Tonight we'd wait until midnight and open our presents. She, of course, would have just gone down my wish list on Amazon.com, which she would have made me update late in November. She also would have banned me from buying anything for myself two weeks before my birthday.
We would have set a spending limit, and I would have gone over it. I probably would've gotten her a laptop this year; hers is getting way outdated. She would've bought the cats some toys (don't worry, I got them some for her).
We'd sit up for a while -- we'd be too tired to do anything physical -- watching whatever Christmas movie was on TV, then we'd go to bed.
Tomorrow, presuming she still did tech support for AOL, we'd have made a little holiday meal, watch "A Christmas Story" on TBS and played with our new toys before we went to work. She'd be commenting about expecting an extra dose of stupid callers because it being Christmas (so there'd be people trying to use AOL for the first time on their new computers) and it being a full moon (because it always brought out the loonies).
Like every Christmas I spent with her, it would've been the best one ever.
Merry Christmas, sweetie.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
Addendum to the Engagement Story
Remember I said I thought Deb wanted to avoid a public spectacle? The next day, Deb and I went to Gunther Toody's, one of those cheesy 1950's-style diners, for my birthday lunch before she had to go to work. She flashed the ring to the waitress, who then promptly told the other waiters and waitresses, and the next thing you know we're wearing paper hats and they're singing to us.
Strangely enough, I don't remember Deb flashing the ring any more after that.
Strangely enough, I don't remember Deb flashing the ring any more after that.
The Engagement Story
I've told a short version of the engagement story, but I haven't told the long version.
This was in 2003. We had been living together for a few months and I realized that I was enjoying coming home to Deb (and after getting enough hints that she wanted a wedding ring), I decided, what the hell, let's get engaged.
(Later, of course, the whole thing triggered a massive panic attack and nearly broke us up, but I didn't know that. At the moment, it seemed like a good idea.)
Like every man in the world, I knew nothing about jewelry, but lately Deb had been teasing me with jewelry ads, pointing to rings in them and saying, "That'd make a perfect engagement ring." I acted nervous whenever she did it, pretending to squirm. So I took one of the jewelry ads we had gotten in the mail and left it on the dining table. She picked it up, opened it and pointed to a ring with a heart-shaped diamond in it, to tease me. I remembered which one it was and went to the jewelers and got her that ring.
I was planning to take her to Olive Garden on my birthday, which was also the day we met and the day we celebrated as our anniversary. I figured I would wait til we got there, and when the waitress asked us if we knew what we wanted, I'd say something like, "Yes, I do," and get down on my knee with the ring.
The only problems were Deb had to work on my birthday, and I knew she'd hate a public spectacle. So we were going to go on Dec. 7, the day before my birthday. This is, of course, also Pearl Harbor Day, and I figured, OK, if the marriage didn't work out, I could always blame it on getting engaged on Pearl Harbor Day.
The 7th was a Sunday. I was still willing to do the public spectacle thing, but I finally decided I couldn't embarrass her. We were having a late morning. She was downstairs fixing coffee, and I was upstairs in the bedroom trying to compose a speech. I figured out what to say, and the time was as right as it was going to get, so I called down to her, telling her to get upstairs, there was something I needed to ask her. As she was climbing the stairs, I got on my knee in the doorway and held the ring box.
She rounded the corner and saw me. She realized what was happening. Before I could say anything, she came up to me, looked down and with tears beginning to form in her eyes, said, "Yes."
I sighed and told her, "I haven't asked the question yet!"
This was in 2003. We had been living together for a few months and I realized that I was enjoying coming home to Deb (and after getting enough hints that she wanted a wedding ring), I decided, what the hell, let's get engaged.
(Later, of course, the whole thing triggered a massive panic attack and nearly broke us up, but I didn't know that. At the moment, it seemed like a good idea.)
Like every man in the world, I knew nothing about jewelry, but lately Deb had been teasing me with jewelry ads, pointing to rings in them and saying, "That'd make a perfect engagement ring." I acted nervous whenever she did it, pretending to squirm. So I took one of the jewelry ads we had gotten in the mail and left it on the dining table. She picked it up, opened it and pointed to a ring with a heart-shaped diamond in it, to tease me. I remembered which one it was and went to the jewelers and got her that ring.
I was planning to take her to Olive Garden on my birthday, which was also the day we met and the day we celebrated as our anniversary. I figured I would wait til we got there, and when the waitress asked us if we knew what we wanted, I'd say something like, "Yes, I do," and get down on my knee with the ring.
The only problems were Deb had to work on my birthday, and I knew she'd hate a public spectacle. So we were going to go on Dec. 7, the day before my birthday. This is, of course, also Pearl Harbor Day, and I figured, OK, if the marriage didn't work out, I could always blame it on getting engaged on Pearl Harbor Day.
The 7th was a Sunday. I was still willing to do the public spectacle thing, but I finally decided I couldn't embarrass her. We were having a late morning. She was downstairs fixing coffee, and I was upstairs in the bedroom trying to compose a speech. I figured out what to say, and the time was as right as it was going to get, so I called down to her, telling her to get upstairs, there was something I needed to ask her. As she was climbing the stairs, I got on my knee in the doorway and held the ring box.
She rounded the corner and saw me. She realized what was happening. Before I could say anything, she came up to me, looked down and with tears beginning to form in her eyes, said, "Yes."
I sighed and told her, "I haven't asked the question yet!"
What I said exactly I can't remember because I was really nervous, but it was along the lines of her making me happier than I ever thought I would ever be or ever deserve to be, and I wanted the chance to make her happy for the rest of her life. She said yes again, and I gave her the ring.
We got dressed and went to Olive Garden, where she proceeded to flash the ring to everyone, from the person taking names for the waiting list, to the waitress, to the food servers, to the other guests.
And I was afraid she didn't want me to make a scene?
Frankly, I was getting embarrassed, if only because I had gotten her the half-carat ring. I told her so, but she told me she was so happy with it she didn't care how big it was, and she kept showing it off like it was as big as her fist.
At the time, I was cringing, but now it makes me happy that I was able to make her that happy. After that, she always liked to tell the story about how I tricked her into picking her engagement ring, and even when she got sick and the ring couldn't fit on her swollen hand, she put it on a chain and wore it.
I had the ring put in the box with her ashes.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
The question
Still haven't forgiven cartoonist Tom Batiuk for having Lisa Moore die of breast cancer (and for, if anything, making it too abstract ... being taken away by a man in a "Phantom of the Opera" mask?), but I am impressed by one thing.
He announced this year that after Lisa died the strip would flash forward a decade so he wouldn't have to spend time showing the characters, especially her husband Les, mourning. I thought that was understandable. Being well acquainted with mourning, I can tell you it's not fun to experience or to watch. If anything is less promising for comic-strip material than terminal cancer, it's got to be grief.
He flash-forwarded the strip, but is spending the first few days flashing back to the period right after Lisa's death and how Les handled it.
Having been there, I can say Batiuk is dead on. He has Les say that right after Lisa died, he threw himself into the arrangements in order to have something, anything, to think about other than "Did I do everything I could?"
That, I can tell you, is the first thought you have. While Deb was dying, I put in a call to her oncologist, to ask whether there was any last-minute thing to try to save her, to see if he had done everything he could do.
In typical medical-office efficiency, my call wasn't returned until after Deb was gone. When I had him on the phone, though, that wasn't my question anymore.
I asked him if I had done everything I could do.
I got the answer from him I expected, about the cancer being too far gone for treatment, about even he was surprised how quickly she had gone, about there being nothing anyone could do.
I did preoccupy myself after Deb died, mostly with work. Being short-staffed was kind of a blessing because I got to pick up overtime shifts. Even now I take ones I can get, feeling guilty when I can't. I know a lot of it is trying to keep that question away.
I know the cancer was virulent, and I know short of becoming a doctor and finding a cure for cancer there is nothing I could have done.
But ...
I wonder what would have happened if I had been more of an asshole and camped out at Moffitt Cancer Center and gotten them to see Deb even though they told me that they had no room.
I wonder what would have happened if after she told me the lump was growing I took her to the emergency room and forced them to give her a biopsy a couple of weeks earlier.
I wonder, I wonder, I wonder.
The questions don't plague me as much as they used to. I suppose that's part of acceptance. Still, I remember how real the questions were to me.
Everyone will have to face this grief in their lives, yet no one gets any preparation for it. No one tells you in school, or at work, or at church, that someday you will have to face a loss that will cut you off at the knees and leave you on the ground.
It might be your parents. It may be a sibling. It could be a spouse. But someday, someone who is at the center of your world (and it's probably more than one person) will die, and you will have to deal with unimaginable grief, pain beyond measure and, of course, the question.
But really, what could they tell you about how you will handle it? Some people put their lives back together in a few months; some never get over it.
Still, a little warning would be nice. Maybe they could put it on milk cartons or something.
He announced this year that after Lisa died the strip would flash forward a decade so he wouldn't have to spend time showing the characters, especially her husband Les, mourning. I thought that was understandable. Being well acquainted with mourning, I can tell you it's not fun to experience or to watch. If anything is less promising for comic-strip material than terminal cancer, it's got to be grief.
He flash-forwarded the strip, but is spending the first few days flashing back to the period right after Lisa's death and how Les handled it.
Having been there, I can say Batiuk is dead on. He has Les say that right after Lisa died, he threw himself into the arrangements in order to have something, anything, to think about other than "Did I do everything I could?"
That, I can tell you, is the first thought you have. While Deb was dying, I put in a call to her oncologist, to ask whether there was any last-minute thing to try to save her, to see if he had done everything he could do.
In typical medical-office efficiency, my call wasn't returned until after Deb was gone. When I had him on the phone, though, that wasn't my question anymore.
I asked him if I had done everything I could do.
I got the answer from him I expected, about the cancer being too far gone for treatment, about even he was surprised how quickly she had gone, about there being nothing anyone could do.
I did preoccupy myself after Deb died, mostly with work. Being short-staffed was kind of a blessing because I got to pick up overtime shifts. Even now I take ones I can get, feeling guilty when I can't. I know a lot of it is trying to keep that question away.
I know the cancer was virulent, and I know short of becoming a doctor and finding a cure for cancer there is nothing I could have done.
But ...
I wonder what would have happened if I had been more of an asshole and camped out at Moffitt Cancer Center and gotten them to see Deb even though they told me that they had no room.
I wonder what would have happened if after she told me the lump was growing I took her to the emergency room and forced them to give her a biopsy a couple of weeks earlier.
I wonder, I wonder, I wonder.
The questions don't plague me as much as they used to. I suppose that's part of acceptance. Still, I remember how real the questions were to me.
Everyone will have to face this grief in their lives, yet no one gets any preparation for it. No one tells you in school, or at work, or at church, that someday you will have to face a loss that will cut you off at the knees and leave you on the ground.
It might be your parents. It may be a sibling. It could be a spouse. But someday, someone who is at the center of your world (and it's probably more than one person) will die, and you will have to deal with unimaginable grief, pain beyond measure and, of course, the question.
But really, what could they tell you about how you will handle it? Some people put their lives back together in a few months; some never get over it.
Still, a little warning would be nice. Maybe they could put it on milk cartons or something.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Art imitates life
I didn't read "Funky Winkerbean" while I was growing up. The Yuma Daily Sun only had about 20 comics, and they were the basics ... Peanuts, Beetle Bailey, Blondie and, for some reason, Rex Morgan.
I finally caught onto it about the time Deb got sick and I was looking up sites about breast cancer. Turns out one of the major characters in the strip, Lisa, had had it and recovered. Pretty inspiring stuff.
Earlier this year, the artist, Tom Batiuk, had Lisa have a recurrence, and at first it looked like she was going to be all right. There was one strip (I'd print it here, but I don't want to get into legal trouble) where, after she was told she was cancer-free, she's lying in bed, and at first she looks confused, then relieved, and then she's asleep. I wrote Batiuk an e-mail, thanking him for presenting the ending Deb didn't get in real life.
A few weeks later, he revealed in the strip that the test results were switched and Lisa's cancer had, in fact, spread. I felt like writing another e-mail calling Batiuk every name in the Oxford Obscene English Dictionary.
Since then, it's been downhill for Lisa, and there's been news stories that she will, in fact, die before this month is over. From the look of this week's strips, it may even be this week.
I really shouldn't be reading the strip at this point. After all, I've lived through a cancer death, and I really shouldn't want to read about it. But I AM reading it. Reluctantly, but I think I need to read it.
As anyone who has read what I wrote about Deb's last few days knows, I said I didn't know what was going on when it was happening.
By watching someone else go through it, even a fictional character, I realize I should've known what was going on, but I was in near-complete denial.
There was a moment when, after the doctor told us the test results about Deb's cancer spreading, and we were left alone to decide whether to give up treatments and call hospice, or ... well, there really wasn't a choice. Deb was too weak for any treatment.
It was just me and her, and she had said, "I guess that means no cruise."
In my mind, I knew what we had just been told and what it meant. That Deb was going to die. My heart, though, wasn't going to give up.
That was when I became the optimist, the one who said she was going to get better and go back into treatment and be all right. I wrapped myself up in that fantasy, and it wasn't until the hospice nurse told me Monday morning that she was dying that I let it go.
In retrospect, I wish I hadn't done it. I wish I had forced myself that Friday to be aware of how little time there was. I wish we had talked about what was about to happen. I think she didn't want to upset me, so she didn't bring it up. And by Sunday it was really too late because she had lost coherence.
I know it was a defense mechanism and I shouldn't feel badly about it because that's what I needed to do to get through the trauma, but I do feel badly. I also know what's done is done and regretting it won't change it.
On the other hand, the last eight hours or so, from the time I was forced to deal with what was going on until the moment she died, is, strangely, one of the most precious experiences I've ever had. I was completely aware of how short our time was, how important every moment was. That's why I'm proud that I spent that time talking to her, telling her I loved her, retelling the stories of our life together, reading her "Winnie the Pooh" and telling her it was OK for her to go.
Maybe that's why I feel badly. Like every other experience in my life with Deb, I wish that experience had gone on longer as well.
Now the optimist in me wants to see Lisa come out of it, like I wanted Deb to. The realist, however, knows what's happening this time, because I've seen it before.
This time, I have no illusions.
I finally caught onto it about the time Deb got sick and I was looking up sites about breast cancer. Turns out one of the major characters in the strip, Lisa, had had it and recovered. Pretty inspiring stuff.
Earlier this year, the artist, Tom Batiuk, had Lisa have a recurrence, and at first it looked like she was going to be all right. There was one strip (I'd print it here, but I don't want to get into legal trouble) where, after she was told she was cancer-free, she's lying in bed, and at first she looks confused, then relieved, and then she's asleep. I wrote Batiuk an e-mail, thanking him for presenting the ending Deb didn't get in real life.
A few weeks later, he revealed in the strip that the test results were switched and Lisa's cancer had, in fact, spread. I felt like writing another e-mail calling Batiuk every name in the Oxford Obscene English Dictionary.
Since then, it's been downhill for Lisa, and there's been news stories that she will, in fact, die before this month is over. From the look of this week's strips, it may even be this week.
I really shouldn't be reading the strip at this point. After all, I've lived through a cancer death, and I really shouldn't want to read about it. But I AM reading it. Reluctantly, but I think I need to read it.
As anyone who has read what I wrote about Deb's last few days knows, I said I didn't know what was going on when it was happening.
By watching someone else go through it, even a fictional character, I realize I should've known what was going on, but I was in near-complete denial.
There was a moment when, after the doctor told us the test results about Deb's cancer spreading, and we were left alone to decide whether to give up treatments and call hospice, or ... well, there really wasn't a choice. Deb was too weak for any treatment.
It was just me and her, and she had said, "I guess that means no cruise."
In my mind, I knew what we had just been told and what it meant. That Deb was going to die. My heart, though, wasn't going to give up.
That was when I became the optimist, the one who said she was going to get better and go back into treatment and be all right. I wrapped myself up in that fantasy, and it wasn't until the hospice nurse told me Monday morning that she was dying that I let it go.
In retrospect, I wish I hadn't done it. I wish I had forced myself that Friday to be aware of how little time there was. I wish we had talked about what was about to happen. I think she didn't want to upset me, so she didn't bring it up. And by Sunday it was really too late because she had lost coherence.
I know it was a defense mechanism and I shouldn't feel badly about it because that's what I needed to do to get through the trauma, but I do feel badly. I also know what's done is done and regretting it won't change it.
On the other hand, the last eight hours or so, from the time I was forced to deal with what was going on until the moment she died, is, strangely, one of the most precious experiences I've ever had. I was completely aware of how short our time was, how important every moment was. That's why I'm proud that I spent that time talking to her, telling her I loved her, retelling the stories of our life together, reading her "Winnie the Pooh" and telling her it was OK for her to go.
Maybe that's why I feel badly. Like every other experience in my life with Deb, I wish that experience had gone on longer as well.
Now the optimist in me wants to see Lisa come out of it, like I wanted Deb to. The realist, however, knows what's happening this time, because I've seen it before.
This time, I have no illusions.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Twelve months ago
Twelve months ago, I was married to the most beautiful girl in the world. She would tell me sometimes that I needed to get my eyes checked, because she knew she wasn't a supermodel. I told her that even if I was the only person in the world that knew she was the most beautiful girl in the world, that just meant I was special.
Twelve months ago, I was happier than I ever thought I was going to be. I had more or less convinced myself that I was never going to find love, that all the things I had dreamed love could be would never live up to my expectations, that I would either end up alone or with someone I had just settled for, or who had settled for me. I was wrong on all counts.
Twelve months ago, I was optimistic. Worried, yes. But my wife was home from the hospital, and I was sure she was going to regain her strength, get back into chemotherapy, and we'd have a happy ending.
Twelve months ago, I was in love with the bravest girl in the world, who knew what was coming and was more worried about me than about herself.
Twelve months ago, I had a hand to hold onto.
Twelve months ago, I had someone to spend the holidays with.
Twelve months ago, I had someone to kiss.
Twelve months ago, my wife died.
Today, I am thinking about her.
Today, I am trying to keep my promise to her to go on, to live my life.
Today, I am trying to keep an open mind about falling in love again, as ridiculous a notion as I have ever held.
Today, I have two crazy cats who were her joy and keep me from coming home to an empty house, who I think were part of her plan to help me get through life without her
Today, I am wishing she was here, but knowing if the options were her still having cancer and suffering or being where she is and beyond all that, the choice is clear.
Today, I am remembering her laugh, her eyes, her smile. I am not remembering her scar, her disease, her last moments.
Today, I am honored that of all the people in the world, I was the one who was blessed enough to be her husband. To hold her hand. To kiss her.
Today, I will take some helium balloons and tie little notes to them that read, "I love you." And I will let them go. And maybe someone somewhere will find one of these notes and wonder what possessed someone to do it.
And you will know what it was.
Twelve months ago, I was happier than I ever thought I was going to be. I had more or less convinced myself that I was never going to find love, that all the things I had dreamed love could be would never live up to my expectations, that I would either end up alone or with someone I had just settled for, or who had settled for me. I was wrong on all counts.
Twelve months ago, I was optimistic. Worried, yes. But my wife was home from the hospital, and I was sure she was going to regain her strength, get back into chemotherapy, and we'd have a happy ending.
Twelve months ago, I was in love with the bravest girl in the world, who knew what was coming and was more worried about me than about herself.
Twelve months ago, I had a hand to hold onto.
Twelve months ago, I had someone to spend the holidays with.
Twelve months ago, I had someone to kiss.
Twelve months ago, my wife died.
Today, I am thinking about her.
Today, I am trying to keep my promise to her to go on, to live my life.
Today, I am trying to keep an open mind about falling in love again, as ridiculous a notion as I have ever held.
Today, I have two crazy cats who were her joy and keep me from coming home to an empty house, who I think were part of her plan to help me get through life without her
Today, I am wishing she was here, but knowing if the options were her still having cancer and suffering or being where she is and beyond all that, the choice is clear.
Today, I am remembering her laugh, her eyes, her smile. I am not remembering her scar, her disease, her last moments.
Today, I am honored that of all the people in the world, I was the one who was blessed enough to be her husband. To hold her hand. To kiss her.
Today, I will take some helium balloons and tie little notes to them that read, "I love you." And I will let them go. And maybe someone somewhere will find one of these notes and wonder what possessed someone to do it.
And you will know what it was.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
The butterfly
On my daily bike ride, I see butterflies. Usually one will fly around me as I'm doing my laps at the park, and usually it's a monarch.
Call me crazy (you won't be the first), but I think it's the same one every day.
I think about it a lot. I think about how it started out as a lowly creature that underwent a transformation and now is a being of beauty.
It reminds me of Deb.
I'm not saying she's the butterfly. If reincarnation is the way of the afterlife, she'd want to come back as a cat or a tiger. She might even want to come back as a bird so she can crap all over her first husband. But she never cared for insects.
But I can see her sending butterflies my way. She knows I'm big on omens.
Thursday was her birthday. I bought a birthday balloon and taped a little note to it. "Happy birthday. I miss you more than I can say. Love, Tim." I took it to the park and let it go. I watched it clear the trees and drift into the clouds until I couldn't see it anymore. Then I started my ride.
A couple of laps in, I saw the butterfly.
Call me crazy (you won't be the first), but I think it's the same one every day.
I think about it a lot. I think about how it started out as a lowly creature that underwent a transformation and now is a being of beauty.
It reminds me of Deb.
I'm not saying she's the butterfly. If reincarnation is the way of the afterlife, she'd want to come back as a cat or a tiger. She might even want to come back as a bird so she can crap all over her first husband. But she never cared for insects.
But I can see her sending butterflies my way. She knows I'm big on omens.
Thursday was her birthday. I bought a birthday balloon and taped a little note to it. "Happy birthday. I miss you more than I can say. Love, Tim." I took it to the park and let it go. I watched it clear the trees and drift into the clouds until I couldn't see it anymore. Then I started my ride.
A couple of laps in, I saw the butterfly.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Happy Birthday!
Sweetie,
Happy birthday! I miss you more than I can say.
With all the love I possess,
Tim
p.s. The kitties say, "Meow."
Happy birthday! I miss you more than I can say.
With all the love I possess,
Tim
p.s. The kitties say, "Meow."
Friday, July 20, 2007
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
The worst of times, the best of times
So I was at hanging out at home one night when the phone rang. It was Deb. We had only been dating a couple of months at this point.
She sounded awful. She wanted me to come over because she had been puking all night and she wanted to go to the emergency room.
I raced over. When I got there, she looked ragged. Dark circles around her eyes, stringy hair and ... well, she smelled.
The effort to get up to open the door brought on more nausea, so I helped her into the bathroom and stood by as she puked some more. She kept apologizing for how she looked and smelled. I told her I knew what I was getting into when she called, that I didn't expect her to be all dolled up or anything.
She grabbed a plastic grocery bag in case she puked some more, and we headed to the E.R. It was a slow night there, and we were only there for about three hours. They diagnosed it as food poisoning (ironically, Deb had been doing temp work at the hospital and had eaten lunch there, so the same hospital that made her sick was now telling her how to get better). They prescribed some anti-nausea medication and sent her home. It was about 1 in the morning by then.
I took her up to her place and tucked her in, then went to get her prescription filled at the 24-hour Walgreens. While I was waiting, I went to a nearby supermarket and bought her some saltine crackers and Gatorade, my usual anti-nausea prescription. Then I went back to her place and sat with her for a while, then went home.
Pretty cruddy night all around, sure. But I remember it for this reason:
Deb said that was the night she realized she loved me.
Not bad for three hours' work.
She sounded awful. She wanted me to come over because she had been puking all night and she wanted to go to the emergency room.
I raced over. When I got there, she looked ragged. Dark circles around her eyes, stringy hair and ... well, she smelled.
The effort to get up to open the door brought on more nausea, so I helped her into the bathroom and stood by as she puked some more. She kept apologizing for how she looked and smelled. I told her I knew what I was getting into when she called, that I didn't expect her to be all dolled up or anything.
She grabbed a plastic grocery bag in case she puked some more, and we headed to the E.R. It was a slow night there, and we were only there for about three hours. They diagnosed it as food poisoning (ironically, Deb had been doing temp work at the hospital and had eaten lunch there, so the same hospital that made her sick was now telling her how to get better). They prescribed some anti-nausea medication and sent her home. It was about 1 in the morning by then.
I took her up to her place and tucked her in, then went to get her prescription filled at the 24-hour Walgreens. While I was waiting, I went to a nearby supermarket and bought her some saltine crackers and Gatorade, my usual anti-nausea prescription. Then I went back to her place and sat with her for a while, then went home.
Pretty cruddy night all around, sure. But I remember it for this reason:
Deb said that was the night she realized she loved me.
Not bad for three hours' work.
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Survivor
I am a cancer survivor.
No, I didn't have the chemicals pumped through my veins, but I went through chemotherapy.
No, I didn't have radiation shot at my chest, but I went through radiation therapy.
No, I didn't take the drug cocktails, but I went through drug treatment.
I held Deb's hand through the whole thing. I gave her as much of my strength as I could. When she was in pain, I comforted her. When she was in need, I attended to her. When cancer took her away, I felt the loss.
And I'm still here.
I won't accept congratulations for it, though. Congratulations are for those lucky enough to have cancer visited on them and survived. Congratulations are for those who stand by their loved ones and have them to hold when it's all over.
I've had people tell me how brave and strong I was to go through this thing with Deb, how others might have run away. Even Deb would tell me that, and she would thank me for it.
I never accepted her thanks or anyone's applause. That would have been wrong.
I know there are people who have run away and abandoned those who love them at the time they needed them the most. I've heard enough horror stories from being in the news business to know there are people like that.
For me, though, it was never a choice. I loved Deb, and for me to be anywhere else but by her side was unthinkable. Being with her was as necessary for my survival as it was for her to be with me. You can't thank a person for doing what was in their best interest.
The only title or honor I will ever accept is that of survivor. I went through the worst thing that I will ever through, and I'm still here. I don't fear what comes next, because nothing can be as bad as what I've been through. In fact, chances are it'll be better.
I'm a survivor.
No, I didn't have the chemicals pumped through my veins, but I went through chemotherapy.
No, I didn't have radiation shot at my chest, but I went through radiation therapy.
No, I didn't take the drug cocktails, but I went through drug treatment.
I held Deb's hand through the whole thing. I gave her as much of my strength as I could. When she was in pain, I comforted her. When she was in need, I attended to her. When cancer took her away, I felt the loss.
And I'm still here.
I won't accept congratulations for it, though. Congratulations are for those lucky enough to have cancer visited on them and survived. Congratulations are for those who stand by their loved ones and have them to hold when it's all over.
I've had people tell me how brave and strong I was to go through this thing with Deb, how others might have run away. Even Deb would tell me that, and she would thank me for it.
I never accepted her thanks or anyone's applause. That would have been wrong.
I know there are people who have run away and abandoned those who love them at the time they needed them the most. I've heard enough horror stories from being in the news business to know there are people like that.
For me, though, it was never a choice. I loved Deb, and for me to be anywhere else but by her side was unthinkable. Being with her was as necessary for my survival as it was for her to be with me. You can't thank a person for doing what was in their best interest.
The only title or honor I will ever accept is that of survivor. I went through the worst thing that I will ever through, and I'm still here. I don't fear what comes next, because nothing can be as bad as what I've been through. In fact, chances are it'll be better.
I'm a survivor.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Promises
If I had a blog about my father, this would go there. Since I don't, this will have to do.
My father would have turned 89 on July 7. He was 48 when I was born, and back then it was still unusual to be a first-time father when you were that old. It didn't make for a typical father/son relationship. Most of the time, people mistook him for my grandfather. We didn't play catch or go fishing. He worked all the time.Besides that, he wasn't an easy person to get to know. He didn't talk about his past too much because he was unhappy with it. Even my mother doesn't know all that much about it, and she was married to him for 30 years.
What I do know was he was first-generation Chinese, born in Canton. He came to the U.S. when he was 8 or so, when Chinese immigrants were not welcomed. He came in on a iffy passport that said he was 11. His father already was here, and he sent for his sons.
As little as I know about my father's past, I know even less about my grandfather. I found an old newspaper article in Yuma about his dying. The way my father told it, he had gotten drunk, cut his foot badly and bled to death because he couldn't get help.
My father followed in his footsteps in one respect: he was an alcoholic. He was a functional one, so he could get up in the morning and go to work as a meat cutter, but on his way home he'd buy a pint of whiskey and drink it all. Worst of all, he was an angry drunk. He didn't hit, but he would yell and curse. My sister got the worst of it because she's strong-willed while I just stayed out of the way. Again, this didn't make our relationship easier.
To top it all off, I was a pretty weird kid. I was bright, to be sure, but I was also, as the report cards put it, "super sensitive." I didn't like to be wrong, and took it badly when I was. I spent most of my time reading by myself. I didn't get into sports and I didn't make a lot of friends. At home, I liked to just be in my room, listening to music or, of course, reading. Again, not a relationship builder.
I don't mean to paint a picture of him as the world's worst father. He had his redeeming qualities. For one, he loved Christmas. He'd shout, "Ho-ho-ho, Merry Christmas! Jingle bells, jingle bells, Batman smells!" at 3 in the morning on Christmas day. It was never a matter of waiting til morning to open presents with us. When he started yelling, it was time to rip 'em open.
Sometimes he'd tell me he loved me. Not often, but he did. And when I taught myself how to read when I was 4, he trotted me down to the store where he worked and showed his co-workers by having me read the poster showing the cuts of meat. I knew he was proud of me.
But still, when I grew up I got out of the house as soon as I could. By that time, the drinking had caught up with him. He stumbled around a lot, finally using a cane and then a walker after he fell down too many times and broke a hip. He'd pee himself sitting in his chair. When he couldn't get the alcohol anymore, he stopped drinking, and became a little more lucid. But he was also mostly deaf, and you had to shout to talk to him.
Those last few years before he had the stroke and died were hard to bear. But it was during those years that I found the piece of my father that I carry with me to this day.
About a year before he died, he broke his hip again but refused to go to the hospital. I would come over and stay with him while my mother would go shopping. Mostly he'd just sleep, calling out when he wanted something to eat or drink or help to go to the bathroom.
One time when he called out, it wasn't for that. When I got back to the bedroom, he told me, "I want to tell you something."
What, I asked.
"Don't be afraid of living."
It was the first time he'd ever said anything like that to me.
"You spend too much time by yourself, living in your own head. You can't live life in your room. You have to go out your front door to do that."
I didn't know what to say.
"Promise me you won't be afraid of living."
I promised.
I don't carry many great memories of my father, but I carry that one.
There are three great promises I have made in my life. "Til death do you part," I fulfilled. I promised Deb on her deathbed that I would be OK, and I'm still working on that.
The promise I made to my father, though, is the one that's closest to my heart.
Monday, June 25, 2007
After the scream
It's been two weeks since the visit to Deb's grave. I think I'm ready to say there has been acceptance.
I tried talking to her once or twice, but she's not answering. I know she can hear me, but she and I know it's time to go beyond that kind of communication. She speaks to me through feelings and memories, not with her presence.
We continue to have a relationship, and there's no breaking that up. But I'm still here, and I have things to do, people to see and odd bits of poetry to write. And she knows it, so she's let me know it's time to go on. I'll see her on up the road.
I'll still write here. There are still stories to tell about Deb and me. But I'll be doing it less out of a sense of obligation than for pleasure. Thinking about her doesn't make me cry anymore. She never did anything that caused me pain while she was here, and that will always be true.
Thanks, Sweetie.
I tried talking to her once or twice, but she's not answering. I know she can hear me, but she and I know it's time to go beyond that kind of communication. She speaks to me through feelings and memories, not with her presence.
We continue to have a relationship, and there's no breaking that up. But I'm still here, and I have things to do, people to see and odd bits of poetry to write. And she knows it, so she's let me know it's time to go on. I'll see her on up the road.
I'll still write here. There are still stories to tell about Deb and me. But I'll be doing it less out of a sense of obligation than for pleasure. Thinking about her doesn't make me cry anymore. She never did anything that caused me pain while she was here, and that will always be true.
Thanks, Sweetie.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
The scream
There I was, standing over Deb's grave.
I was talking to her as I have been for the past nine months, telling her what I'd been doing, how the cats were doing, the usual things.
Then I read her tombstone.
It was the first time I had been there with the headstone in place. Seeing her name, her birthdate and the day she died in stone ... suddenly, it was real.
My wife is dead.
I don't know if I've been holding back as a defense mechanism, because I didn't want to truly face it, or if somewhere in my mind I was still hoping someone would tell me it's all been a horrible understanding, but I finally felt it click.
Deb's not coming back.
I started weeping. First a few sniffles, then a few tears, then full body heaves.
Then I screamed.
I didn't mean to scream. I just didn't know what else to do. There was no other way to express what I was feeling.
I don't know how to describe it except, and I don't mean this as a joke, it was like when Christopher Reeve screamed after Margot Kidder died in the first Superman movie.
It was a moment of total agony, and the only way I could let it out was a scream.
I went blind. I was in a rage. I put everything I had into that scream.
Then it stopped. I had nothing else to give. Or maybe I've exorcised the demon of grief that's been possessing me.
I won't say I felt better, but I did feel something resembling relief.
I don't feel Deb's presence any more. It's too early to say I've really let her go, but it's starting to feel that way. That's not to say I won't talk to her every now and then, or that she won't come to see me in my dreams, but I'm finally ready to say she's not here. And she's not going to be, except in my mind and spirit.
Everything has a price, and I guess the price I have to pay to move on with my life is to let her be a part of my past, and the best way to honor her is by making a future.
Perhaps this is acceptance.
Or perhaps just the echoes of a scream.
I was talking to her as I have been for the past nine months, telling her what I'd been doing, how the cats were doing, the usual things.
Then I read her tombstone.
It was the first time I had been there with the headstone in place. Seeing her name, her birthdate and the day she died in stone ... suddenly, it was real.
My wife is dead.
I don't know if I've been holding back as a defense mechanism, because I didn't want to truly face it, or if somewhere in my mind I was still hoping someone would tell me it's all been a horrible understanding, but I finally felt it click.
Deb's not coming back.
I started weeping. First a few sniffles, then a few tears, then full body heaves.
Then I screamed.
I didn't mean to scream. I just didn't know what else to do. There was no other way to express what I was feeling.
I don't know how to describe it except, and I don't mean this as a joke, it was like when Christopher Reeve screamed after Margot Kidder died in the first Superman movie.
It was a moment of total agony, and the only way I could let it out was a scream.
I went blind. I was in a rage. I put everything I had into that scream.
Then it stopped. I had nothing else to give. Or maybe I've exorcised the demon of grief that's been possessing me.
I won't say I felt better, but I did feel something resembling relief.
I don't feel Deb's presence any more. It's too early to say I've really let her go, but it's starting to feel that way. That's not to say I won't talk to her every now and then, or that she won't come to see me in my dreams, but I'm finally ready to say she's not here. And she's not going to be, except in my mind and spirit.
Everything has a price, and I guess the price I have to pay to move on with my life is to let her be a part of my past, and the best way to honor her is by making a future.
Perhaps this is acceptance.
Or perhaps just the echoes of a scream.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
The shrine
I have a shrine to Deb in a corner of the dining room. Seemed like a good place for one.
On the wall on top, of course, is THE photo. You can read about it here.
Beneath that is a photo of Deb with an elephant. She wrote a story about a circus when she was reporting in Miami, and she always talked about getting to ride the elephant. Going through her things, I found the negative of this shot of her reaching for the elephant's trunk. It was such a cool shot, I couldn't help getting a copy.
The Winnie the Pooh dolls were bought one by one. I bought most of them at Wal-Mart on the way home from work, then I'd surprise her with them. The Kanga doll I had to get on eBay, the Owl doll she bought herself at Disney World.
The Muppet Statler and Waldorf dolls were presents to me from her. She knew how much I like the Muppets, and I think she was eventually going to get me a whole set.
Under the Eeyore doll is a smaller Eeyore that's actually part of a hair scrunchy Deb liked to wear.
The toy Mini Coopers I got her for Christmas. She kept saying she wanted a Mini Cooper for Christmas, so I got her two. She got a third one from her mother, but it got lost.
The glasses cases have her glasses in them. Her wallet is in the coin bowl, along with her asthma huffer, the watch I gave her and, strangely enough, a bunch of coins.
The mug is from the last trip we took to Disney World. The thing next to it is a candle from Grand Turk that I bought on the cruise we were going to take together.
In the background you'll notice the sofa is in the process of being demolished by the cats. The process was started long ago by Boo Kitty. I figure it's a lost cause, so I let the cats go to town on it.
I suppose if I started dating I'd have to take it down or find a less-conspicuous place for it. For now, I usually sit on the floor across from it, look up at THE picture and tell her how my day went. And she listens. And all is right with the world.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
A random memory
The annual reunion of my mother's family is coming up next weekend. As far as these things go, it's usually a good time, watching the people who harbor deep-seated grudges against each other for 364 days a year put it aside for a couple of hours to have some chicken and potato salad.
Deb and I planned our wedding for the reunion weekend of 2004. We originally thought of doing it at the reunion itself, which was on a Saturday, but then we figured we'd surprise my mother and do it the day no one would have expected -- the day after. So on Saturday we just relaxed and had the aforementioned potato salad and chicken.
At one point, guitars were grabbed and singing commenced. That was a cue Deb could never resist.
Deb and I planned our wedding for the reunion weekend of 2004. We originally thought of doing it at the reunion itself, which was on a Saturday, but then we figured we'd surprise my mother and do it the day no one would have expected -- the day after. So on Saturday we just relaxed and had the aforementioned potato salad and chicken.
At one point, guitars were grabbed and singing commenced. That was a cue Deb could never resist.
She didn't know the words to too many of the country songs the guitar players knew, but she promised to learn some before the next reunion.
The next two years, she was too sick to go. This will be the first one I go to without her.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Not In The Mood
OK, it was Christmas 2001, our first real Christmas together (we met on Dec. 8, 2000, but if I had bought her a lot of presents that Christmas I would've looked creepy and desperate, and it was way too early in the relationship to show her that side of me).
We'd been dating for a year, but ... well, it was still in the "are-we-gonna-be-friends-or-lovers" stage, mostly because she still wasn't sure I was going to turn into a jerk like her first husband. We'd kissed and held hands, but as far as more ... OK, I was chicken-s**t. Things were going so well, I wasn't going to be the one to screw up everything by putting my hand up and going, "Pardon me, but are we going to get naked anytime soon?"
That first year was pretty strange, let me tell you.
Anyway, it was Christmas, and I didn't know what to get her. I mean, what do you get someone you like a lot but don't want to scare off by getting something TOO nice. Plus you don't want to overspend because if you buy them, say a nice watch, and they get you a T-shirt, you make them feel bad, and Deb was definitely making just enough money to get me a T-shirt.
So I was shopping in a toy store (she loved toys) and I saw mood rings.
For those of you too young to know, mood rings were a craze in the '70s. The stone in it is heat-sensitive or something and changes color, which is supposed to reflect your mood. When it's black you're feeling down, but when it turns green you're happy, or something like that.
I thought, perfect gift. Not by itself, mind you, but it's campy, it's fun, it's nostalgic, and I could even make the joke that she couldn't say I never got her jewelry because I had bought her a ring.
I even had an jewelry box I could put it in. And over the next couple of weeks, when she asked what I was getting her, I'd tell her things like it was small enough to fit in her hand and it was something she could wear.
In retrospect, I see the mistakes I made:
1. Women don't joke about jewelry.
2. When you show them a jewelry box, the one thing they don't want to see inside it is a mood ring.
3. Girlfriends don't joke about jewelry.
4. Don't save the joke gift for last.
5. Women, especially those who have just started to think, "This guy is THE ONE," don't f*****g joke about jewelry.
After that, she did joke with some friends that I had bought her a ring and let them think it was a big deal, and she did admit that it wasn't the right time for me to get her an engagement ring, but she also occasionally would pull out the "You gave me a MOOD ring" line whenever she wanted me to feel guilty.
And yes, she did get me a T-shirt.
I never did find out what happened to the mood ring. I strongly suspect she threw it in a lake, probably the same lake she wanted to throw me in when I gave her the thing.
So remember, mood rings make bad presents. And don't joke about jewelry.
We'd been dating for a year, but ... well, it was still in the "are-we-gonna-be-friends-or-lovers" stage, mostly because she still wasn't sure I was going to turn into a jerk like her first husband. We'd kissed and held hands, but as far as more ... OK, I was chicken-s**t. Things were going so well, I wasn't going to be the one to screw up everything by putting my hand up and going, "Pardon me, but are we going to get naked anytime soon?"
That first year was pretty strange, let me tell you.
Anyway, it was Christmas, and I didn't know what to get her. I mean, what do you get someone you like a lot but don't want to scare off by getting something TOO nice. Plus you don't want to overspend because if you buy them, say a nice watch, and they get you a T-shirt, you make them feel bad, and Deb was definitely making just enough money to get me a T-shirt.
So I was shopping in a toy store (she loved toys) and I saw mood rings.
For those of you too young to know, mood rings were a craze in the '70s. The stone in it is heat-sensitive or something and changes color, which is supposed to reflect your mood. When it's black you're feeling down, but when it turns green you're happy, or something like that.
I thought, perfect gift. Not by itself, mind you, but it's campy, it's fun, it's nostalgic, and I could even make the joke that she couldn't say I never got her jewelry because I had bought her a ring.
I even had an jewelry box I could put it in. And over the next couple of weeks, when she asked what I was getting her, I'd tell her things like it was small enough to fit in her hand and it was something she could wear.
In retrospect, I see the mistakes I made:
1. Women don't joke about jewelry.
2. When you show them a jewelry box, the one thing they don't want to see inside it is a mood ring.
3. Girlfriends don't joke about jewelry.
4. Don't save the joke gift for last.
5. Women, especially those who have just started to think, "This guy is THE ONE," don't f*****g joke about jewelry.
After that, she did joke with some friends that I had bought her a ring and let them think it was a big deal, and she did admit that it wasn't the right time for me to get her an engagement ring, but she also occasionally would pull out the "You gave me a MOOD ring" line whenever she wanted me to feel guilty.
And yes, she did get me a T-shirt.
I never did find out what happened to the mood ring. I strongly suspect she threw it in a lake, probably the same lake she wanted to throw me in when I gave her the thing.
So remember, mood rings make bad presents. And don't joke about jewelry.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Things I'm glad we did get to do (again, a very partial list)
Get married.
Take that dolphin-sighting cruise.
Go karaoke.
Let her meet my mother.
Spend that night in the bed and breakfast.
Go to Disneyland.
See Billy Joel, even if he made us cry.
Take that dolphin-sighting cruise.
Go karaoke.
Let her meet my mother.
Spend that night in the bed and breakfast.
Go to Disneyland.
See Billy Joel, even if he made us cry.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Things I'm sorry that we never got to do (a very partial list)
Go to Alaska.
Go to Ireland.
Get her that Mini Cooper.
See "Avenue Q" on Broadway.
Take her back to my hometown and get her a machaca burrito at the Chile Pepper.
Introduce her to my friends back in Yuma.
Buy her something at Tiffany's.
Take her to a salon after her hair grew back.
Fall asleep together on the couch.
See the Grand Canyon.
Sit on the porch of the little house we were going to get on the Colorado plain and watch the sunset together when we were 80.
Grow old together.
Go to Ireland.
Get her that Mini Cooper.
See "Avenue Q" on Broadway.
Take her back to my hometown and get her a machaca burrito at the Chile Pepper.
Introduce her to my friends back in Yuma.
Buy her something at Tiffany's.
Take her to a salon after her hair grew back.
Fall asleep together on the couch.
See the Grand Canyon.
Sit on the porch of the little house we were going to get on the Colorado plain and watch the sunset together when we were 80.
Grow old together.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
The Legendary Boo Kitty
The story goes that one day Deb was in the mood to buy a fish, so she headed to the pet store. When she got there, she saw a sign that advertised a free kitten with the purchase of cat supplies. She hadn't thought of getting a cat; the only ones she had known were the feral ones that lived around the farm she grew up on. But she decided right there to get a cat.
She checked out the bin they had the kittens in, and there were a bunch of them acting cute, as if to say, "Pleeeeeease take us home." In the corner, by himself, was a mostly black cat trying to take a nap.
Deb looked at him. He opened his eyes, as if to say, "Can you believe how dumb those other cats are?"
She fell in love right there.
That was how she met the legendary Boo Kitty.
She took him home, and while most cats will hide somewhere for a few days after they get a new home, Boo took to his new surroundings immediately. He strutted around the place like he owned it. Later, he curled up on her shoulder, and they were never apart after that.
Somewhere along the line, a photographer with Cat Fancier magazine saw Boo at a vet's office and wanted him to be in a photo spread. Deb turned it down; she didn't want Boo to get a swelled head.
Deb told me several times after we got together that she would get rid of me before she got rid of the cat. I never doubted it.
She checked out the bin they had the kittens in, and there were a bunch of them acting cute, as if to say, "Pleeeeeease take us home." In the corner, by himself, was a mostly black cat trying to take a nap.
Deb looked at him. He opened his eyes, as if to say, "Can you believe how dumb those other cats are?"
She fell in love right there.
That was how she met the legendary Boo Kitty.
She took him home, and while most cats will hide somewhere for a few days after they get a new home, Boo took to his new surroundings immediately. He strutted around the place like he owned it. Later, he curled up on her shoulder, and they were never apart after that.
Somewhere along the line, a photographer with Cat Fancier magazine saw Boo at a vet's office and wanted him to be in a photo spread. Deb turned it down; she didn't want Boo to get a swelled head.
Deb told me several times after we got together that she would get rid of me before she got rid of the cat. I never doubted it.
Boo, she told me, was the reason she kept going when her life wasn't going so well. Whenever she thought of killing herself (considering she had depression, it's no surprise), she thought about Boo and realized he needed someone to take care of him.
Boo was diagnosed as diabetic when he was 6. Most cats only last a couple of years after a diagnosis, and most people won't go through the effort of keeping a diabetic cat alive. Deb wasn't most people. She gave that cat insulin shots every day for the next 12 years. To almost the end, whenever we took him to the vet, she'd get compliments on how healthy the cat was.
I never really cared for cats that much, and when Deb and I first met, I wasn't that taken with Boo. He was an old cat by then, about 14. Whenever I'd go to Deb's place, he'd look at me and then go to the next room. Sometimes he'd come sniffing around me, but if I tried to pet him, he'd back off.
When Deb and I were moving in together, I and some friends went to her place to move her furniture. The plan was for me to put Boo in his carrier and take him to the new place after we emptied it. That cat wouldn't come near me, and when I tried, he bared his teeth and swiped at me. That cat wasn't going anywhere with me. Finally I had Deb come over and do it.
Eventually, when the three of us were under the same roof, the cat started warming up to me. Maybe because I had stronger hands, but when he finally let me pet him, he started acting more like a pussycat with me. Whenever I started scratching his back, he started licking whatever was handy. The furniture, the carpet, my leg ... he licked it like it was a lollipop. Deb accused me of stealing her cat.
I pretended not to like the cat. I kept joking we were going to have to let him loose, like the lion on "Born Free." We'd turn him out one night and let him roam free, like the proud jungle beast he was meant to be. Deb didn't buy it.
Deb was diagnosed with cancer and scheduled to start chemo. The night before the first treatment, Boo started acting strangely. First he had a seizure, then he started running in a circle. We bundled him up and took him to an animal emergency clinic. About 2 in the morning, after running some tests, we were told he had had a stroke. There was no treatment. Boo might go on for a while, but we'd never know when he'd have another seizure. Deb knew she couldn't let him go through another seizure, so we decided to put him down.
It was the passing of a torch. Deb was now my responsibility, not his.
That was the only time I told that cat I loved him. I thanked him for taking care of Deb up until then, and I promised I would take care of her from then on.
Deb held Boo as they injected the drugs, and she held him as he died. We had him cremated and brought the ashes home later.
Before Deb died, we were talking one day about what we wanted to have happen if something happened to one of us. She told me she wanted to be buried with Boo. I asked her if she meant beside her. No, she told me. She wanted his ashes mixed with hers.
That's what I did. Of course, that means since I want my ashes mixed with hers, I'm going to be mixed up with that crazy cat again.
Somewhere, I know Deb gets a giggle out of that thought.
That was the only time I told that cat I loved him. I thanked him for taking care of Deb up until then, and I promised I would take care of her from then on.
Deb held Boo as they injected the drugs, and she held him as he died. We had him cremated and brought the ashes home later.
Before Deb died, we were talking one day about what we wanted to have happen if something happened to one of us. She told me she wanted to be buried with Boo. I asked her if she meant beside her. No, she told me. She wanted his ashes mixed with hers.
That's what I did. Of course, that means since I want my ashes mixed with hers, I'm going to be mixed up with that crazy cat again.
Somewhere, I know Deb gets a giggle out of that thought.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Strike up the band
I know I go on and on about Deb and me like we were 100% compatible. For the most part, we were. We really were. We had our disagreements, but we never went to bed angry, and we had our areas where we agreed to disagree.
One of them was music.
We kept the radio in the car set on classic rock stations, a good safe middle ground. If I ventured to the hard rock station, she'd tune it out. If she ventured to the easy listening station, I tuned it out. Not that I dislike easy listening, but she had a better appreciation of it. Same with hard rock. She liked Guns n' Roses, but not so much Metallica. Let's not get started on the Beastie Boys, except to say I think they're geniuses and she didn't.
I figure the best way to know a person's music taste these days is to go through their iPod and see what comes up. Unfortunately, that won't work with her because I picked most of the songs on her iPod. She never got around to learning how to program songs on it. I bought her an iTunes card, but she never used it herself. After we saw "Wicked" she wanted the cast recording, so I used the card to get that. Otherwise, her only request was I put on the soundtrack to "Amadeus" so she could have some Mozart to listen to when she was getting her chemo. I filled the rest of it with 80s music, Pat Benatar and Bette Midler, because I knew she liked that stuff.
Here's some of her CDs. Maybe that will give some insight.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, The Best Of George Michael"
She still had a George Michael t-shirt when I went through her belongings. She saw him on the Faith tour and called it one of the best shows she ever saw. And she didn't care if he was gay, she still thought he was cute.
"Crimes of Passion," "Go" -- Pat Benatar
I think if she could have been somebody else, Deb would have been Benatar. We went to see her perform, and Deb didn't sit down for one song. I couldn't stop her if I wanted to. "Dance like no one's watching," that was her motto.
"Gloria Estafan Greatest Hits," "1's" -- Mariah Carey
Deb's not-so-secret wish was to be a diva.
"Jagged Little Pill," "Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie" -- Alanis Morissette
After her first marriage, a little man-hating music isn't a surprise.
"Cracked Rear View" -- Hootie and the Blowfish
This one's in everyone's CD collection, isn't it? I think it's a law.
"Bigger, Better, Faster, More!" -- 4 Non Blondes
Is there a woman who lived through the 1990s and didn't sing along to "What's Up"? If there was, I don't want to meet her.
"Parental Advisory Explicit Lyrics" -- George Carlin
This one surprised me. I think I only heard her use the F-word maybe five times. Go f----in' figure.
"Sheryl Crow," "The Globe Sessions" -- Sheryl Crow
I lent these to her when we was dating. She never gave them back. I married her so I could get them back.
OK, not JUST for that, but I can't deny it was a plus.
One of them was music.
We kept the radio in the car set on classic rock stations, a good safe middle ground. If I ventured to the hard rock station, she'd tune it out. If she ventured to the easy listening station, I tuned it out. Not that I dislike easy listening, but she had a better appreciation of it. Same with hard rock. She liked Guns n' Roses, but not so much Metallica. Let's not get started on the Beastie Boys, except to say I think they're geniuses and she didn't.
I figure the best way to know a person's music taste these days is to go through their iPod and see what comes up. Unfortunately, that won't work with her because I picked most of the songs on her iPod. She never got around to learning how to program songs on it. I bought her an iTunes card, but she never used it herself. After we saw "Wicked" she wanted the cast recording, so I used the card to get that. Otherwise, her only request was I put on the soundtrack to "Amadeus" so she could have some Mozart to listen to when she was getting her chemo. I filled the rest of it with 80s music, Pat Benatar and Bette Midler, because I knew she liked that stuff.
Here's some of her CDs. Maybe that will give some insight.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, The Best Of George Michael"
She still had a George Michael t-shirt when I went through her belongings. She saw him on the Faith tour and called it one of the best shows she ever saw. And she didn't care if he was gay, she still thought he was cute.
"Crimes of Passion," "Go" -- Pat Benatar
I think if she could have been somebody else, Deb would have been Benatar. We went to see her perform, and Deb didn't sit down for one song. I couldn't stop her if I wanted to. "Dance like no one's watching," that was her motto.
"Gloria Estafan Greatest Hits," "1's" -- Mariah Carey
Deb's not-so-secret wish was to be a diva.
"Jagged Little Pill," "Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie" -- Alanis Morissette
After her first marriage, a little man-hating music isn't a surprise.
"Cracked Rear View" -- Hootie and the Blowfish
This one's in everyone's CD collection, isn't it? I think it's a law.
"Bigger, Better, Faster, More!" -- 4 Non Blondes
Is there a woman who lived through the 1990s and didn't sing along to "What's Up"? If there was, I don't want to meet her.
"Parental Advisory Explicit Lyrics" -- George Carlin
This one surprised me. I think I only heard her use the F-word maybe five times. Go f----in' figure.
"Sheryl Crow," "The Globe Sessions" -- Sheryl Crow
I lent these to her when we was dating. She never gave them back. I married her so I could get them back.
OK, not JUST for that, but I can't deny it was a plus.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Things I learned from Deb
Aside from teaching me what true love was like, she passed along some helpful hints and little-known bits I hereby pass along:
1. Looking for a good place to eat? Look for the cop cars.
Well, not with the lights flashing. She meant police officers know where to get a good meal and good service, because when they're on patrol they don't have a lot of time to stop and eat. When you find a place they frequent, it's a good sign the food is good enough to bring them back and the service is fast enough to get them on their way.
2. The human brain is gray and can pop out of the head.
She was a police reporter in Miami, and she sometimes would describe the scene after a guy jumped off a building. The brain, which was a few yards away from the rest of the body, was the part of the story that stayed with her.
3. When a horse has his ears back, he's unhappy.
She knew her way around a horse, and knew this was a tipoff of an unhappy creature. Watching old Westerns, I can see there were a lot of unhappy horses in Hollywood.
4. Pink Floyd can control the weather.
She went to see them in the 90s in Miami, and it started to rain, and it let up just as they were finishing "Dark Side of the Moon." Right on cue. Better than a light show.
5. Katie Couric is evil.
In 1999, Deb went to Columbine to cover the massacre. It was first thing in the morning, cold as hell, and she hadn't had her coffee. She went over to the NBC crew to ask for a cup. Couric was there and acting like a prima donna. I don't know if Couric personally refused to give her a cup or if Deb just witnessed her being a witch, but after that Deb detested the woman. And if you diss my lady, you've made an enemy in me. So Katie is evil.
1. Looking for a good place to eat? Look for the cop cars.
Well, not with the lights flashing. She meant police officers know where to get a good meal and good service, because when they're on patrol they don't have a lot of time to stop and eat. When you find a place they frequent, it's a good sign the food is good enough to bring them back and the service is fast enough to get them on their way.
2. The human brain is gray and can pop out of the head.
She was a police reporter in Miami, and she sometimes would describe the scene after a guy jumped off a building. The brain, which was a few yards away from the rest of the body, was the part of the story that stayed with her.
3. When a horse has his ears back, he's unhappy.
She knew her way around a horse, and knew this was a tipoff of an unhappy creature. Watching old Westerns, I can see there were a lot of unhappy horses in Hollywood.
4. Pink Floyd can control the weather.
She went to see them in the 90s in Miami, and it started to rain, and it let up just as they were finishing "Dark Side of the Moon." Right on cue. Better than a light show.
5. Katie Couric is evil.
In 1999, Deb went to Columbine to cover the massacre. It was first thing in the morning, cold as hell, and she hadn't had her coffee. She went over to the NBC crew to ask for a cup. Couric was there and acting like a prima donna. I don't know if Couric personally refused to give her a cup or if Deb just witnessed her being a witch, but after that Deb detested the woman. And if you diss my lady, you've made an enemy in me. So Katie is evil.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Movie time
In no particular order, some of Deb's favorite movies:
"True Grit" -- She was raised with horses and she loved Westerns, and she agreed with me that John Wayne was underrated as an actor.
"Benny & Joon" -- Johnny Depp.
"Chocolat" -- Johnny Depp.
"Pirates of the Carribean" -- Orlando ... nah, just kidding. You know who.
"Lady and the Tramp" -- She loved Disney movies, including "Sleeping Beauty," "Bambi" and "Cinderella," but she especially loved this one because of the Siamese cats.
"Dracula" -- The original Bela Lugosi one.
But her all-time, beyond-any-doubt favorite movies?
First, The Wizard of Oz. I think she really wanted to be Judy Garland when she grew up.
But most of all, "Breakfast at Tiffany's." When we took a trip to L.A., she insisted we go to Rodeo Drive, and when we found out there was a cafe in front of the Tiffany's there, she further insisted we eat there. We had $15 salads, so she could say she had brunch at Tiffany's.
What's to explain? The heroine is an independent, free-spirited romantic with a cat. That's my Deb. If they made a movie about her life, it's just too bad Audrey Hepburn isn't around to be in it.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
The Dream
In my support group, the others all talked about The Dream.
Most of them had dreamt that their loved one had come back in a dream so vivid, they were sure it wasn't a dream. They knew it was more than a dream ... it was a visit.
I listened to these stories and wished I could have The Dream.
This morning, I did.
There she was, as real as the keyboard I'm typing on. I took her hand to kiss it, but instead she pressed it to her lips first, then I kissed her hand.
Then I just gazed at her face for a while. It took me a moment to realize it was the same, but different. She wasn't the cancer-worn woman she was when we parted, but she was young again, without a wrinkle, without a care.
I reached up and caressed her cheek, and I ran my thumb along her chin. She smiled.
I told her I'd like nothing more in the world than to hold her again, and we hugged.
That's when my brain started kicking in. I started telling myself this was a dream. It felt real, but it was a dream. Maybe it was time for her to go.
I woke up smiling.
Most of them had dreamt that their loved one had come back in a dream so vivid, they were sure it wasn't a dream. They knew it was more than a dream ... it was a visit.
I listened to these stories and wished I could have The Dream.
This morning, I did.
There she was, as real as the keyboard I'm typing on. I took her hand to kiss it, but instead she pressed it to her lips first, then I kissed her hand.
Then I just gazed at her face for a while. It took me a moment to realize it was the same, but different. She wasn't the cancer-worn woman she was when we parted, but she was young again, without a wrinkle, without a care.
I reached up and caressed her cheek, and I ran my thumb along her chin. She smiled.
I told her I'd like nothing more in the world than to hold her again, and we hugged.
That's when my brain started kicking in. I started telling myself this was a dream. It felt real, but it was a dream. Maybe it was time for her to go.
I woke up smiling.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Six months later ...
Once upon a time, there was a boy and a girl. They found each other and fell in love. Then the girl got sick, and she died. The boy was very sad.
I'm still working on the ending.
I'm still working on the ending.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Some Infrequently Asked Questions
Q. When did you and Deb meet, move in together, get married, etc.?
A. A brief timeline:
Dec. 8, 2000 -- Deb and I meet on my birthday at Olive Garden when we show up separately with friends.
Dec. 10 -- After spending a couple of days working up some nerve, I ask our friend Erin for her phone number. After spending an hour working up more nerve, I call her. She's not home. I go to work and find that she has called me while I was driving in. We make a lunch date.
Shortly after -- We have the lunch date. Seems to me it was a Monday.
2001 -- We date frequently, but since she is distrustful of men after a series of bad relationships, we start out as friends. I start showing up at her place on Sunday afternoons with bagels and we read the newspaper together. I meet her mother. Deb and I go ice skating, the only time we did that. Her mother and sister visit. Sometime that summer I tell her I love her. It takes her a while to believe me. Eventually, she does.
New Year's Eve 2001 -- We ... um ... start a tradition. Use your imagination.
March 2002 -- Her car is repossessed. Our first real crisis. I help her find a used car.
Juneish 2002 -- Deb has been working days while I've been working nights. We have little time together. I make a fateful decision: I ask her to shack up with me. She agrees. We find a house and agree to split the rent. Then on the day we are to sign the lease, she is let go from her job. Undaunted, we find a cheaper place and move in together.
New Year's Eve 2002 -- The tradition continues.
January 2003 -- Deb finds a new job. She keeps it until we leave Colorado.
Spring 2003 -- We visit Disneyland.
Sometime in fall -- We visit my mother. She approves of Deb.
Dec. 7, 2003 -- I propose. She accepts.
Shortly thereafter -- I have the panic attack to end all panic attacks.
Dec. 24, 2003 -- We nearly break up after I tell her about my doubts, but we decide to take it five minutes at a time.
New Year's Eve 2003 -- Yada yada yada.
June 13, 2004 -- We get married.
August 2004 -- We honeymoon at Disney World. We might as well have stayed, because ...
October 2004 -- I quit my job in Colorado and we move to Florida. We find a small rental house.
New Year's Eve: "Skyrockets in flight ... "
March 2005 -- During a visit to her ob-gyn, a lump is discovered in Deb's breast.
A couple of weeks after that: Deb is hospitalized with a bad cold. During her stay, the lump is biopsied, and found to be malignant.
Shortly after that -- She undergoes weeks of chemotherapy to shrink the mass.
June 2005 -- Deb has a mastectomy.
July and August 2005 -- She undergoes radiation treatment.
September 2005 -- Thinking the cancer is licked, we start house shopping.
November 2005 -- We move into our house.
Late December 2005 -- Nodes reappear on Deb's chest wall. We know it's bad news.
New Year's Eve 2005 -- The tradition is broken. She doesn't feel well enough to even go to a Barenaked Ladies concert. At her insistance I go alone, and have a miserable time.
February 2006 -- She's hospitalized with breathing problems and restarts chemo.
Through September -- She is hospitalized twice more. We go to Disney World one last time when my friend Matt brings his family.
Sept. 11 -- She dies.
Q. Deb was married before?
A. Yes. She didn't like to talk about him. From what I understand, after they got married, he quit his job and moved them in with his mother, who thought he could do no wrong. He also expected her to support them on her salary. They divorced after less than a year. I've never met the man, and if I did, I'd injure him badly, and if I couldn't, I'd pay someone to do it. Seriously.
Q. What is your favorite memory of Deb?
A. The way she looked at me on our wedding day.
Q. What would you change if you could?
A. Besides her getting sick and dying? I'd have married her sooner. She hinted that she wanted to for months before I proposed. I should have taken her up on it.
Q. When was your first kiss?
A. On the ice rink in Colorado Springs.
Q. Did you guys fight?
A. We never had a screaming match. When we got angry, we went to our separate corners until we cooled down, then we talked it out. We never went to bed angry.
Q. Would you, knowing all the pain you'd have to endure, do it all over again?
A. Hell, yeah.
A. A brief timeline:
Dec. 8, 2000 -- Deb and I meet on my birthday at Olive Garden when we show up separately with friends.
Dec. 10 -- After spending a couple of days working up some nerve, I ask our friend Erin for her phone number. After spending an hour working up more nerve, I call her. She's not home. I go to work and find that she has called me while I was driving in. We make a lunch date.
Shortly after -- We have the lunch date. Seems to me it was a Monday.
2001 -- We date frequently, but since she is distrustful of men after a series of bad relationships, we start out as friends. I start showing up at her place on Sunday afternoons with bagels and we read the newspaper together. I meet her mother. Deb and I go ice skating, the only time we did that. Her mother and sister visit. Sometime that summer I tell her I love her. It takes her a while to believe me. Eventually, she does.
New Year's Eve 2001 -- We ... um ... start a tradition. Use your imagination.
March 2002 -- Her car is repossessed. Our first real crisis. I help her find a used car.
Juneish 2002 -- Deb has been working days while I've been working nights. We have little time together. I make a fateful decision: I ask her to shack up with me. She agrees. We find a house and agree to split the rent. Then on the day we are to sign the lease, she is let go from her job. Undaunted, we find a cheaper place and move in together.
New Year's Eve 2002 -- The tradition continues.
January 2003 -- Deb finds a new job. She keeps it until we leave Colorado.
Spring 2003 -- We visit Disneyland.
Sometime in fall -- We visit my mother. She approves of Deb.
Dec. 7, 2003 -- I propose. She accepts.
Shortly thereafter -- I have the panic attack to end all panic attacks.
Dec. 24, 2003 -- We nearly break up after I tell her about my doubts, but we decide to take it five minutes at a time.
New Year's Eve 2003 -- Yada yada yada.
June 13, 2004 -- We get married.
August 2004 -- We honeymoon at Disney World. We might as well have stayed, because ...
October 2004 -- I quit my job in Colorado and we move to Florida. We find a small rental house.
New Year's Eve: "Skyrockets in flight ... "
March 2005 -- During a visit to her ob-gyn, a lump is discovered in Deb's breast.
A couple of weeks after that: Deb is hospitalized with a bad cold. During her stay, the lump is biopsied, and found to be malignant.
Shortly after that -- She undergoes weeks of chemotherapy to shrink the mass.
June 2005 -- Deb has a mastectomy.
July and August 2005 -- She undergoes radiation treatment.
September 2005 -- Thinking the cancer is licked, we start house shopping.
November 2005 -- We move into our house.
Late December 2005 -- Nodes reappear on Deb's chest wall. We know it's bad news.
New Year's Eve 2005 -- The tradition is broken. She doesn't feel well enough to even go to a Barenaked Ladies concert. At her insistance I go alone, and have a miserable time.
February 2006 -- She's hospitalized with breathing problems and restarts chemo.
Through September -- She is hospitalized twice more. We go to Disney World one last time when my friend Matt brings his family.
Sept. 11 -- She dies.
Q. Deb was married before?
A. Yes. She didn't like to talk about him. From what I understand, after they got married, he quit his job and moved them in with his mother, who thought he could do no wrong. He also expected her to support them on her salary. They divorced after less than a year. I've never met the man, and if I did, I'd injure him badly, and if I couldn't, I'd pay someone to do it. Seriously.
Q. What is your favorite memory of Deb?
A. The way she looked at me on our wedding day.
Q. What would you change if you could?
A. Besides her getting sick and dying? I'd have married her sooner. She hinted that she wanted to for months before I proposed. I should have taken her up on it.
Q. When was your first kiss?
A. On the ice rink in Colorado Springs.
Q. Did you guys fight?
A. We never had a screaming match. When we got angry, we went to our separate corners until we cooled down, then we talked it out. We never went to bed angry.
Q. Would you, knowing all the pain you'd have to endure, do it all over again?
A. Hell, yeah.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
A little rambling on the relativity of time
It's been six months since Deb passed away, but it feels like yesterday and 100 years ago all at the same time.
I can still feel her head under my chin. I can still feel her hand in mine. I can still remember what it felt like to run my thumb along her chin when caressed her cheek. I can even feel her squeezing my tush if I stop and think about it.
But it seems like forever since she's been gone, since I held her, since we kissed.
It felt like that when we were together. We only knew each other for 5 3/4 years, but it always felt like we'd been together forever and that we had just met. Then, it was a good feeling. Now, not so much.
I used to go into stores, see things I know she liked and automatically think, "Deb would really like that," then have to stop myself from getting it. Now I find myself thinking, "Deb would have liked that" more often.
Slowly, painfully, she's becoming past tense.
Some things have become easier. I can listen to songs we used to sing to in the car without automatically breaking into tears. I can talk about her without having to excuse myself for a good cry. I even went to Disney World by myself and didn't spend the whole time thinking about who should have been sitting next to me.
I've even started getting used to coming home and not finding her in the recliner, watching "Countdown with Keith Olbermann."
But I haven't stopped missing her.
I can still feel her head under my chin. I can still feel her hand in mine. I can still remember what it felt like to run my thumb along her chin when caressed her cheek. I can even feel her squeezing my tush if I stop and think about it.
But it seems like forever since she's been gone, since I held her, since we kissed.
It felt like that when we were together. We only knew each other for 5 3/4 years, but it always felt like we'd been together forever and that we had just met. Then, it was a good feeling. Now, not so much.
I used to go into stores, see things I know she liked and automatically think, "Deb would really like that," then have to stop myself from getting it. Now I find myself thinking, "Deb would have liked that" more often.
Slowly, painfully, she's becoming past tense.
Some things have become easier. I can listen to songs we used to sing to in the car without automatically breaking into tears. I can talk about her without having to excuse myself for a good cry. I even went to Disney World by myself and didn't spend the whole time thinking about who should have been sitting next to me.
I've even started getting used to coming home and not finding her in the recliner, watching "Countdown with Keith Olbermann."
But I haven't stopped missing her.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Things I miss this Valentines Day (and every day)
- Deb's saying, "I love you, sweetie."
- Her saying, "Honey, I'm hooooome!"
- Her smile.
- The fake smile she gave when I told her to smile.
- The even faker smile she gave when I told her to mean it.
- Her kiss.
- The way her hand felt on mine.
- The mole.
- Her hugs.
- The feeling when she'd keep hugging me when I would stop.
- The feeling I had when I didn't want to stop hugging when she did.
- The whistle she gave when she caught me on the way to the shower.
- Her "puppy dog eyes" look.
- Her "hur-hur-hur" laugh.
- Her girlish giggle.
- Her naughty giggle.
- Any of her laughs.
- Her blue eyes.
- The look she gave me that made me feel like I was the only man in the world.
- The joking way she said, "Yes, dear," like a old lady.
- Her booty.
- The way she said, "Thank you for putting up with me," like it was a hardship.
- The feel of her caress on my face as I'd lean in for a kiss.
- The way she'd prance when she pretended to be a model.
- Her singing in the car, especially during "Bohemian Rhapsody," when she'd sing the high parts and I'd sing bass.
- The way my hand felt when I slipped it under her leg while I was driving.
- Her dancing.
- The way she'd sing at concerts, like she didn't care if anyone else was around.
- The way we'd dance during "Call and Answer" at Barenaked Ladies concerts.
- Folding her clothes when I did the laundry.
- Watching her sleep.
- The way the top of her head felt under my chin when she stood in front of me.
- Her karaoke dance (it's impossible to describe ... it was full-body singing)
- Her giggle when I nibbled on her ear.
- Her cooking.
- The way she'd scratch my back.
- That almost invisible scar she had near her upper lip where she had a mole removed.
- The way she'd get obsessed over one videogame and play it constantly, then just drop it one day.
- How she'd start knitting projects then set them aside and never finish them. The important thing was she kept trying.
- The way she'd always say, "I miss the kitties," whenever we were gone from the house more than a couple of hours.
- The way she'd say "I miss Boo," ever since that cat died.
- The way she'd call for capital punishment for people who abused their animals on those animal rescue shows on "Animal Planet."
- Washing her back.
- Filling her water bottle when she was too weak to get out of bed.
- The way she flashed her 1/2-carat engagement ring around like it was 20 carats.
- How she'd go with me to baseball games, even though she wasn't even sure what teams were on the field.
- Fixing her coffee, and how she'd tell me I made a mean cup of coffee for someone who didn't drink it himself.
- The way she'd wiggle her eyebrows when she said something naughty.
- Having someone who knows why "You look good in anything" is the all-purpose answer to all of life's questions.
- The way she'd whine, "Awww, Riiiicky!" after I'd say, "Looocy, you got some 'splainin' to do!"
- Opening the car door for her.
- Telling each other, "Valentine's Day is for amateurs."
- Fixing her ramen.
- The way she'd sing along with the Winnie the Pooh ride at Disney World.
- The way she stuffed her jacket pockets with things because she didn't want to carry a purse.
- The way she'd play on the computer until it was almost time to go to work even though I'd nag her about the time, and she'd have me microwave a Hot Pocket as she hopped in the shower to gobble before she went to work.
- Calling her "Girlie-Girl."
- Her saying "Mini Cooper" every time we passed one.
- The way she'd have me fill out an Amazon wish list so she'd know what to get me for Christmas.
- Her trying to explain soap opera storylines to me when I was silly enough to ask what was going on.
- Buying her DVDs she said she wanted but she'd never open them.
- Having her pick out clothes for me at the store.
- Having her thank me by saying, "You're the bestest hubby in the world, you know that?"
- Finding a strand of her hair on my clothes.
- How Kraft macaroni and cheese was her favorite dish.
- Her snoring.
- How she delighted in telling gruesome tales from her days on the crime beat at the Miami Herald, then would coo over a cat food commercial.
- How she called soap operas "her stories," like she was an 80-year-old woman.
- Standing next to her at our bedroom window in Colorado Springs, watching the fireworks off Pikes Peak on New Years Eve.
- Waking up beside her and us vowing never to leave the bed ever again.
- Calling her on my dinner break, even if there was nothing to talk about.
- Holding her jacket when she went clothes shopping, and her telling me, "At least I'm not making you play Purse Boy."
- Hearing her exclaim "Tigger!" when we spotted him at Disney World.
- Finding her staring at me, and when I asked her why, she'd say, "I'm checking out my hubby. Nothing wrong with that, is there?"
- Staring at her, and when she asked me why, I'd say, "I'm checking out my girl. Nothing wrong with that, is there?"
- How half a glass of wine would get her tipsy.
- Having her tell me, "If it wasn't for you, I'd be curled up in a ball somewhere," and knowing the same was true for me.
- Waiting up til midnight on Christmas Eve to open presents.
- Hearing her whine, "I don't wanna go to work. I only go because they pay me. If they didn't pay me, I wouldn't go."
- Our ritual when I came home from work. Her: "How was your day?" Me: "WAAAAAH!!!" Her: "Same as usual, huh?"
- How she had a couple dozen pairs of shoes, but always ended up wearing the $6 pair from Wal-Mart.
- How she'd refer to our current president as "The Moron" or "The Idiot."
- Watching her guzzle down bottled water like a camel.
- Having her correct me when I told her she guzzled down bottled water like a camel, because camels can go for months without water and can store up to 20 gallons, and therefore don't need to guzzle water.
- Her fuzzy black jacket.
- Her talking about how we were going to do things "in 10 or 12 years," even towards the end.
- Having her say, "Do you want to be left alone?" and having her understand when the answer was "Yes."
- Hearing about her dreams.
- Telling her, "You make me happy."
- Her smell on the pillow.
- Slipping my hand into her back pocket.
- Having her sleep while I drove, knowing it meant she trusted me.
- Knowing to hand her six packets of sugar whenever she asked for it in a restaurant, because I knew that's how many she put in her coffee.
- Having her tell me, "How did I get so lucky?"
- Her "Huked On Fonix Werked Fur Mee!" T-shirt.
- Watching her with small children.
- Running my thumb over her chin when I held her face.
- Her nibbling on my ear.
- The feel of her head on my shoulder.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Black suits and white lies
I told a white lie.
I was on the cruise, and found myself tired of being a widower, so I told a white lie.
I was tired of trying to figure out how to work the words, "My wife passed away," into every conversation. Especially when I was trying to meet new people. I felt like I was wearing a "Pity Me" T-shirt.
The final straw was when I met a perfectly nice woman. Under normal circumstances, I would have ... well, I can't say I'd make a pass at her, because I'm socially handicapped, but I'd have at least asked if she wanted to get a drink. Then I found myself uttering those magic words, and boom, the timber of the conversation changed. It was no longer an introduction, it was a sympathy session.
I've got too much pride to try to use Deb's death as leverage. I would never try to get someone to feel sorry for me so I could get them to go out with me or to do anything for me. But it's also an unavoidable fact. Why was I by myself? Why was the reservation for two but I was alone? Plus, I'm perfectly willing to tell people about Deb; she was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I'm proud to say I was married to her.
But sometimes, I want to take the black suit off and just be me. Or whoever it is I'm becoming since I'm not Deb's husband any more.
So when it came time to dispense of the extra concert ticket I had, when I found someone who needed one, I simply said, "It's my wife's. She can't make it."
Technically, it's true. Plus whoever got the ticket didn't have to know they were using a dead woman's ticket, because that thought might have made them uncomfortable. Plus I got in a conversation that didn't include the words, "I'm sorry."
Besides, Deb probably appreciated the mental acrobatics of it. She and I used to agree that fast food hamburgers are the perfect meal because all the food groups are represented: meat, dairy, grains and vegetables.
So I told a white lie. Big deal.
I was on the cruise, and found myself tired of being a widower, so I told a white lie.
I was tired of trying to figure out how to work the words, "My wife passed away," into every conversation. Especially when I was trying to meet new people. I felt like I was wearing a "Pity Me" T-shirt.
The final straw was when I met a perfectly nice woman. Under normal circumstances, I would have ... well, I can't say I'd make a pass at her, because I'm socially handicapped, but I'd have at least asked if she wanted to get a drink. Then I found myself uttering those magic words, and boom, the timber of the conversation changed. It was no longer an introduction, it was a sympathy session.
I've got too much pride to try to use Deb's death as leverage. I would never try to get someone to feel sorry for me so I could get them to go out with me or to do anything for me. But it's also an unavoidable fact. Why was I by myself? Why was the reservation for two but I was alone? Plus, I'm perfectly willing to tell people about Deb; she was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I'm proud to say I was married to her.
But sometimes, I want to take the black suit off and just be me. Or whoever it is I'm becoming since I'm not Deb's husband any more.
So when it came time to dispense of the extra concert ticket I had, when I found someone who needed one, I simply said, "It's my wife's. She can't make it."
Technically, it's true. Plus whoever got the ticket didn't have to know they were using a dead woman's ticket, because that thought might have made them uncomfortable. Plus I got in a conversation that didn't include the words, "I'm sorry."
Besides, Deb probably appreciated the mental acrobatics of it. She and I used to agree that fast food hamburgers are the perfect meal because all the food groups are represented: meat, dairy, grains and vegetables.
So I told a white lie. Big deal.
Friday, January 19, 2007
No coincidences
So I've just gotten back from a cruise with the Barenaked Ladies. I go to Wednesday's acoustic set and take a lot of pictures with my digital camera. Of course, the batteries die out about halfway through, and I didn't bring spares.
Rewind to the night before. I was alone in my cabin, watching the ocean wave past my window. In the darkness, I can see Deb lying on the bed, looking at me. I tell her I miss her, that I wish she was here, having fun with me. I once again make what has become an almost involuntary gesture: I wish for a sign.
I don't believe in astrology. I think Nostradamus was high on something and wrote really bad poetry. But I do believe in signs, and I don't believe in coincidences.
I think God, the universe, karma, whoever or whatever is in charge of things does communicate with us, if we're willing to pay attention. I think these messages sometimes take the form of what we've come to call "coincidences." Like when the radio plays a song you were just thinking about, or a friend calls you just when you needed to hear a friendly voice.
That night in the cabin, I wished again for a sign that Deb was all right, that I would be all right, that things would be ... all right.
When you get into a situation like mine, everyone tells you things will work out. And it's true, things WILL work out. The only problem is they don't FEEL like they're going to work out until they actually DO work out. Before then, anyone who tells you that sounds like an idiot.
Flash forward. I go back to the cabin and hook up my camera to my laptop, hoping to salvage the few photos I was able to take before the batteries died.
The concert photos weren't there. What was there was a picture of Deb and some of our cats, back after I had brought her home from one of several hospital stays.
I vaguely remember taking the photos, but that was 10 months ago, and I had wiped the memory card clean several times since then.
So ... she's all right. I'm going to be all right. Things will be all right.
No coincidences.
Rewind to the night before. I was alone in my cabin, watching the ocean wave past my window. In the darkness, I can see Deb lying on the bed, looking at me. I tell her I miss her, that I wish she was here, having fun with me. I once again make what has become an almost involuntary gesture: I wish for a sign.
I don't believe in astrology. I think Nostradamus was high on something and wrote really bad poetry. But I do believe in signs, and I don't believe in coincidences.
I think God, the universe, karma, whoever or whatever is in charge of things does communicate with us, if we're willing to pay attention. I think these messages sometimes take the form of what we've come to call "coincidences." Like when the radio plays a song you were just thinking about, or a friend calls you just when you needed to hear a friendly voice.
That night in the cabin, I wished again for a sign that Deb was all right, that I would be all right, that things would be ... all right.
When you get into a situation like mine, everyone tells you things will work out. And it's true, things WILL work out. The only problem is they don't FEEL like they're going to work out until they actually DO work out. Before then, anyone who tells you that sounds like an idiot.
Flash forward. I go back to the cabin and hook up my camera to my laptop, hoping to salvage the few photos I was able to take before the batteries died.
The concert photos weren't there. What was there was a picture of Deb and some of our cats, back after I had brought her home from one of several hospital stays.
I vaguely remember taking the photos, but that was 10 months ago, and I had wiped the memory card clean several times since then.
So ... she's all right. I'm going to be all right. Things will be all right.
No coincidences.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
How I got through the holidays
The holidays weren't as bad as they could have been. That's the best thing I can say about them.
Of the big three holidays, the one I was most worried about was Christmas Eve, because Deb and I would wait up til midnight and open our presents. This year, I didn't even put up a tree, much less have presents to open.
New Year's was also one to dread, because we would ... um ... er ... we had a tradition, let's leave it at that.
Thanksgiving, I didn't worry about. Turns out it was the worst of all. I suppose it was because I didn't make plans or because it was the first real holiday without Deb, but that was the one that put me in a funk. I worked, but even that couldn't mask the fact that when I went home, I was alone.
Christmas eve, I was better prepared. I worked again, but I also stayed late. When I went home, it was already Christmas. There were no presents to open, no tree to stare at, and the only gifts left for me were the ones the cats left me in the litterbox. Not exactly Bing Crosby, but I knew it was coming, so I was ready.
New Year's, I invited co-workers after work to come over to watch my infamous "Wheel of Fortune" appearance from 1985. (No, that's not what Deb and my tradition was) When we arrived at my house, the fireworks all across town were lighting up, and at midnight I wasn't alone.
When everyone one had gone home, I took a glass of champagne onto the porch and lifted it to the sky. Then Deb and I had a toast. "To us," I said.
That was part of our tradition.
Of the big three holidays, the one I was most worried about was Christmas Eve, because Deb and I would wait up til midnight and open our presents. This year, I didn't even put up a tree, much less have presents to open.
New Year's was also one to dread, because we would ... um ... er ... we had a tradition, let's leave it at that.
Thanksgiving, I didn't worry about. Turns out it was the worst of all. I suppose it was because I didn't make plans or because it was the first real holiday without Deb, but that was the one that put me in a funk. I worked, but even that couldn't mask the fact that when I went home, I was alone.
Christmas eve, I was better prepared. I worked again, but I also stayed late. When I went home, it was already Christmas. There were no presents to open, no tree to stare at, and the only gifts left for me were the ones the cats left me in the litterbox. Not exactly Bing Crosby, but I knew it was coming, so I was ready.
New Year's, I invited co-workers after work to come over to watch my infamous "Wheel of Fortune" appearance from 1985. (No, that's not what Deb and my tradition was) When we arrived at my house, the fireworks all across town were lighting up, and at midnight I wasn't alone.
When everyone one had gone home, I took a glass of champagne onto the porch and lifted it to the sky. Then Deb and I had a toast. "To us," I said.
That was part of our tradition.
Monday, January 08, 2007
What I think about remarrying
(originally written 12/04/06)
One of my favorite restaurants in Yuma, my hometown, is called Lutes Casino. It's not so much a casino as a pool hall with a snack bar that serves burgers (including one called the Especial -- a burger with a sliced hot dog in it. No one eats it because they like it; they eat it so they can say they've eaten it). They also serve the world's best rolled tacos, even better than the ones at the Chile Pepper, my favorite restaurant in the Western Hemisphere.
Anyway, Lutes also has video games and one of those claw machines. You know, you stick in money, you guide the claw and you hope you can extract one of the prizes inside. On my birthday more than 10 years ago, I stuck 50 cents in that machine and got a plastic mug on my first try. I've never tried it again.
I can honestly say I have a 100 percent success rate with claw machines. If I tried again and failed (which, let's face it, is a strong possibility), I could only say I have a 50 percent success rate. Besides, it'd never be as good as that first time, where I succeeded despite not knowing what the hell I was doing.
What does this have to do with remarrying? Substitute the word "marriage" for the words "claw machines" in the previous paragraph, and you get the picture.
I reserve the right to change my mind, of course. I just don't expect to.
One of my favorite restaurants in Yuma, my hometown, is called Lutes Casino. It's not so much a casino as a pool hall with a snack bar that serves burgers (including one called the Especial -- a burger with a sliced hot dog in it. No one eats it because they like it; they eat it so they can say they've eaten it). They also serve the world's best rolled tacos, even better than the ones at the Chile Pepper, my favorite restaurant in the Western Hemisphere.
Anyway, Lutes also has video games and one of those claw machines. You know, you stick in money, you guide the claw and you hope you can extract one of the prizes inside. On my birthday more than 10 years ago, I stuck 50 cents in that machine and got a plastic mug on my first try. I've never tried it again.
I can honestly say I have a 100 percent success rate with claw machines. If I tried again and failed (which, let's face it, is a strong possibility), I could only say I have a 50 percent success rate. Besides, it'd never be as good as that first time, where I succeeded despite not knowing what the hell I was doing.
What does this have to do with remarrying? Substitute the word "marriage" for the words "claw machines" in the previous paragraph, and you get the picture.
I reserve the right to change my mind, of course. I just don't expect to.
Where I'm at, and where I'll be
(originally written 12/02/06)
I've been going to a support group, which has given me another outlet for the grief, which may explain why I haven't put anything here for a while. For now, here's an emotional update.
I think I've sighted acceptance a couple of times, but it's like one of those things you think you see out of the corner of your eye, but when you focus on it, it's not really there.
Anger, it turns out, I've directed at myself. I spend time going over the things I think I should have done better. What makes me feel better is realizing Deb would often apologize to me for what she considered her bad temper and I'd have to tell her I never even noticed. She, I know, would do the same for me.
Depression comes and goes, like Jehovah's Witnesses.
Denial and bargaining are long gone.
Also, my sister sent me pictures of the headstone from mine and Deb's gravesite. While it's what I wanted, it's just plain strange to see your name on a gravestone, with the blank date waiting for you like a reservation at a restaurant.
Oh well. I was about due for a midlife crisis anyway.
I've been going to a support group, which has given me another outlet for the grief, which may explain why I haven't put anything here for a while. For now, here's an emotional update.
I think I've sighted acceptance a couple of times, but it's like one of those things you think you see out of the corner of your eye, but when you focus on it, it's not really there.
Anger, it turns out, I've directed at myself. I spend time going over the things I think I should have done better. What makes me feel better is realizing Deb would often apologize to me for what she considered her bad temper and I'd have to tell her I never even noticed. She, I know, would do the same for me.
Depression comes and goes, like Jehovah's Witnesses.
Denial and bargaining are long gone.
Also, my sister sent me pictures of the headstone from mine and Deb's gravesite. While it's what I wanted, it's just plain strange to see your name on a gravestone, with the blank date waiting for you like a reservation at a restaurant.
Oh well. I was about due for a midlife crisis anyway.
Perfect moments
(originally written 11/20/06)
The way I figure it, people are lucky to have one or two perfect moments, fleeting, joyous pockets of life where if they close their eyes and think very hard, they can recall everything about it and relive it over and over again. I think it's what carries us through the hard times, the thought that there may be more of them coming.
Deb blessed me with several.
1. My nephew has just started playing the theme to "Forrest Gump" on the keyboard in my mother's living room. It's warm, because someone has accidentally kicked the air conditioning vent in the floor closed. I am standing in a grey jacket, a blue dress shirt and a yellow tie, none of which I would have picked out for myself but the guy at Penney's insists would look good on me. I am sweating, not just because of the heat, but because I am about to get married.
Then Deb steps in the room. She is wearing a blue dress with a blue veil. Her hair is up; she never has worn her hair up before with me. There are little flowers in her hair.
She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and I begin to cry.
She walks up to me and wipes tears from my face.
"Don't you start," she whispers. "Or I'll lose it."
I cry through the whole ceremony. But I'll never forget that look she gave to me as she told me not to cry, and I doubt I'll ever see anything so beautiful again.
2. We're at Disney World on our honeymoon. The sun is beginning to set, and we're in front of the castle.
She starts walking. I grab her hand, pull her back to me, bend her back and give her a kiss.
"Whoa-ho-ho," she says.
3. It's the day before my birthday, Dec. 7, 2003, a Sunday. Deb and I are on the couch, in our pajamas, watching TV, and I've just made a decision.
I go upstairs and get the ring she picked out from the Kay Jewelers ad the week before. She didn't know she was picking it out; she just pointed to it and said, "This one would make a great engagement ring." It was something she did whenever there was a jewelry ad lying around. This time, I paid attention.
I was going to ask her to marry me the next day, the third anniversary of the day we met at Olive Garden, and we were going to go back to the restaurant to celebrate, but she had to work, so we were going to go that day. I was going to ask her in the restaurant to embarrass her, but on the couch I decided that embarrassing her was the last thing I wanted to do.
"Honey, can you come upstairs?" I call down.
When she gets there, I am already on one knee, holding the ring box.
She walks up to me, tears in her eyes, smiling. "Yes!"
"I didn't even ask the question!" I shout back.
4. It's 4 a.m., Sept. 10. Deb was moaning loudly in her hospital bed in the other room. She's semi-coherent. I help her get a drink of water. It's not easy, because she can't hold a glass, but she insists on trying. I eventually help her.
I sit up with her a while, then ask her if there's anything else I can do. She says no. I tell her I'm going back to bed.
As I walk down the hallway, I tell her, "Love you, sweetie."
I hear her half-mumble behind me, "Love you."
The rest of the day, when she speaks, she mumbles, and I can't make out what she says. She dies the next day.
That "Love you" is the last thing she said to me. It's an odd perfect moment, but I hold onto it.
The way I figure it, people are lucky to have one or two perfect moments, fleeting, joyous pockets of life where if they close their eyes and think very hard, they can recall everything about it and relive it over and over again. I think it's what carries us through the hard times, the thought that there may be more of them coming.
Deb blessed me with several.
1. My nephew has just started playing the theme to "Forrest Gump" on the keyboard in my mother's living room. It's warm, because someone has accidentally kicked the air conditioning vent in the floor closed. I am standing in a grey jacket, a blue dress shirt and a yellow tie, none of which I would have picked out for myself but the guy at Penney's insists would look good on me. I am sweating, not just because of the heat, but because I am about to get married.
Then Deb steps in the room. She is wearing a blue dress with a blue veil. Her hair is up; she never has worn her hair up before with me. There are little flowers in her hair.
She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and I begin to cry.
She walks up to me and wipes tears from my face.
"Don't you start," she whispers. "Or I'll lose it."
I cry through the whole ceremony. But I'll never forget that look she gave to me as she told me not to cry, and I doubt I'll ever see anything so beautiful again.
2. We're at Disney World on our honeymoon. The sun is beginning to set, and we're in front of the castle.
She starts walking. I grab her hand, pull her back to me, bend her back and give her a kiss.
"Whoa-ho-ho," she says.
3. It's the day before my birthday, Dec. 7, 2003, a Sunday. Deb and I are on the couch, in our pajamas, watching TV, and I've just made a decision.
I go upstairs and get the ring she picked out from the Kay Jewelers ad the week before. She didn't know she was picking it out; she just pointed to it and said, "This one would make a great engagement ring." It was something she did whenever there was a jewelry ad lying around. This time, I paid attention.
I was going to ask her to marry me the next day, the third anniversary of the day we met at Olive Garden, and we were going to go back to the restaurant to celebrate, but she had to work, so we were going to go that day. I was going to ask her in the restaurant to embarrass her, but on the couch I decided that embarrassing her was the last thing I wanted to do.
"Honey, can you come upstairs?" I call down.
When she gets there, I am already on one knee, holding the ring box.
She walks up to me, tears in her eyes, smiling. "Yes!"
"I didn't even ask the question!" I shout back.
4. It's 4 a.m., Sept. 10. Deb was moaning loudly in her hospital bed in the other room. She's semi-coherent. I help her get a drink of water. It's not easy, because she can't hold a glass, but she insists on trying. I eventually help her.
I sit up with her a while, then ask her if there's anything else I can do. She says no. I tell her I'm going back to bed.
As I walk down the hallway, I tell her, "Love you, sweetie."
I hear her half-mumble behind me, "Love you."
The rest of the day, when she speaks, she mumbles, and I can't make out what she says. She dies the next day.
That "Love you" is the last thing she said to me. It's an odd perfect moment, but I hold onto it.
More private jokes
(originally written 11/12/06)
More things only she and I would laugh at.
1. "Ya know, you just can't get enough Billy Joel on the radio, dadgummit." (also works for The Eagles, The Cars, Pat Benatar and Bon Jovi)
2. Chiggers.
3. "What do you want to do?" "I don't know, what do you want to do?" (repeat until exhausted)
4. "You know what I need?" "More cowbell?" (OK, other people laugh at that, but she always caught me off guard with that one.)
5. "Sex?"
6. "You look good in anything."
More things only she and I would laugh at.
1. "Ya know, you just can't get enough Billy Joel on the radio, dadgummit." (also works for The Eagles, The Cars, Pat Benatar and Bon Jovi)
2. Chiggers.
3. "What do you want to do?" "I don't know, what do you want to do?" (repeat until exhausted)
4. "You know what I need?" "More cowbell?" (OK, other people laugh at that, but she always caught me off guard with that one.)
5. "Sex?"
6. "You look good in anything."
On up the road
(originally written 11/08/06)
I'd been talking to Debra a couple of days recently. She'd meet me on the front porch or during a break at work. It wasn't a haunting or a hallucination. She was just there. Whenever I got really lonely, she'd be there.
Monday, though, when we were driving, she had something to tell me. She had to go.
Why, I asked.
I've got things to do, and so do you. You can't get on with your life and have me here. You have to let me go.
What if I want to talk to you?
You can talk to me any time you want, she said. And I'll come by and see you sometimes. I can't just be here all the time. You have to let me go.
I didn't want to. We drove a little farther. She let the subject drop for a minute or two. Then I stopped at a stoplight.
I'm going to get out here, she said.
Will I see you again?
Of course you will, someday, she said. On up the road.
I love you, I told her.
I love you too, sweetie.
She got out of the car and headed up the road. And I was alone.
Maybe this is acceptance. Maybe it's a mind game. Maybe it's just a metaphor. But she's gone, and I must deal with it.
And I must keep heading up the road. She's waiting.
I'd been talking to Debra a couple of days recently. She'd meet me on the front porch or during a break at work. It wasn't a haunting or a hallucination. She was just there. Whenever I got really lonely, she'd be there.
Monday, though, when we were driving, she had something to tell me. She had to go.
Why, I asked.
I've got things to do, and so do you. You can't get on with your life and have me here. You have to let me go.
What if I want to talk to you?
You can talk to me any time you want, she said. And I'll come by and see you sometimes. I can't just be here all the time. You have to let me go.
I didn't want to. We drove a little farther. She let the subject drop for a minute or two. Then I stopped at a stoplight.
I'm going to get out here, she said.
Will I see you again?
Of course you will, someday, she said. On up the road.
I love you, I told her.
I love you too, sweetie.
She got out of the car and headed up the road. And I was alone.
Maybe this is acceptance. Maybe it's a mind game. Maybe it's just a metaphor. But she's gone, and I must deal with it.
And I must keep heading up the road. She's waiting.
The little losses
(originally written 10/30/06)
This may fall under the category of too much information, but I think I crossed that line a while back.
Deb had this mole on her right side of her back just above her bottom. Whenever I held her close in bed, I could feel it, and I liked to flick my finger over it. This, I told her, is my mole. You're never having it removed.
I was thinking about it last night, and realized I'm never going to have the chance to do that again.
Then today the message disappeared.
I had Deb's last phone message to me still in my saved messages on my voice mail. I have it committed to memory, because for the last six weeks, whenever I've been really down, I'd listen to it to hear her voice and pretend, if only for a moment, that this is all a ghastly mistake.
"Hey sweetie, it's me. I'm just calling to see if you're coming back tonight to visit because visiting hours are over, so you'll have to come in through the children's hospital. I hope you do, because I miss you. See you soon, love you, bye-bye."
I should have guessed the company doesn't keep phone messages forever, and I knew I should have figured out a way to record the message on my computer. I do have a videotape of her that she made before I met her, so I do have recordings of her voice.
But this was the only one I had of her saying "Love you."
This, I think, is the part of the mourning process they don't tell you about. Yes, you lose your wife, your husband, your child, your parents, your loved one when they die, and that's the big loss. But then, little by little, piece by piece, you lose the little things they added to your life on a daily basis, and those are the little losses.
In a way, they die over and over again.
I know the holidays are going to be hell this year because I'll remember all the little things I've lost, like her face when she tried the first batch of my holiday fudge. Or her exclaiming "Cool beans!" when she opened a present she really liked. Or our annual New Year's kiss.
Frankly, I just want this year to end now.
This may fall under the category of too much information, but I think I crossed that line a while back.
Deb had this mole on her right side of her back just above her bottom. Whenever I held her close in bed, I could feel it, and I liked to flick my finger over it. This, I told her, is my mole. You're never having it removed.
I was thinking about it last night, and realized I'm never going to have the chance to do that again.
Then today the message disappeared.
I had Deb's last phone message to me still in my saved messages on my voice mail. I have it committed to memory, because for the last six weeks, whenever I've been really down, I'd listen to it to hear her voice and pretend, if only for a moment, that this is all a ghastly mistake.
"Hey sweetie, it's me. I'm just calling to see if you're coming back tonight to visit because visiting hours are over, so you'll have to come in through the children's hospital. I hope you do, because I miss you. See you soon, love you, bye-bye."
I should have guessed the company doesn't keep phone messages forever, and I knew I should have figured out a way to record the message on my computer. I do have a videotape of her that she made before I met her, so I do have recordings of her voice.
But this was the only one I had of her saying "Love you."
This, I think, is the part of the mourning process they don't tell you about. Yes, you lose your wife, your husband, your child, your parents, your loved one when they die, and that's the big loss. But then, little by little, piece by piece, you lose the little things they added to your life on a daily basis, and those are the little losses.
In a way, they die over and over again.
I know the holidays are going to be hell this year because I'll remember all the little things I've lost, like her face when she tried the first batch of my holiday fudge. Or her exclaiming "Cool beans!" when she opened a present she really liked. Or our annual New Year's kiss.
Frankly, I just want this year to end now.
The next five minutes
(originally written 10/21/06)
Right after my panic attack was the darkest moment Deb and I went through. You see, it was my proposing to her that set off my panic attack.
Panic attacks, for those who've never had one, are the closest things to a heart attack you can get without actually having one. You can't stop thinking you're going to die. All you can do is keep reminding yourself to breathe, because if you don't, you'll die. All your emotions had ganged up on you and attack your body. Your chest hurts. Your brain kicks into overdrive. You can't move.
That's what happened to me a couple of days after I proposed. I tried to convince myself it wasn't because of the proposal, but it was undeniable. And Deb knew it.
It wasn't that I didn't love Deb. It was that I wasn't sure if I LOVED Deb. Big difference.
Our relationship evolved into love. It didn't start with a bang. It didn't start out as puppy love. It was something that grew. And having never done it that way before, I wasn't sure it was something that would last.
I told her this the next day after the attack had passed. She offered to give back the ring. Then she broke down crying, wondering if we were going to break up, if I wanted her to move out or if I was going to leave.
I told her that wasn't what I wanted. All I did know was the idea of forever scared the hell out of me.
I didn't want a guarantee that the rest of our lives would be perfect, I told her. I couldn't think that far ahead. All I could count on was the next five minutes.
OK, she said. I'll take it. We'll take it five minutes at a time.
I told her to keep the ring. If she could accept those terms, I knew she was worth fighting for.
Eventually, and with help from my therapist, what I figured out was that I had earned Deb's love through time and patience, not from instant chemistry, and that it was more durable because of that. Something you earn is always more precious than something you're given. And that's why it lasted.
Every now and then, we'd ask each other if we were good for the next five minutes. When we got into a disagreement, we'd ask. When things were going good, we'd ask. When we had nothing else to say, we'd ask.
Now that she's gone, people keep telling me to take it one day at a time. I say I will.
But to be honest, I'm taking it five minutes at a time.
Right after my panic attack was the darkest moment Deb and I went through. You see, it was my proposing to her that set off my panic attack.
Panic attacks, for those who've never had one, are the closest things to a heart attack you can get without actually having one. You can't stop thinking you're going to die. All you can do is keep reminding yourself to breathe, because if you don't, you'll die. All your emotions had ganged up on you and attack your body. Your chest hurts. Your brain kicks into overdrive. You can't move.
That's what happened to me a couple of days after I proposed. I tried to convince myself it wasn't because of the proposal, but it was undeniable. And Deb knew it.
It wasn't that I didn't love Deb. It was that I wasn't sure if I LOVED Deb. Big difference.
Our relationship evolved into love. It didn't start with a bang. It didn't start out as puppy love. It was something that grew. And having never done it that way before, I wasn't sure it was something that would last.
I told her this the next day after the attack had passed. She offered to give back the ring. Then she broke down crying, wondering if we were going to break up, if I wanted her to move out or if I was going to leave.
I told her that wasn't what I wanted. All I did know was the idea of forever scared the hell out of me.
I didn't want a guarantee that the rest of our lives would be perfect, I told her. I couldn't think that far ahead. All I could count on was the next five minutes.
OK, she said. I'll take it. We'll take it five minutes at a time.
I told her to keep the ring. If she could accept those terms, I knew she was worth fighting for.
Eventually, and with help from my therapist, what I figured out was that I had earned Deb's love through time and patience, not from instant chemistry, and that it was more durable because of that. Something you earn is always more precious than something you're given. And that's why it lasted.
Every now and then, we'd ask each other if we were good for the next five minutes. When we got into a disagreement, we'd ask. When things were going good, we'd ask. When we had nothing else to say, we'd ask.
Now that she's gone, people keep telling me to take it one day at a time. I say I will.
But to be honest, I'm taking it five minutes at a time.
An emotional sneak attack
(originally written 10/19/06)
So there I was, walking around Lowry Park Zoo, getting some exercise (it's nice having an annual pass), feeling pretty good and listening to the iPod.
Then "He Went To Paris" by Jimmy Buffett came on.
I should have known better, but I let it play.
If you've never heard it, it's a ballad about a man who ... well, goes to Paris. He's a young man, and he thinks he'll stay for a little while and move on. Instead, as the song says, "four or five years slip away." Then he goes to England, gets married and has a son, then "20 more years slipped away." Then there's World War II, and both his wife and son die, and he loses an eye. He heads to the islands, where Jimmy meets him and he says:
"Jimmy, some of it's magic and some of it's tragic, but I had a good life all the way."
I'm crying now thinking about it.
The song's never had that effect on me before, but when I hear it, I think of the life Deb and I didn't have, the places we didn't go, and yes, the children we didn't have.
That's the thing about death. It doesn't just take away the person you love. It takes away your future with that person. And in my case, Deb was my future and my present.
I was so overwhelmed by the mourning that I cried at the zoo, next to the emus. I can only imagine what they thought.
Maybe one day there'll be a new future for me to look forward to, with new opportunities and new people. For now, though, I mourn the things that can never be.
So there I was, walking around Lowry Park Zoo, getting some exercise (it's nice having an annual pass), feeling pretty good and listening to the iPod.
Then "He Went To Paris" by Jimmy Buffett came on.
I should have known better, but I let it play.
If you've never heard it, it's a ballad about a man who ... well, goes to Paris. He's a young man, and he thinks he'll stay for a little while and move on. Instead, as the song says, "four or five years slip away." Then he goes to England, gets married and has a son, then "20 more years slipped away." Then there's World War II, and both his wife and son die, and he loses an eye. He heads to the islands, where Jimmy meets him and he says:
"Jimmy, some of it's magic and some of it's tragic, but I had a good life all the way."
I'm crying now thinking about it.
The song's never had that effect on me before, but when I hear it, I think of the life Deb and I didn't have, the places we didn't go, and yes, the children we didn't have.
That's the thing about death. It doesn't just take away the person you love. It takes away your future with that person. And in my case, Deb was my future and my present.
I was so overwhelmed by the mourning that I cried at the zoo, next to the emus. I can only imagine what they thought.
Maybe one day there'll be a new future for me to look forward to, with new opportunities and new people. For now, though, I mourn the things that can never be.
Thoughts on death
(originally written 10/17/06)
Notice that didn't say "Thoughts of death." I think it's only natural for me to have done some contemplation of dying having just lost Deb, but I'm not thinking about trying it out anytime soon. I know one of my reasons for existing was to be Deb's husband, but even thought that's over, I figure I'm still here for some reason, if only to tick off conservatives.
I warn you: the ultimate conclusion I will draw from these meanderings is "I don't know." If you're reading hoping I'm going to come to some grand conclusion or tell you what I think happens when you die, I wouldn't bother reading on.
I believe in Jesus and heaven. But that doesn't mean I think that when you die you board a holy escalator and head straight for the pearly gates. It also doesn't mean I think you lie a'mouldering in your grave wait for the trumpets to blare on Judgment Day.
I believe in Judgment Day, of course. Otherwise the whole salvation thing is kind of pointless, you know. I'm just not sure what you do until then.
Mark Twain, a pretty smart guy but definitely a disillusioned one, thought that oblivion is our destination. He thought it sounded restful and acknowledged that the universe had carried on without him for a few million years before he existed and would carry on fine when he ceased to be. If I'm wrong about my faith, then I have to admit I like this thought. Better not to exist than to spend eternity hanging out in Hades with the hypocrites and those people who won't turn off their cellphones in the movie theater.
I, on the other hand, think that the soul (for the lack of a better word), is a hardy thing, and death is the release of it from the body.
I watched my wife pass away. One second she was my wife and the next ... she wasn't. The body was there, but it certainly wasn't her anymore. It didn't look like her. It certainly didn't act like her. So it wasn't her. It was just what was left behind. Deb's soul, the part of her that IS her, is somewhere else.
So what do I think happens when you die?
I like to think you get to hang around for a while and stay near the people you love. I like to think you get a chance to do the things you wanted to do and go where you wanted to go when you were alive. I even like to think you may get to extract a little karmic revenge on those who wronged you (provided, of course, they REALLY deserve it).
For example, I'm convinced Deb spent a couple of weeks dashing around radio stations and making them play "You and Me" by Lifehouse, which I told her I associated with her. I couldn't count the number of times that song came on when I turned on the radio. It even came on when I stopped at the funeral home to make the arrangements. It seems like something she'd do.
Then ... I don't know. Maybe you get to check into a cosmic waiting room with a buffet and wait around for Judgment Day. Maybe you join into a cosmic co-op with other souls and travel around the universe. It's a big place ... that'd probably keep a person occupied for an eternity or so.
Again, I like to think this stuff, but I don't know. I don't think anyone does.
Warned you, I did.
Notice that didn't say "Thoughts of death." I think it's only natural for me to have done some contemplation of dying having just lost Deb, but I'm not thinking about trying it out anytime soon. I know one of my reasons for existing was to be Deb's husband, but even thought that's over, I figure I'm still here for some reason, if only to tick off conservatives.
I warn you: the ultimate conclusion I will draw from these meanderings is "I don't know." If you're reading hoping I'm going to come to some grand conclusion or tell you what I think happens when you die, I wouldn't bother reading on.
I believe in Jesus and heaven. But that doesn't mean I think that when you die you board a holy escalator and head straight for the pearly gates. It also doesn't mean I think you lie a'mouldering in your grave wait for the trumpets to blare on Judgment Day.
I believe in Judgment Day, of course. Otherwise the whole salvation thing is kind of pointless, you know. I'm just not sure what you do until then.
Mark Twain, a pretty smart guy but definitely a disillusioned one, thought that oblivion is our destination. He thought it sounded restful and acknowledged that the universe had carried on without him for a few million years before he existed and would carry on fine when he ceased to be. If I'm wrong about my faith, then I have to admit I like this thought. Better not to exist than to spend eternity hanging out in Hades with the hypocrites and those people who won't turn off their cellphones in the movie theater.
I, on the other hand, think that the soul (for the lack of a better word), is a hardy thing, and death is the release of it from the body.
I watched my wife pass away. One second she was my wife and the next ... she wasn't. The body was there, but it certainly wasn't her anymore. It didn't look like her. It certainly didn't act like her. So it wasn't her. It was just what was left behind. Deb's soul, the part of her that IS her, is somewhere else.
So what do I think happens when you die?
I like to think you get to hang around for a while and stay near the people you love. I like to think you get a chance to do the things you wanted to do and go where you wanted to go when you were alive. I even like to think you may get to extract a little karmic revenge on those who wronged you (provided, of course, they REALLY deserve it).
For example, I'm convinced Deb spent a couple of weeks dashing around radio stations and making them play "You and Me" by Lifehouse, which I told her I associated with her. I couldn't count the number of times that song came on when I turned on the radio. It even came on when I stopped at the funeral home to make the arrangements. It seems like something she'd do.
Then ... I don't know. Maybe you get to check into a cosmic waiting room with a buffet and wait around for Judgment Day. Maybe you join into a cosmic co-op with other souls and travel around the universe. It's a big place ... that'd probably keep a person occupied for an eternity or so.
Again, I like to think this stuff, but I don't know. I don't think anyone does.
Warned you, I did.
A little photo album
(originally written 10/15/06)
Time for some pictures.
Here's Deb with the legendary Bookitty, the cat she kept alive for 12 years with daily insulin shots.
Here she is on the ferry from the Magic Kingdom parking lot to the park. She hated having her picture taken, but it's still one of my favorite shots of her.
Here she is during one of the park's Christmas nights. She always made friends wherever she went.
Time for some pictures.
Here's Deb with the legendary Bookitty, the cat she kept alive for 12 years with daily insulin shots.
Here she is on the ferry from the Magic Kingdom parking lot to the park. She hated having her picture taken, but it's still one of my favorite shots of her.
Here she is during one of the park's Christmas nights. She always made friends wherever she went.
What it's like watching someone you love die
(originally published 10/12/06)
WARNING: UNCOMFORTABLE SUBJECT MATTER
That includes me.
When my wife was diagnosed with breast cancer last year, I had seen what medicine could do, and I believed cancer was treatable. My mother had fought it and won. She had lost several organs, but she has lived years beyond the six weeks she was given in 1999. We also seemed to be blessed because my wife had gone to the hospital with pneumonia just about the time the first tumor became noticeable, so she was able to bypass weeks of waiting for a biopsy and was diagnosed right away.
We knew it was going to be a tough fight, but it was one I never thought we'd lose.
After chemotherapy, a mastectomy and radiation treatment, we thought it was all over. We even bought a house, expecting to spend years together.
That happy delusion ended in late December, when she started getting bumps on the area the breast had been removed. At first I thought they were boils or pimples. Turns out they weren't.
The cancer Deb had was an aggressive strain. It was first noticed when it was pea-sized. Less than two weeks later, it was about fist-sized. Then, I suppose, we should have guessed it had already spread beyond the breast and into the lymph nodes, from where it could travel anywhere in the body. The surgeon removed most of her nodes then, but by then it was too late for anyone to do anything.
We didn't know that, of course. We just thought it was time for more chemo to knock this thing out for once and for all. We heard the cancer was in the chest wall and there were spots on her liver. OK, not good news, but not end-of-the-world type stuff. Back into chemo we went, and at first it seemed like we were winning. After the first round, the spots on the liver were nearly gone, and the bumps on her chest nearly vanished. We thought one more round, and she'd be able to take a break. We tentatively planned a trip, even a cruise in January with Barenaked Ladies.
Then after the next round, we were told the cancer had stopped reacting to the drugs. A bump on her chest re-emerged and was growing. The spot on her liver had grown. She was having trouble breathing, which was attributed to pleural effusion, or fluid building up outside the lung, compressing it. She was given a different drug, one that we hoped would be more effective.
She couldn't tolerate the Xeloda, though, and ended up in the hospital. She was having trouble breathing, and we again thought it was because of fluid outside the lung.
What we didn't know was the problem was inside the lung. The cancer had taken hold. Because of her weakness, chemotherapy was not an option. The doctor told us to consider hospice care to make her comfortable. I don't think even he knew how bad it was, though, because he told us there was a chance she could regain her strength and re-enter treatment.
When the doctor left us alone to discuss it, the first thing she said to me was, "I guess that means no cruise."
We agreed to stop treatment. But we also agreed that if she could get better, she would go back into treatment.
So I brought her home for what I thought would be a few weeks of recuperation. That was Friday.
The weekend is a blur to me. She was groggy and uncommunicative, something I blamed on the painkiller she got. I made a note to talk to her regular nurse on Monday about reducing the dosage so she'd be able to concentrate. I stayed at her bedside, talked to her, gave her what little food she felt like eating, welcomed the women from her support group who came to visit. At no point did I think anything but recuperation.
Monday morning the nurse came, and I asked if it was the painkiller making her groggy. No, she said. The dying process had begun.
That was about 8:30 a.m. Deb was gone by 4:15 p.m.
Now, I realize I had seen the same signs with Deb that I had seen with my father when he passed away. I just didn't realize what they had meant with Deb. So though we had lived with cancer for 18 months, it was only those last eight hours that I realized it was a fatal disease.
I stayed by her bedside the rest of the day. I kept talking to her, retelling the story of our life together, from our first meeting, to my awkward proposal in our pajamas, to the things we had planned to do. When I couldn't think of anything else to say, I went over to the bookshelf and pulled out her copy of "Winnie the Pooh," her favorite childhood book, and read to her.
About 2 p.m., her breathing became harder, and she started moaning with each breath. I called the hospice nurse and asked if she could come over and increase the painkiller dosage to make her more comfortable. By the time she had arrived and examined her, her breathing had settled down. I thought, good, she's comfortable.
The nurse told me, "Her last great adventure had begun." .
I held her hand for the next hour, telling her I loved her. That she would always be my girl. That she had made me the happiest guy in the world. I was determined that the last thing she would hear in this life was how special she was to me and that I loved her.
And it was.
The nurse and I watched her last breath. Then black fluid began to trickle from her nose. First I thought it was a nosebleed, but then the trickle became a torrent, from her nose and her mouth. It was as if all the cancer, all the bad stuff within in her had known its job was done and it was time to go.
The nurse put the stethoscope on Deb's chest, listened and said, "She's gone."
I held it together long enough to step outside and call her mother and father. I cried a little during both calls, but I was able to get the message out. Then I called my mother, and by the time she got on the phone I had no strength left. I remember seeing the construction workers building a house down the street looking at me as I wailed in pain and sorrow.
Then I went back inside and asked to help clean her up. I had promised to take care of her, and I wasn't done.
When we had finished, I noticed something that I hadn't before.
Deb's last act on this earth was to let me know she was OK, that it was finally over, that she had finally found peace.
She was smiling.
WARNING: UNCOMFORTABLE SUBJECT MATTER
That includes me.
When my wife was diagnosed with breast cancer last year, I had seen what medicine could do, and I believed cancer was treatable. My mother had fought it and won. She had lost several organs, but she has lived years beyond the six weeks she was given in 1999. We also seemed to be blessed because my wife had gone to the hospital with pneumonia just about the time the first tumor became noticeable, so she was able to bypass weeks of waiting for a biopsy and was diagnosed right away.
We knew it was going to be a tough fight, but it was one I never thought we'd lose.
After chemotherapy, a mastectomy and radiation treatment, we thought it was all over. We even bought a house, expecting to spend years together.
That happy delusion ended in late December, when she started getting bumps on the area the breast had been removed. At first I thought they were boils or pimples. Turns out they weren't.
The cancer Deb had was an aggressive strain. It was first noticed when it was pea-sized. Less than two weeks later, it was about fist-sized. Then, I suppose, we should have guessed it had already spread beyond the breast and into the lymph nodes, from where it could travel anywhere in the body. The surgeon removed most of her nodes then, but by then it was too late for anyone to do anything.
We didn't know that, of course. We just thought it was time for more chemo to knock this thing out for once and for all. We heard the cancer was in the chest wall and there were spots on her liver. OK, not good news, but not end-of-the-world type stuff. Back into chemo we went, and at first it seemed like we were winning. After the first round, the spots on the liver were nearly gone, and the bumps on her chest nearly vanished. We thought one more round, and she'd be able to take a break. We tentatively planned a trip, even a cruise in January with Barenaked Ladies.
Then after the next round, we were told the cancer had stopped reacting to the drugs. A bump on her chest re-emerged and was growing. The spot on her liver had grown. She was having trouble breathing, which was attributed to pleural effusion, or fluid building up outside the lung, compressing it. She was given a different drug, one that we hoped would be more effective.
She couldn't tolerate the Xeloda, though, and ended up in the hospital. She was having trouble breathing, and we again thought it was because of fluid outside the lung.
What we didn't know was the problem was inside the lung. The cancer had taken hold. Because of her weakness, chemotherapy was not an option. The doctor told us to consider hospice care to make her comfortable. I don't think even he knew how bad it was, though, because he told us there was a chance she could regain her strength and re-enter treatment.
When the doctor left us alone to discuss it, the first thing she said to me was, "I guess that means no cruise."
We agreed to stop treatment. But we also agreed that if she could get better, she would go back into treatment.
So I brought her home for what I thought would be a few weeks of recuperation. That was Friday.
The weekend is a blur to me. She was groggy and uncommunicative, something I blamed on the painkiller she got. I made a note to talk to her regular nurse on Monday about reducing the dosage so she'd be able to concentrate. I stayed at her bedside, talked to her, gave her what little food she felt like eating, welcomed the women from her support group who came to visit. At no point did I think anything but recuperation.
Monday morning the nurse came, and I asked if it was the painkiller making her groggy. No, she said. The dying process had begun.
That was about 8:30 a.m. Deb was gone by 4:15 p.m.
Now, I realize I had seen the same signs with Deb that I had seen with my father when he passed away. I just didn't realize what they had meant with Deb. So though we had lived with cancer for 18 months, it was only those last eight hours that I realized it was a fatal disease.
I stayed by her bedside the rest of the day. I kept talking to her, retelling the story of our life together, from our first meeting, to my awkward proposal in our pajamas, to the things we had planned to do. When I couldn't think of anything else to say, I went over to the bookshelf and pulled out her copy of "Winnie the Pooh," her favorite childhood book, and read to her.
About 2 p.m., her breathing became harder, and she started moaning with each breath. I called the hospice nurse and asked if she could come over and increase the painkiller dosage to make her more comfortable. By the time she had arrived and examined her, her breathing had settled down. I thought, good, she's comfortable.
The nurse told me, "Her last great adventure had begun." .
I held her hand for the next hour, telling her I loved her. That she would always be my girl. That she had made me the happiest guy in the world. I was determined that the last thing she would hear in this life was how special she was to me and that I loved her.
And it was.
The nurse and I watched her last breath. Then black fluid began to trickle from her nose. First I thought it was a nosebleed, but then the trickle became a torrent, from her nose and her mouth. It was as if all the cancer, all the bad stuff within in her had known its job was done and it was time to go.
The nurse put the stethoscope on Deb's chest, listened and said, "She's gone."
I held it together long enough to step outside and call her mother and father. I cried a little during both calls, but I was able to get the message out. Then I called my mother, and by the time she got on the phone I had no strength left. I remember seeing the construction workers building a house down the street looking at me as I wailed in pain and sorrow.
Then I went back inside and asked to help clean her up. I had promised to take care of her, and I wasn't done.
When we had finished, I noticed something that I hadn't before.
Deb's last act on this earth was to let me know she was OK, that it was finally over, that she had finally found peace.
She was smiling.
"Just One More Day"
(originally written 10/10/06)
Mitch Albom's new book, "Just One More Day," got me to thinking what we'd do if Deb was here for one more day.
Presuming she wouldn't be sick, I'd let her sleep in until 1 p.m., as usual. After letting her play on the computer and watch her soap operas, I'd take her to the Lowry Park Zoo and we'd watch the manatees for a while. Then I'd take her to her favorite restaurant, The Front Porch, for dinner. Then we'd come home and sit on our front porch for a while, talking. Then we'd head inside to cuddle and make love, and then we'd go to sleep.
Not the most exciting day, I'd admit. But I'd give away all I own if it could come true.
Mitch Albom's new book, "Just One More Day," got me to thinking what we'd do if Deb was here for one more day.
Presuming she wouldn't be sick, I'd let her sleep in until 1 p.m., as usual. After letting her play on the computer and watch her soap operas, I'd take her to the Lowry Park Zoo and we'd watch the manatees for a while. Then I'd take her to her favorite restaurant, The Front Porch, for dinner. Then we'd come home and sit on our front porch for a while, talking. Then we'd head inside to cuddle and make love, and then we'd go to sleep.
Not the most exciting day, I'd admit. But I'd give away all I own if it could come true.
The funeral
(originally written 10/09/06)
A couple of weeks before she died, Deb and I discussed that in the event something happened to her, where she would like to be buried.
"I don't know," she answered. "I just know I want to be with you, and I figured you'd want to be buried close to your mother in her family cemetery."
I had never thought about where I was going to end up. I knew I had chosen cremation, but I never thought about what happened next. When Deb said that, it all just made sense. Of course that's where I'm going to be: the small Missouri town where my mother's family came from.
Deb was like that, pointing me in the right direction. She's even pointed me to my final destination.
The day before the funeral, I couldn't resist taking my spot for a test run. I know it's silly, but how many chances do you get to try out your grave spot? For the record, it's very comfortable. A nice grassy spot with a downhill slope. Here's the view looking up from where I'll be:
I figure I should try to appreciate the view now. When I finally get there, I won't be in any condition to appreciate it then.
The funeral was perfect. One of my cousins sang "The Rose," and one of my aunts sang "One Day At A Time." I could imagine Deb wanting to sing along. When it was over I was overwhelmed by the sense that things had come full circle. Most of the same people who were at our wedding two years ago were at the funeral. My uncle who married us now buried one of us. It was not only the end of Deb's journey, it also was the end of my marriage. Another thing to mourn.
Before I left Missouri on Monday, I stopped at Deb's grave and left roses. I talked to her, telling her that I knew it wasn't really goodbye. I know she's watching over me. But it was goodbye to the physical part of her, the part that held me, the part that rested with me at night, the part of her that carried her smile.
I picked up a handful of dirt and put it in a baggie. Then I left.
A couple of weeks before she died, Deb and I discussed that in the event something happened to her, where she would like to be buried.
"I don't know," she answered. "I just know I want to be with you, and I figured you'd want to be buried close to your mother in her family cemetery."
I had never thought about where I was going to end up. I knew I had chosen cremation, but I never thought about what happened next. When Deb said that, it all just made sense. Of course that's where I'm going to be: the small Missouri town where my mother's family came from.
Deb was like that, pointing me in the right direction. She's even pointed me to my final destination.
The day before the funeral, I couldn't resist taking my spot for a test run. I know it's silly, but how many chances do you get to try out your grave spot? For the record, it's very comfortable. A nice grassy spot with a downhill slope. Here's the view looking up from where I'll be:
I figure I should try to appreciate the view now. When I finally get there, I won't be in any condition to appreciate it then.
The funeral was perfect. One of my cousins sang "The Rose," and one of my aunts sang "One Day At A Time." I could imagine Deb wanting to sing along. When it was over I was overwhelmed by the sense that things had come full circle. Most of the same people who were at our wedding two years ago were at the funeral. My uncle who married us now buried one of us. It was not only the end of Deb's journey, it also was the end of my marriage. Another thing to mourn.
Before I left Missouri on Monday, I stopped at Deb's grave and left roses. I talked to her, telling her that I knew it wasn't really goodbye. I know she's watching over me. But it was goodbye to the physical part of her, the part that held me, the part that rested with me at night, the part of her that carried her smile.
I picked up a handful of dirt and put it in a baggie. Then I left.
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