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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.