? Are they fresh and present in your daily thoughts or are they faded and worn, sparked by a few old pictures? Mine are the latter. I see pictures of myself from high school and occasionally I don't recognize that person. I don't remember sitting at that restaurant or owning that sweatshirt. Some of the long lost friends in these photos are merely familiar faces without easily recalled names. Now there are the stories, the special nights, the events you relive in your mind over and over. That vision, those friends, those experiences are still with me, but the day-to-day of being in high school is gone. I am losing what it felt like. When I was there, I thought it was intense and forever. But now? I'm sure if I went back there the building would feel small and the smell would be unrecognizable.
Certainly, it is absurd to compare my marriage to my high school career in many ways, but in length of time? I can't stop myself. What if I can't remember my every day with Matt in 15 years? I cannot bear it. I've been so focused on worry for Daphne who won't remember her own experiences with her dad that I haven't stopped to worry about my own memories turning into old glory day stories. He is not just some old boyfriend, boiled down to the five stories your friends hear whenever his name is conjured. But like an old boyfriend, my memories created with him are finite. The pictures are already no longer current. So how do I make sure I save each experience and not just the photos? And not just the special stories. How can you file away the millions of seemingly unmemorable pieces of a life?
I want to remember how he made a goofy and dramatic face when he had the sniffles. He used one of those protein shake bottles with the metal ball inside about six hundred times a day and the sound drove me nuts. His handwriting - he always hated it. His tooth that overlapped just a little in the front and only from certain angles. All of his made up lyrics to real pop songs. That time when we had a big argument before he stormed off to work, only to come back after having driven all the way there so he could hug me and then hash it out even though he would be late. The way he put on Daphne's diaper cream far too thin and not nearly enough. The way the skin between his forefinger and his thumb was always dry and how his eyes crinkled when he open-mouth smiled at our baby's every word. How it felt to just sit on the couch near him even if we weren't talking or touching and how Daphne and I both went straight for the laundry room entrance to greet him when we heard the garage door lift. I want to remember these things, but not just in this list. Writing the list may have ruined them already - now they are trophy stories, the highlights of a life that can never actually add up to everything that he was, is, for me.
Faced with the idea that I might one day forget that he really loved to warm his feet (frigid) up with mine (warm) in bed or the way he always presented his grocery store purchases to me like they were prizes from a treasure hunt, I'd rather stop time now and keep every knife of pain. I've said recently that I feel stuck. I've also said that the farther away we get from October, the farther away he feels. Panicked, stuck, drifting, healing... None is better than the others and I find that thinking about it causes me to feel like I can barely breathe.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Stone
Yesterday afternoon, in the middle of my very safe work day, I got an email from the funeral home director informing me that Matt's gravestone had been placed in the garden. The garden. Gravestone.
I actually had to design it. Like the plans for a house or a commissioned piece of art, they asked me for my vision and there was a series of back and forth emails, proofs, confirmations, etc. I am 30 and I have already designed my husband's gravestone. I held his hand while he died. I watched them close the casket. I designed his gravestone. These are the things of nightmares.
I want to see it, make sure they didn't screw it up, be close to something I can look at that represents him. Now that I know it is actually there, I can't stop thinking about visiting it, but I just can't do it yet. With my close friends, I think I spill a lot of information about myself - maybe too much. With anyone outside that circle, I gather lately that I must seem a little guarded. This blog is certainly the exception. I have no idea who reads it, but sending it out into the world seems to take a little weight out of my situation. But being a private griever, as I have always known I am, doesn't really seem to match up with going to a public garden to visit. Maybe it's just too unreal that this is my life, maybe visiting his grave makes me feel like I am now just a cliche, or maybe I'm worried someone else will ruin my moment with him. Maybe I'm worried I won't feel any different than I do now, on my couch, staring at the Direct TV screen saver bouncing around the television screen. I worry that when I go there it is just going to be me, full of sorrow, in the grass, staring at a stone. What I want to feel is how I felt when he would make me feel better...about anything... just by being near.
I tried to make the stone represent him, but how do you embody your most important person, your biggest loss, your happiest moments in a few symbols? Not possible. With no other choices but to think it through or draw out the painful process by avoiding it, I chose a fleur de lis because he loved them after living in New Orleans. The metal clock in our living room is textured with them. We bought a New Orleans flour de lis ornament for our Christmas tree when we were on our honeymoon. He gravitated toward them always. I have recently learned that the fleur de lis is also a sign of resilience which is nice to know. On either side of the symbol I asked them to place three horizontal stripes. The designer found this a strange request, but I don't care. The stone is black marble and the etching is white. These horizontal lines are my subtle nod to referee stripes because it was his biggest and most passionate pursuit outside of family. I really hope he would have liked it. I really hope I am strong enough to carry myself to see it soon.
Tomorrow marks three terrible months of missing him.
Tomorrow marks three terrible months of missing him.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Assignments
I have given myself two assignments recently. Maybe it's the teacher in me. Maybe I'm weary of feeling hopeless. Maybe I'm just clinging to anything that keeps me from the brink of sorrow.
Assignment #1: I recently found myself at a coffee shop for 14 whole minutes of unscheduled time before my next errand. Without a toddler in tow. I cannot remember the last time this happened. So while I'm currently in the middle of a book that has actually been able to capture my scattered attention for more than ten minutes, I chose not to get it out. Instead, I ordered my favorite cup of black coffee and an apricot rugelach - my old standby. I sat in my favorite old spot in the window. I checked the time and for five whole minutes, I forced myself to unplug from my phone, iPad, other people, and most of my brain. For five whole minutes, I made myself think of only Matt's goodness. I watched the steam rising from the tops of downtown buildings and thought of him and his beautiful soul - everyday memories only a wife would be able to recall. I tried not to think about how much I missed that goodness and just moved on to another of his wonderful qualities when I veered toward a negative thought. It was a difficult exercise, not because I lacked for things to think about - but because I do miss him so much. For about 24 hours, I felt a little stronger. Now that I write this, the sadness is taking over once again. Maybe it's time for me to practice my homework.
Assignment #2: By chance, I found information online about a website and movement called 365grateful. In the spirit of the project and to force myself to really appreciate the positive in my life each day - more than just be aware - I have decided to document my gratitude. I am already aware that I am so lucky, but this project will force me to examine and focus in a way that is proving difficult for me lately. I have chosen Instagram as my vehicle, so I plan to post once every day about something positive from the previous day. I will reflect on my last 24 hours and find the good - even on the bad days. I'm on day 4/365. If interested, my Instagram name is fosley.
Assignment #1: I recently found myself at a coffee shop for 14 whole minutes of unscheduled time before my next errand. Without a toddler in tow. I cannot remember the last time this happened. So while I'm currently in the middle of a book that has actually been able to capture my scattered attention for more than ten minutes, I chose not to get it out. Instead, I ordered my favorite cup of black coffee and an apricot rugelach - my old standby. I sat in my favorite old spot in the window. I checked the time and for five whole minutes, I forced myself to unplug from my phone, iPad, other people, and most of my brain. For five whole minutes, I made myself think of only Matt's goodness. I watched the steam rising from the tops of downtown buildings and thought of him and his beautiful soul - everyday memories only a wife would be able to recall. I tried not to think about how much I missed that goodness and just moved on to another of his wonderful qualities when I veered toward a negative thought. It was a difficult exercise, not because I lacked for things to think about - but because I do miss him so much. For about 24 hours, I felt a little stronger. Now that I write this, the sadness is taking over once again. Maybe it's time for me to practice my homework.
Assignment #2: By chance, I found information online about a website and movement called 365grateful. In the spirit of the project and to force myself to really appreciate the positive in my life each day - more than just be aware - I have decided to document my gratitude. I am already aware that I am so lucky, but this project will force me to examine and focus in a way that is proving difficult for me lately. I have chosen Instagram as my vehicle, so I plan to post once every day about something positive from the previous day. I will reflect on my last 24 hours and find the good - even on the bad days. I'm on day 4/365. If interested, my Instagram name is fosley.
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