New Year, Old Habits

I'll probably be at work tonight when 2008 bids adieu, so I won't be able to give my lady a toast with bubbly. But there will be fireworks downtown, so I'll be up there on the roof, raising a glass of whatever drinkable liquid I can find, watching the skyrockets and remembering when.

The tradition continues.

Five years ago ...

I proposed to Deb on Dec. 7, 2003.

It seems so strange to think it was only five. It's hard to believe so much could have happened between then and now. A wedding. A honeymoon. Moving to Florida. A whole marriage. Two cancer battles. A funeral. Mourning. Practically a whole lifetime.

Had I known what lay ahead, would I have still gotten on one knee and called her up the stairs back then?

Yup. Only a hell of a lot sooner.

I miss you, Sweetie.

Checking in

Hey, Sweetie.

On Thursday it will be two years since I lost you. How am I doing?

Eh. Let's talk about that later.

The cats are doing OK. I just gave them their monthly dose of flea medicine. It's harder to do that now that you're not here to hold them down. I have to be sneaky and hide the tubes in my pocket and catch them unawares. They resent me for a few minutes, but then I give them kitty treats and all is well again.

The house is still standing. I finally got around to putting up a shed in the back yard to replace the one we tore down. Yeah, I said "we." Even though I did all the work, I still give you credit for coming up with the plan to tie the support beam to the car and pull it down. You really missed your calling. You should've been a demolitions expert.

I had my appendix out in June. I really missed you then. I could've gotten some payback for all the times I filled your water bottles and brought you mac and cheese in bed. I guess I'll have to collect when I see you again someday.

Went to visit your grave a couple of weeks ago. The cousins are keeping it up nicely. Lots of mosquitoes, though. I suppose it keeps the tourists away, though.

OK, you want to know how am I doing? Well, I know I promised you I'd be OK, and I'd say most days I am. But there are times I'm not.

I went out on a date about a year ago, a little after the anniversary of your death. She was nice enough, but she wasn't you. No, that's not fair. It's not that she wasn't you. She just wasn't enough like you. She wasn't as sharp, or as whimsical, or as ..., well, it just wasn't right. I know I told you I'd keep my options open as far as getting involved with someone again, but the idea still seems as absurd to me today as it did when you suggested it. It's still too soon.

I still find myself setting aside time to talk to you. Well, I don't know if it's really you. It just may be the part of you that I carry around with me. We have some conversations, but it's getting harder to hear your voice when I do, so it may be getting to the point where I'm talking more to myself than to you, in which case I'll stop. I can talk to myself anytime.

The days I don't feel OK are mostly the ones where I stop to think about what could have been. I figured by now we would have gone to Ireland, would have gotten you that Mini Cooper, would have started talking about adopting ...

Instead, I'm here, and it's not quite where I planned to be.

But then again, neither are you.

In the grand karmic scale, somebody owes us both big time.

The important thing is I'm still here. Even if it's just to keep the cats fed, I'm still serving a purpose.

And I'm still keeping alive the memory that there once was a beautiful girl who for some crazy reason decided to love this weird guy.

Love you, Cutie.

Tim

4 years down the road

Happy anniversary, sweetie. I'd still trade all of my days without you, before and after, for any of the days we were together.

To sum it all up

It was the night after we found out Deb's cancer was not only not gone but was spreading. We were lying in bed together, and I was holding her.

"You know," I said, "and I don't want this to sound wrong, but even with you being sick, this has been the best two years of my life."

"Mine too," she said, "even though I could've done without being sick."

I've always been glad I said what I said, and that she said what she said. There's no better way we could've summed up our marriage.

The Lost Kitty

This long-haired cat showed up in the laundry room at Deb's apartment one day. Some people were feeding it, and a little girl named the cat Rachel.

The story goes that Rachel belonged to a family that moved and left her behind.

As always, Deb fell in love with the cat instantly, but knew she couldn't keep her with Boo Kitty around. This was before we lived together, so she coaxed me into taking her on a trial basis.

I wasn't a cat person. At least I didn't think I was. So I said I'd try it for a few days, and if it didn't work, off to the pound she'd go.

Deb, of course, was counting on the fact that I wouldn't have the heart to take the cat to the pound.

So Rachel and I became roommates. She was a pretty intuitive cat. She got lost when I didn't want to be bothered, but she wasn't shy about seeking attention. I made a bed for her out of a box and a blanket, but she found a spot on the foot of the bed to claim, and that became her spot. She, unlike most cats, slept at night, and when I woke up, she'd still be at the foot of the bed.

I bought her a couple of toys, but when I tried to play with her, she looked at me like, "You've got to be kidding."

Yeah, that was the moment I became a cat person.

The first week was fine. At the beginning of the second week, though, I noticed she wasn't eating. Then she stopped drinking. And there wasn't anything to scoop out of the litterbox.

I called Deb, and she said I was probably worrying over nothing, but if it went on for another day we'd take her to a vet.

It did, and off to the only vet we could find on a Sunday, the one at PetSmart.

A blood test confirmed the worst. Rachel's kidneys weren't functioning. We could try an expensive treatment, but there were no guarantees.

As Rachel's owner, the decision was mine, but Deb had to help me make it. So we put her down.

It was the first time Deb and I cried together. It wasn't the last.

After that, Deb would thank me for making Rachel's last days comfortable. I think it was an important step in her beginning to trust me.

I suppose looking back, there are parallels to our lives together and that cat. How I wasn't certain how it was going to go when I entered into it, but I came to cherish it quickly, only to find it was over much too soon.

But I don't want to reduce Rachel to a metaphor. She was the cat that brought Deb and I closer together, and even though we were only together for a short time, she played an important part in our lives.

Goodnight, Rachel.

I've got nothing

Being Valentine's Day, you'd think I'd have something to say today.

Nope.

We always said Valentine's Day is for amateurs, for those who can't say "I love you" the other 364.

That still goes.

That's all.

Open my eyes

You ever have something staring you in the face every day but you don't really see it?

On my desk is a silly piece of paper. It was left on my pillow one of the first nights after Deb and I moved in together. It's a picture of a heart with the words "I love you" written over it.

I glanced at it every once in a while, but tonight was the first time that I looked at it in a long time and paid attention to it.

It was written in pencil, pretty quickly. The writing is crooked, the heart isn't perfect. I guess she just decided on the spur of the moment to surprise me with a little note just before bed, because she knew she'd be asleep when I got home.

I stuck it up on my desk and it's been there ever since, through two moves. She even mentioned it once, about how silly it looked.

It's been up so long I stopped paying attention to it. It was just part of the room.

Tonight I looked at it and realized what it is.

It's what I thought I lost when her last phone message to me got erased. It's a permanent symbol of her telling me she loves me. And I've still got it.

Yes, there are losses. But there are some things you never lose.

The story never ends

I went on the Barenaked Ladies cruise again this year, and like last year I had one of those moments where I was acutely aware that someone who should have been there wasn't.

I was at the stern of the boat (that's the back end for you landlubbers), looking at the moon reflect off the water, and I missed Deb. She should have been there, and we should have been holding hands.

In an earlier post, you can read about how on last year's cruise I was missing her and somehow pictures of her turned up on my camera.

The next day, I was looking for my watch, which I stashed in the luggage after we got to the airport so I wouldn't have to worry about it going through security and I found this in the pocket of my suitcase:




It's the friendship ring I gave to her our second Christmas together to make up for the mood ring I gave her on the first.

Since she died, I have looked everywhere for it. I was going to put it with the engagement ring and wedding band in her ashes. Afterward, I presumed it got lost in one of the moves.

What are the odds it would turn up just when I needed to see it the most?

Even now, she amazes me.

I don't care who heard

I was on lap 12 on my bike today when "You and Me" by Lifehouse came on my MP3 player.

I stopped the bike at the bottom of the hill, where the river runs, and started singing.

What day is it, and in what month
This clock never seemed so alive
I can't keep up, and I can't back down
I've been losing so much time

The song was popular when Deb was sick the last time, and despite my denial and hopes that she was going to get better, when I heard this song I realized that there could be only a short time left, and it made me try to appreciate every moment we had.

Cause it's you and me, and all other people
With nothing to do, nothing to lose
And it's you and me, and all other people
And I don't know why I can't keep my eyes off of you

I told her this song reminded me of her because it really was how I felt when I looked at her. She would enter my line of sight, and she was all I could look at. Sometimes she'd look at me and ask what I was doing. I'd tell her I was just checking out my girl. She would say that she loved the way I looked at her because it made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. I told her that's because she was.

What are things that I want to say, just aren't coming out right
I'm tripping on words, you've got my head spinning
I don't know where to go from here

I started singing louder. I didn't care if anyone was around. I was singing to the river, the sky, the face in my mind.

Cause it's you and me and all other people
With nothing to do, nothing to prove
And it's you and me and all other people
And I don't know why, I can't keep my eyes off of you

I think she only heard the song once. When it was on the radio all the time, she wasn't driving a lot because she was sick and she wasn't working. I remember we were on our way to a doctor's appointment and it came on. I told her this was the song that made me think of her. She listened and said noncommittally, "That's nice."

There's something about you now
I can't quite figure out
Everything she does is beautiful
Everything she does is right

What can I say? She had different musical tastes than me. Doesn't change what I think about the song. Besides, it gave us stuff to argue about.

Cause it's you and me and all other people
With nothing to do, nothing to lose
And it's you and me and all other people
And I don't know why, I can't keep my eyes off of you

As I was pulling into the funeral home to deliver the clothes for Deb's funeral service, this song came on the radio. Ever since then, when I hear it, I think it's her, telling me she's thinking of me.

What day is it, and in what month
This clock never seemed so alive

New Year's Eve

At midnight I was on the porch with a picture of Deb and a glass of wine.

I promised her again that I would be OK and keep an open mind about falling in love again.

When the new year began, I gave her picture a kiss.

I'm writing this just in case anyone was afraid I didn't have anyone to kiss at midnight. Of course I did.

I had her.

What Christmas would've been like

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."