VD 2011

Wrote this on the topic three years ago. Can't top it.

Link

Another promise

I've said before there were three great promises in my life: I promised my dad I wouldn't be afraid of life; I said till death do us part; and I promised Deb I'd be OK after she was gone.

Actually, there are four.

When the hospice person came into the hospital room to talk to us before letting Deb go home the last time, among the questions was directed at me: "If something happens to your wife, do you think you might harm yourself?"

I answered as truthfully as I could: "I don't know."

And it was the truth. I didn't know what I would do. I'd never lost a wife before. Certainly never lost the only woman I'd ever loved before, the woman who'd become the center of my life, the person who'd become the way I defined myself. More than anything else in this world, I was her husband.

What would anyone do in those circumstances?

Did I think I would kill myself? I didn't think so. I had made that decision when I was 13, when I was standing in the bathroom with a razor blade and thought what was stopping me from doing it. I decided then that if nothing else, I couldn't put my mother through losing another child (I had an older brother who died of leukemia), so as long as she was alive I would never do that.

But this was a different situation all together, and right then, I honestly didn't know what I would do.

After the hospice person was gone, Deb turned to me and said, point blank, "I want you to promise me you won't hurt yourself."

First off, she knew I didn't make promises lightly. And she knew I'd never break a promise I'd make to her. So she knew what she was doing.

Of course I promised her. I could never say no to anything she wanted.

After she died and the hospice nurse and I cleaned her up, the nurse asked where Deb's pain medication was. Not really wondering why she asked, I told her, and she gathered it up. It wasn't till much later I realized she took it because of my answer to the first hospice person.

I could've told her not to worry about me hurting myself. I had already promised.

The fudge

I used to make fudge every year for Christmas. It started about 15 years ago when I needed to bring something to the office Christmas party. I discovered I had a talent for it. I would do it the old-fashioned way with sugar and not marshmallow creme.

Over the years, though trial and error, I added my own twists. I did a slow boil rather than a quick one to get the texture smoother. I experimented with how much vanilla to put in. I settled on pecans instead of walnuts. I got really good at making fudge.

Eventually, even though I took it into the office, I was doing it for myself because a) I was good at it; b) I got compliments and c) when I got it wrong I got to eat the mistakes.

Then Deb came along, and I started making the fudge for her. She looked forward to it, knowing not only she'd get to take it into her office and get the compliments, but knowing she'd share in the mistake batches and even scrape the bowl for every little bit of chocolaty goodness.

Then she was gone. I tried to make fudge that first year, but it wasn't right. I followed the recipe, tried all my tricks, but it just wasn't right.

I haven't made any since.

This year I made ginger snaps. I took them into the office, and when one co-worker saw I was handing out treats, he said, "All right, Chong made fudge!"

I had to tell him I hadn't. I hadn't made an announcement or anything that I wasn't making them because Deb was gone. I just sort of presumed people would figure it out on their own.

Then he started going on about the fudge. About how it was better than another co-worker's specialty. How he missed it.

And I'm thinking maybe it's time to make the fudge again.

It may be time to give it another try. It may not be the same as it was before. It may never be better than that. But it's probably time to see whether I still have the knack.

By the way, I'm not going for any metaphors here. I'm not trying to substitute "making fudge" for "going on a date" or "finding true love." I waited 35 years for the right one, and I'm prepared to wait another 35 for someone remotely comparable to her.

It's just ... maybe it's time.

The 2nd best birthday present

The best present, of course, was meeting Deb.

The second best was a Red Ryder BB gun. I was 25 at the time. Mom finally figured I was ready to handle the responsibility.

True story.

Over my shoulder

So last night I was watching "Good Will Hunting," which I hadn't seen in years, and it gets to the part where Robin Williams is cutting Matt Damon down to size for thinking he knows everything because he's read a lot. Everything was ok until he got to this line:

I'd ask you about love, you'd probably quote me a sonnet. But you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. Known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. Who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn't know what it's like to be her angel, to have that love for her, be there forever, through anything, through cancer. And you wouldn't know about sleeping sitting up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes, that the terms "visiting hours" don't apply to you. You don't know about real loss, 'cause it only occurs when you've loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you've ever dared to love anybody that much.

It leveled me to the ground, like the first 10 minutes of "Up" floors me. I had to turn off the movie. I spent the rest of the night mopish. If anyone else had been around, I wouldn't have been fun to be around.

Today I went to Big Cat Rescue. I've had a bug to see places around the area I haven't gotten around to seeing even though I've been here five years. I don't want to be like the guy who lives in New York his whole life and never gets to the Statue of Liberty.

I'm walking with the tour group, and suddenly I get a feeling someone's standing behind me over my left shoulder. I turn around and no one's there. I shrug and move on.

A couple of minutes later, it happens again. Again a shrug.

The third time it happens, it clicked.

I don't think I have to spell it out. She loved cats, especially big ones. And she never could stand to see me sad.

By the way, Big Cat Rescue is a great place. If you're ever in Tampa, it's a must see.

Four years on: 10 observations

1. I just realized today that Deb died five years after 9/11, so for the rest of my life the landmark anniversaries of that day, like next year's 10th, will also be a landmark for me, like next year's 5th. Since I'm bad with dates, this is frighteningly useful to me.

2. I often dream that Deb is still alive, and I always become aware of it being a dream. I always shrug and just go with it.

3. Four years can seem like an eternity and a moment at the same time. It seems like forever since I held her, but only a moment since we said goodbye.

4. The gas bill is still in her name. It was going to be a hassle to change it over, so I just left it. It don't bother them, it don't bother me.

5. I still watch movies and videos and think, "She would've loved this." The latest one: Disney's "Alice in Wonderland" synced to Pink Floyd's "The Wall." As both a Disney and a Floyd nut, she would approve.

6. After we got married, someone picked up the cloth rose petals that were tossed in front of her and gave them to us. Since then, whenever I take a vacation out of the country I leave a petal in each place I visit. So far, there are petals in Jamaica, Belize, Mexico, Grand Turk and Honduras.

7. Since we got married in my mom's trailer, we never really had a first dance. The only time I remember us dancing is at Barenaked Ladies concerts to "Call and Answer," so I guess that would be our song.

8. I've put away most of the stuff of hers I kept, but I always keep her coat on the coatrack by the door.

9. I still have the first present she ever got me: a book called "The Vigilantes of Montana." I have no idea why she thought I'd be interested in that. I've never read it.

10. I still wear a couple of her T-shirts.

Still miss you, Sweetie., and still love you.

Happy birthday, you

Hey, Sweetie.

You would've turned 45 today. And you wouldn't have appreciated me saying that officially makes you "my old lady." But I doubt you would've minded after we got back from Disney World and I took you to your favorite restaurant, The Front Porch, for dinner.

Best of all, we would've been one year closer to getting that place in Colorado, the one we could see the sun setting over the mountains from our own front porch, rocking the day away.

Miss you.
Tim

The best birthday present ever

I've told this story before, so I'm sorry if you've heard it, but it never gets old for me, so bear with me.

In June 2001 I moved from my hometown of Yuma, Arizona, to Colorado Springs to work at the Gazette. I don't make friends easily, so six months later when my birthday rolled around, I really only knew one person in town, my friend Sarah, who I had worked with in Yuma and had preceded me to the Gazette by a year or so. It being my first birthday away from my birthplace, I didn't want to just sit around the apartment, so I invited Sarah out to lunch. She was broke, so I offered to pay. The way my life had been going, paying for my own birthday lunch didn't see out of the ordinary.

I picked Olive Garden because having one in the same town was still a new thing to me. Ordinarily, I had to drive to Phoenix or San Diego to eat at one, so I still associated it with special events. We agreed to meet up there around 12:30.

I love Sarah. She has many fine qualities. Punctuality isn't one of them. So around 12:40, I was still waiting in the front area. I had told the greeter to hold off on seating me until she had arrived.

I was just sitting there when I heard someone call my name. I look up and see Erin, a reporter at the Gazette who had recently announced was leaving the paper to move to California. With her was someone I didn't know and didn't take much notice of at first.

Erin asked what I was doing, and I said I was waiting for Sarah. She and Sarah were friends, so she sympathized about her being late. She introduced me to her friend, whose name I didn't immediately remember because I'm lousy with names. Erin told me that she and her friend were having a goodbye lunch. I said, that's funny, it's my birthday, so it was a day for occasions.

About then, Sarah walked in. She and Erin chatted for a bit while I told the hostess that we're ready to be seated. Then it occurred to me that Erin and her friend, who I still hadn't paid much attention to, would be waiting for a while because they had just added their name to the list and I was near the top by this point. So I ask if they'd like to join us.

We get a booth, and I'm seated across from Erin's friend, and that was the first opportunity I had to get a good look at her. My first thought? She reminded me of the school teacher on "Little House on the Prairie." Not Miss Beadle. The other one. Eliza Jane.

(No, I never told her that. I never had the courage.)

My second thought was, "Nice eyes." I'm an eye person. I don't make eye contact easily, but when I do, I hold onto it. And she held my gaze too.

She wasn't getting into the conversation between Sarah and Erin, so I asked her a couple of questions and found out she had left the Gazette one month before I began. It was clear from the way she talked that she hadn't left under the happiest of conditions, but she wished me better luck there.

All the while, I kept taking in her face. Wicked chin. Sharp nose. Shy smile. At one point, Erin called her Deb, and this time I paid attention to the name. And I noticed the left hand was ringless.

At one point, Sarah excused herself. Knowing her, I figured she was going to tell the waitress it was my birthday so they'd sing to me. She did that, and they brought a small cake and sang whatever song it is they sing. It wasn't until I got the bill that I realized that the cake wasn't free. Not only had I paid for Sarah's lunch, I had paid for my own cake. (In her defense, she thought it was free and said she wouldn't have ordered it if she had known.)

So that was lunch. And it should have been the end of it, except I couldn't get Deb out of my mind. I thought, maybe, just maybe ...

I called Erin a two days later. She was packing to leave town. I asked her if she thought Deb would go out with me.

Her answer: "I don't know. She's a little strange."

My response: "I'm strange too. We'll get along great."

I got Deb's number from her, and it took me a half hour to work up the courage to use it. When I did, I got her answering machine. I had to go to work, so I did, and when I got there I had a pink message slip waiting in my inbox.

I still have it tacked to my bulletin board.

Deb, it turns out, had thought I was a nice guy, but she thought I was "with" Sarah, and so hadn't thought about asking me out. We made a lunch date, and the rest is history.

So despite the fact that she had left the Gazette a month before I got there, I met my future wife because I had picked Olive Garden, Sarah was late and Erin and Deb had decided to have a farewell lunch. Another reason I don't believe in coincidences anymore.

And that is how I got the best birthday present ever.

9/11

Deb died on Sept. 11, knowing, I'm sure, that it was the best way to make sure I wouldn't forget the date.

She phoned me on Sept. 11, 2001, to tell me the first tower had been hit. Shortly after I turned the TV on, I saw the second tower get hit. So even from the start, the worst day in our lifetimes was a part of our story.

And I know the same woman who loved to tell people that Ronald Reagan nearly ruined our wedding would get a big kick out of my telling people she died on 9/11. "Just don't tell them the year," she'd tell me before giggling.

So even though you'll never see it on a memorial at Ground Zero or hear it as they call out the names of the victims, you can say you heard about the one 9/11 casualty who died in Tampa.

Just don't tell them the year.

On its way

Happy birthday, sweetie!

Told you I wouldn't forget. Wish you were here. The cosmos still owes us bigtime.

Yes, sweetheart ...

I won't forget your birthday this year. I made that mistake once, and you never let me live it down. It's bad enough to think I already face an eternity of "You were going to go to a baseball game without me on MY birthday" without compounding the mistake.

And this year I'll try to not get the balloon bouquet stuck in a tree. OK?

Pride

I was watching "Pride of the Yankees" over the weekend and, of course, stayed with it to the end with Lou Gehrig saying he'd been given a bad break, but "Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth."

Though I won't claim to have that kind of courage, I will say I understand what he meant.

Sure, Deb dying was the worst thing that has ever, and is likely ever, to happen to me. And I may never truly recover from it.

But for the briefest of moments, I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I was supposed to be her husband, her friend, her caretaker, her patient, her lover, her love.

How many people can truly say they were in the right place at the right time? I can.

I'm a lucky bastard.

Five years ago ...

I was standing in a sweltering trailer (someone had kicked the air conditioning vent closed) scared out of my wits, standing in front of a bunch of relatives, wondering what the hell I was doing.

What did I really know about the woman I was about to marry? I mean, sure, we had lived together for about two years, but so what? People got divorced after living together. What chance did we really have?

Then she stepped into the room, and she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. And for some reason, she was willing to get up in front of a bunch of my relatives and say that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with me.

We didn't know then that the rest of her life was only a little over two years. But that wouldn't have mattered.

Because when I saw her that day, I was certain I was doing the right thing, and five years later, I'm still certain it was.

I love you still, sweetie.

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.