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.
Monday, January 29, 2007
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.
The first and last mix tape ... er, CD
(originally written 10/04/06)
When the funeral director said I could put together a collection of songs for the service, I flashed back to the mix CD I put together for her on the anniversary of our meeting. Now I had the chance to do it again.
The first mix CD was songs that reminded me of her, because she sang it at karaoke or the lyrics reminded me of her or because she liked the song. Here's the lineup:
1. "For Once In My Life" -- Stevie Wonder
2. "Come Away With Me" -- Norah Jones
3. "Don't Know Why" -- Norah Jones
4. "Wonderful World" -- James Taylor, Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel
5. "Total Eclipse of the Heart" -- Bonnie Tyler
6. "Where Are You Going" -- The Dave Matthews Band
7. "The Way You Look Tonight" -- Frank Sinatra
8. "Your Smiling Face" -- James Taylor
9. "Sunrise" -- Norah Jones
10. "Somebody to Love" -- Queen with George Michael
11. "Follow Me" -- Uncle Kracker
12. "Extraordinary" -- Liz Phair
13. "My Immortal" -- Evanessence
14. "Love Shack" -- The B-52s
15. "The Rose" -- Bette Midler
Here are the songs I picked for her service and why:
1. "Lovers In A Dangerous Time" -- Barenaked Ladies
We love the band, and the title has special meaning to me considering our relationship was getting serious about the time 9/11 happened. She called me and woke me up to tell me what was happening, and because of her I was watching live when the second tower was hit.
One of the lines, "You gotta kick at the darkness til it bleeds daylight," I know, is what Deb wants me to do now.
2. "My Immortal" -- Evanessence
One of Deb's favorite songs, and a karaoke favorite. Plus it reminds me of the night I had a panic attack and she was there to comfort me.
"You cry, I wipe away all of your tears
You scream, I fight away all of your fears."
I'll always be grateful to her for that.
3. and 4. "I Will Remember You" and "Angel" -- Sarah MacLachlan
One of Deb's favorite singers. I think the titles speak for themselves.
5. "These Are The Days Of Our Lives" -- Queen
I picked this under protest. Deb loves the song. Me, I liked Queen before the synthesizer took over. But I can't argue with the line, "Those days are gone now, but one thing stands true/When I look, and I find I still love you."
6. "Wish You Were Here" -- Pink Floyd
I couldn't help but think it was probably the first time Floyd got played in that chapel, and Deb would get a kick out of it. Deb also said Floyd was the greatest concert she ever went to, and we love the song. Besides, it's how I feel now.
7. "Don't Know Why" -- Norah Jones
Probably the weirdest pick of the bunch. The lyrics weren't really appropriate for the occasion. But I picked it because Deb was always saying she wanted to do the song at karaoke, and I figured this was her last chance. Didn't work.
8. "Bridge Over Troubled Waters" -- Simon and Garfunkel
One of Deb's favorite songs, plus it reminds me of a gospel song and the message was appropriate.
9. "Lullaby (Goodnight My Angel)" -- Billy Joel
In March, Deb and I went to see him in concert. It would be the last show we went to. We had a great time forgetting our troubles until he played this.
"Goodnight my angel, it's time to close your eyes
And save your questions for another day."
She burst into tears, and I did too.
We held each other, sobbing. We stopped holding back, stopped trying to be brave, and for the duration of the song, we became what deep down we really were: two kids frightened of a monster who was threatening to take one of us away forever. At the end of the song, though, there were the lines that would console me and roll through my head for days after the memorial service:
"One day we'll all be gone, but lullabies go on and on
They never die. That's how you and I will be."
I played this not to remind Deb and myself of the tears, but of the thing between us that will never die.
10. "The Rose" -- Bette Midler
Deb did a killer version of this at karaoke. I never cared for the song until I heard her sing it, then it all clicked. The lyrics were what Deb felt about love, and before I came along, she was singing it to herself about the guy who would come into her life. After we got together, she was singing about me.
"Some say love, it is a river that drowns the tender reed.
Some say love, it is a razor that leaves your soul to bleed.
Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless aching need.
I say love, it is a flower, and you its only seed."
I can't tell you how special that makes me feel.
I also had the song's final lines engraved on the box containing her ashes.
"Just remember in the winter/Far beneath the bitter snows
Lies the seed that with the sun's love/In the spring becomes the rose."
Deb never thought she was beautiful, and when I told her she was, she would say I needed to have my eyes fixed. No, I'd tell her, my eyes are fine. I see you the way you are.
She is the rose.
When the funeral director said I could put together a collection of songs for the service, I flashed back to the mix CD I put together for her on the anniversary of our meeting. Now I had the chance to do it again.
The first mix CD was songs that reminded me of her, because she sang it at karaoke or the lyrics reminded me of her or because she liked the song. Here's the lineup:
1. "For Once In My Life" -- Stevie Wonder
2. "Come Away With Me" -- Norah Jones
3. "Don't Know Why" -- Norah Jones
4. "Wonderful World" -- James Taylor, Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel
5. "Total Eclipse of the Heart" -- Bonnie Tyler
6. "Where Are You Going" -- The Dave Matthews Band
7. "The Way You Look Tonight" -- Frank Sinatra
8. "Your Smiling Face" -- James Taylor
9. "Sunrise" -- Norah Jones
10. "Somebody to Love" -- Queen with George Michael
11. "Follow Me" -- Uncle Kracker
12. "Extraordinary" -- Liz Phair
13. "My Immortal" -- Evanessence
14. "Love Shack" -- The B-52s
15. "The Rose" -- Bette Midler
Here are the songs I picked for her service and why:
1. "Lovers In A Dangerous Time" -- Barenaked Ladies
We love the band, and the title has special meaning to me considering our relationship was getting serious about the time 9/11 happened. She called me and woke me up to tell me what was happening, and because of her I was watching live when the second tower was hit.
One of the lines, "You gotta kick at the darkness til it bleeds daylight," I know, is what Deb wants me to do now.
2. "My Immortal" -- Evanessence
One of Deb's favorite songs, and a karaoke favorite. Plus it reminds me of the night I had a panic attack and she was there to comfort me.
"You cry, I wipe away all of your tears
You scream, I fight away all of your fears."
I'll always be grateful to her for that.
3. and 4. "I Will Remember You" and "Angel" -- Sarah MacLachlan
One of Deb's favorite singers. I think the titles speak for themselves.
5. "These Are The Days Of Our Lives" -- Queen
I picked this under protest. Deb loves the song. Me, I liked Queen before the synthesizer took over. But I can't argue with the line, "Those days are gone now, but one thing stands true/When I look, and I find I still love you."
6. "Wish You Were Here" -- Pink Floyd
I couldn't help but think it was probably the first time Floyd got played in that chapel, and Deb would get a kick out of it. Deb also said Floyd was the greatest concert she ever went to, and we love the song. Besides, it's how I feel now.
7. "Don't Know Why" -- Norah Jones
Probably the weirdest pick of the bunch. The lyrics weren't really appropriate for the occasion. But I picked it because Deb was always saying she wanted to do the song at karaoke, and I figured this was her last chance. Didn't work.
8. "Bridge Over Troubled Waters" -- Simon and Garfunkel
One of Deb's favorite songs, plus it reminds me of a gospel song and the message was appropriate.
9. "Lullaby (Goodnight My Angel)" -- Billy Joel
In March, Deb and I went to see him in concert. It would be the last show we went to. We had a great time forgetting our troubles until he played this.
"Goodnight my angel, it's time to close your eyes
And save your questions for another day."
She burst into tears, and I did too.
We held each other, sobbing. We stopped holding back, stopped trying to be brave, and for the duration of the song, we became what deep down we really were: two kids frightened of a monster who was threatening to take one of us away forever. At the end of the song, though, there were the lines that would console me and roll through my head for days after the memorial service:
"One day we'll all be gone, but lullabies go on and on
They never die. That's how you and I will be."
I played this not to remind Deb and myself of the tears, but of the thing between us that will never die.
10. "The Rose" -- Bette Midler
Deb did a killer version of this at karaoke. I never cared for the song until I heard her sing it, then it all clicked. The lyrics were what Deb felt about love, and before I came along, she was singing it to herself about the guy who would come into her life. After we got together, she was singing about me.
"Some say love, it is a river that drowns the tender reed.
Some say love, it is a razor that leaves your soul to bleed.
Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless aching need.
I say love, it is a flower, and you its only seed."
I can't tell you how special that makes me feel.
I also had the song's final lines engraved on the box containing her ashes.
"Just remember in the winter/Far beneath the bitter snows
Lies the seed that with the sun's love/In the spring becomes the rose."
Deb never thought she was beautiful, and when I told her she was, she would say I needed to have my eyes fixed. No, I'd tell her, my eyes are fine. I see you the way you are.
She is the rose.
Equal time
(originally written 10/03/06)
I told an embarrassing story on Deb, so it's only fair I tell one on myself.
On a date we went ice skating, and it was the first time I'd ever been on any kind of skates. Deb had roller-skated, so she was one up on me. Eventually, we were able to get around the rink, but so slowly that some little punk girl, probably around 5, skated around us going, "I can skate better than you can."
Stopped wanting kids right then and there.
Anyway, it was time to bring out the Zamboni, and we were on the far side of the ice. Deb got back across, no problem. Me ... not so much. So some employee had to come out and get me.
There I was, 35 years old, having to be hauled back across the ice by holding on to this guy's belt as he skated across.
If it hadn't been for the fact that it was on that date that Deb and I first kissed, I would try to block it out of my mind.
And, no, I haven't skated since.
I told an embarrassing story on Deb, so it's only fair I tell one on myself.
On a date we went ice skating, and it was the first time I'd ever been on any kind of skates. Deb had roller-skated, so she was one up on me. Eventually, we were able to get around the rink, but so slowly that some little punk girl, probably around 5, skated around us going, "I can skate better than you can."
Stopped wanting kids right then and there.
Anyway, it was time to bring out the Zamboni, and we were on the far side of the ice. Deb got back across, no problem. Me ... not so much. So some employee had to come out and get me.
There I was, 35 years old, having to be hauled back across the ice by holding on to this guy's belt as he skated across.
If it hadn't been for the fact that it was on that date that Deb and I first kissed, I would try to block it out of my mind.
And, no, I haven't skated since.
My favorite Deb story
(originally written 9/30/06)
It was just after we moved to Tampa, and we rented a small cottage near the river. One morning I stepped outside to get the paper and noticed what appeared to be a rubber snake next to the steps leading to the front door. Great, I thought. Some kid left a rubber snake lying around.
I kept looking at it, then thought it looked awfully real to be a toy. It didn't move, but it looked really authentic.
I stepped back inside and called Deb. She was a fan of nature shows, so I figured if anyone could tell a real snake from a fake one, it'd be her.
I stood in the doorway as she stood on the front porch, looking at the snake for a minute, and like me, she kept going back between thinking it was real or rubber. Then she stepped off the porch and picked up a stick. She prodded the snake, and it moved.
She screamed, I jumped back, and she raced inside, slamming the front door and locking it.
I burst out laughing. "Great, honey," I said. "We all know snakes can't open locks."
It took her a while to forgive me.
It was just after we moved to Tampa, and we rented a small cottage near the river. One morning I stepped outside to get the paper and noticed what appeared to be a rubber snake next to the steps leading to the front door. Great, I thought. Some kid left a rubber snake lying around.
I kept looking at it, then thought it looked awfully real to be a toy. It didn't move, but it looked really authentic.
I stepped back inside and called Deb. She was a fan of nature shows, so I figured if anyone could tell a real snake from a fake one, it'd be her.
I stood in the doorway as she stood on the front porch, looking at the snake for a minute, and like me, she kept going back between thinking it was real or rubber. Then she stepped off the porch and picked up a stick. She prodded the snake, and it moved.
She screamed, I jumped back, and she raced inside, slamming the front door and locking it.
I burst out laughing. "Great, honey," I said. "We all know snakes can't open locks."
It took her a while to forgive me.
Inappropriate jokes
(originally written 9/30/06)
Like Chandler on "Friends," I deal with stressful situations by making bad, usually inappropriate jokes. Dealing with Deb's death is no exception. So far, I've caught myself making two:
1. Right after she passed on Sept. 11, I said to the nurse, "Great. Like I needed another reason to hate 9/11."
2. To avoid the hassle of trying to get her ashes through airport security, I mailed them to Missouri where we will lay her to rest. When the lady as the post office said the package weighed 18 pounds, I said, "I know she feels good about losing so much weight."
There's bound to be more. Stay tuned.
Like Chandler on "Friends," I deal with stressful situations by making bad, usually inappropriate jokes. Dealing with Deb's death is no exception. So far, I've caught myself making two:
1. Right after she passed on Sept. 11, I said to the nurse, "Great. Like I needed another reason to hate 9/11."
2. To avoid the hassle of trying to get her ashes through airport security, I mailed them to Missouri where we will lay her to rest. When the lady as the post office said the package weighed 18 pounds, I said, "I know she feels good about losing so much weight."
There's bound to be more. Stay tuned.
Our inside jokes
(originally written 9/29/06)
Every couple has them or should have them. Things that only you two think are hilarious, things no one else could get.
I wish I could explain why each and every one of these lines would end up with Deb and me in hysterics, but dissecting humor, I think Woody Allen said, is like dissecting a frog. You find out how it works, but something is lost in the translation.
I'm going to miss having these easy laughs in my life. Yet another loss to mourn.
Here are some of ours.
1. "I don't wanna go to Epcot! I wanna go to the water park!"
2. "Smile. OK, now mean it."
3. "Let me think about it again. No. Wait, I've still got time to think about it again. No."
4. "Yeah, and Sarah isn't neurotic."
5. "Remind me to pick up some food for the coyotes on the way home."
6. "This one's from your mother." "How can you tell?"
7. "Dried fruit."
8. "What did you do to that cat?"
9. "It's a forest back there."
10. "Oops, I just said hail to the chief."
I'm not cynical enough to admit that in heaven, the first thing I want to hear when I get there is Deb saying, "I wanna go to the water park!" And my response will be, "Smile. OK, now mean it."
After that, it's all gravy.
Every couple has them or should have them. Things that only you two think are hilarious, things no one else could get.
I wish I could explain why each and every one of these lines would end up with Deb and me in hysterics, but dissecting humor, I think Woody Allen said, is like dissecting a frog. You find out how it works, but something is lost in the translation.
I'm going to miss having these easy laughs in my life. Yet another loss to mourn.
Here are some of ours.
1. "I don't wanna go to Epcot! I wanna go to the water park!"
2. "Smile. OK, now mean it."
3. "Let me think about it again. No. Wait, I've still got time to think about it again. No."
4. "Yeah, and Sarah isn't neurotic."
5. "Remind me to pick up some food for the coyotes on the way home."
6. "This one's from your mother." "How can you tell?"
7. "Dried fruit."
8. "What did you do to that cat?"
9. "It's a forest back there."
10. "Oops, I just said hail to the chief."
I'm not cynical enough to admit that in heaven, the first thing I want to hear when I get there is Deb saying, "I wanna go to the water park!" And my response will be, "Smile. OK, now mean it."
After that, it's all gravy.
Our freebie list
(originally written 9/27/06)
For the time being, I'm going to share little bits about our marriage, some of those things perhaps only we could appreciate. I didn't mean for this blog to become a shrine to what we had, but that's what it's become, and I don't apologize for it.
My wife and I had freebie lists. You know, people who if they turned up at our door and said to our spouse, "Come away with me for a weekend of wild abandon," we weren't allowed to object. We'd never do it, of course, but then again, the odds of these people showing up at our door was pretty slim to begin with, so it was more or less a moot point.
My wife's list was:
1. Johnny Depp
2. George Clooney
3. Ed Robertson of Barenaked Ladies
4. Any firefighter
5. Johnny Depp (he was allowed a repeat visit)
My list was a little more eccentric:
1. Bebe Neuwirth
2. The young Myrna Loy
3. Sarah Vowell (though we couldn't talk about God)
4. Allison Krauss
5. George Clooney
What can I say? Damn, that boy's charming.
For the time being, I'm going to share little bits about our marriage, some of those things perhaps only we could appreciate. I didn't mean for this blog to become a shrine to what we had, but that's what it's become, and I don't apologize for it.
My wife and I had freebie lists. You know, people who if they turned up at our door and said to our spouse, "Come away with me for a weekend of wild abandon," we weren't allowed to object. We'd never do it, of course, but then again, the odds of these people showing up at our door was pretty slim to begin with, so it was more or less a moot point.
My wife's list was:
1. Johnny Depp
2. George Clooney
3. Ed Robertson of Barenaked Ladies
4. Any firefighter
5. Johnny Depp (he was allowed a repeat visit)
My list was a little more eccentric:
1. Bebe Neuwirth
2. The young Myrna Loy
3. Sarah Vowell (though we couldn't talk about God)
4. Allison Krauss
5. George Clooney
What can I say? Damn, that boy's charming.
The cleanup and the gift
(originally written 9/23/06)
Tidying up after someone dies is a strange experience. On one level, it's sad and depressing. But it also brings up memories, mostly good ones. I could never describe the feeling when I stumbled upon my wife's wedding dress. The happiest day of my life came back to me as if it were yesterday instead of two years ago.
Selfishly, there's also an sick enjoyment of tossing out the things you've wanted to toss out but were afraid to because she didn't want you to. It's part of the danger of being married to a packrat. "Don't toss that out," she said about the Windows 98 disc. "I might need that"
"We haven't used Windows 98 in years!"
"So?" she'd reply, one word encapsulating her whole argument and the uselessness of my arguing with her. It's a talent only the married can understand.
I also stumbled upon a journal she kept when she was starting treatment for depression. I knew she was depressive when I met her, and it was a great accomplishment for me when I helped her begin treatment. It's only fair; months later she helped convince me to seek help, and it improved my life immeasurably. Anyway, in this journal, she talked about how unhappy she was, how her childhood had left her vulnerable to abuse, how awful her first marriage was, and how she felt she'd never fit in. The last line was, "I just want to be happy."
I spent the rest of the day hoping I had made her happy. She always said she was, but I couldn't help but wonder if I had really done enough. The regret of the survivor, I suppose.
I was cleaning out more of her stuff later that day and came upon a disposable camera we had bought for a dolphin sighting trip we had taken before she was diagnosed with cancer. The camera was two years old, and I had little hope anything could be recovered, but I took it to the drug store anyway.
When I got the photos back, there were the expected shots of dolphin fins and other boats. Then came the last photo. I remember she and I were re-enacting the "King of the World" scene from "Titanic." First there was me, looking goofy. Then the final picture was her.
I thought I had seen joy before. Elation. Happiness. Delight.
Her expression in this picture conveys a emotion beyond the poor abilities of a word to describe.
This picture, her final gift to me, is, I believe, her answer to my question. Yes, she tells me. I am happy.
I have stopped believing in coincidences.
Tidying up after someone dies is a strange experience. On one level, it's sad and depressing. But it also brings up memories, mostly good ones. I could never describe the feeling when I stumbled upon my wife's wedding dress. The happiest day of my life came back to me as if it were yesterday instead of two years ago.
Selfishly, there's also an sick enjoyment of tossing out the things you've wanted to toss out but were afraid to because she didn't want you to. It's part of the danger of being married to a packrat. "Don't toss that out," she said about the Windows 98 disc. "I might need that"
"We haven't used Windows 98 in years!"
"So?" she'd reply, one word encapsulating her whole argument and the uselessness of my arguing with her. It's a talent only the married can understand.
I also stumbled upon a journal she kept when she was starting treatment for depression. I knew she was depressive when I met her, and it was a great accomplishment for me when I helped her begin treatment. It's only fair; months later she helped convince me to seek help, and it improved my life immeasurably. Anyway, in this journal, she talked about how unhappy she was, how her childhood had left her vulnerable to abuse, how awful her first marriage was, and how she felt she'd never fit in. The last line was, "I just want to be happy."
I spent the rest of the day hoping I had made her happy. She always said she was, but I couldn't help but wonder if I had really done enough. The regret of the survivor, I suppose.
I was cleaning out more of her stuff later that day and came upon a disposable camera we had bought for a dolphin sighting trip we had taken before she was diagnosed with cancer. The camera was two years old, and I had little hope anything could be recovered, but I took it to the drug store anyway.
When I got the photos back, there were the expected shots of dolphin fins and other boats. Then came the last photo. I remember she and I were re-enacting the "King of the World" scene from "Titanic." First there was me, looking goofy. Then the final picture was her.
I thought I had seen joy before. Elation. Happiness. Delight.
Her expression in this picture conveys a emotion beyond the poor abilities of a word to describe.
This picture, her final gift to me, is, I believe, her answer to my question. Yes, she tells me. I am happy.
I have stopped believing in coincidences.
Debra A. Chong (8/23/65-9/11/06)
(originally written about six hours after Deb died. It was also read at her memorial service in Tampa and her funeral in Missouri)
I tried to keep my word. I told you I would get you through, and that nothing would ever hurt you again. I pray that I did it well.
I held your hand to the end. The last words you heard were my telling you "I love you" over and over again.
You were the answer to every prayer I've ever had, spoken and unspoken. You were the same kind of crazy as me, and we were clearly meant to be. You were my best friend, my co-conspirator, my analyst, my patient, my lover, my life, my wife.
If anyone ever tries to tell you true love doesn't exist, that there are no such things as soul mates, tell them they're fools.
I regret we didn't have enough time to do the things we said we would, like go to Alaska or go horseback riding again. I regret that I didn't marry you sooner. I regret that the word "love" isn't enough to contain the feelings I had for you. I regret that there isn't enough time contained in an eternity to fully express the things you were to me.
I regret I don't have the world's ear to grab to tell everyone how special you were. How the world is an emptier place for not having your laugh in it. How your inner beauty dazzled me, how even though you insisted you weren't "Cindy Crawford-beautiful," I could have spent my days happily watching your face light up from delight.
Your smile made me believe in heaven.
I am forever changed by you. I hereby devote the rest of my life to making you proud of me, to being the man you made me feel I could be.
I miss you.
Tim
I tried to keep my word. I told you I would get you through, and that nothing would ever hurt you again. I pray that I did it well.
I held your hand to the end. The last words you heard were my telling you "I love you" over and over again.
You were the answer to every prayer I've ever had, spoken and unspoken. You were the same kind of crazy as me, and we were clearly meant to be. You were my best friend, my co-conspirator, my analyst, my patient, my lover, my life, my wife.
If anyone ever tries to tell you true love doesn't exist, that there are no such things as soul mates, tell them they're fools.
I regret we didn't have enough time to do the things we said we would, like go to Alaska or go horseback riding again. I regret that I didn't marry you sooner. I regret that the word "love" isn't enough to contain the feelings I had for you. I regret that there isn't enough time contained in an eternity to fully express the things you were to me.
I regret I don't have the world's ear to grab to tell everyone how special you were. How the world is an emptier place for not having your laugh in it. How your inner beauty dazzled me, how even though you insisted you weren't "Cindy Crawford-beautiful," I could have spent my days happily watching your face light up from delight.
Your smile made me believe in heaven.
I am forever changed by you. I hereby devote the rest of my life to making you proud of me, to being the man you made me feel I could be.
I miss you.
Tim
The plot so far ...
For those who stumble onto this, here is my blog dedicated to my wife, Debra Chong, who died Sept. 11, 2006, from breast cancer. I've been writing stuff about her and us for the past several months on my other blog, The Plural Possessive. Unfortunately, I intended that blog to be more carefree and free-wheeling than a memorial site for Deb would be, so I've started this one.
What I've written about her will be moved from my old blog to this one, allowing me to get back to wacky stuff over there, and maintain the dignity Deb deserves over here. I will be writing stuff for both. It makes sense; I've always had a split personality/manic-depressive thing going on anyway.
So please, stick around and see what's going on, and I hope to introduce you to my girl, and hope to share why she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
What I've written about her will be moved from my old blog to this one, allowing me to get back to wacky stuff over there, and maintain the dignity Deb deserves over here. I will be writing stuff for both. It makes sense; I've always had a split personality/manic-depressive thing going on anyway.
So please, stick around and see what's going on, and I hope to introduce you to my girl, and hope to share why she was the most beautiful woman in the world.
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