I know I go on and on about Deb and me like we were 100% compatible. For the most part, we were. We really were. We had our disagreements, but we never went to bed angry, and we had our areas where we agreed to disagree.
One of them was music.
We kept the radio in the car set on classic rock stations, a good safe middle ground. If I ventured to the hard rock station, she'd tune it out. If she ventured to the easy listening station, I tuned it out. Not that I dislike easy listening, but she had a better appreciation of it. Same with hard rock. She liked Guns n' Roses, but not so much Metallica. Let's not get started on the Beastie Boys, except to say I think they're geniuses and she didn't.
I figure the best way to know a person's music taste these days is to go through their iPod and see what comes up. Unfortunately, that won't work with her because I picked most of the songs on her iPod. She never got around to learning how to program songs on it. I bought her an iTunes card, but she never used it herself. After we saw "Wicked" she wanted the cast recording, so I used the card to get that. Otherwise, her only request was I put on the soundtrack to "Amadeus" so she could have some Mozart to listen to when she was getting her chemo. I filled the rest of it with 80s music, Pat Benatar and Bette Midler, because I knew she liked that stuff.
Here's some of her CDs. Maybe that will give some insight.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, The Best Of George Michael"
She still had a George Michael t-shirt when I went through her belongings. She saw him on the Faith tour and called it one of the best shows she ever saw. And she didn't care if he was gay, she still thought he was cute.
"Crimes of Passion," "Go" -- Pat Benatar
I think if she could have been somebody else, Deb would have been Benatar. We went to see her perform, and Deb didn't sit down for one song. I couldn't stop her if I wanted to. "Dance like no one's watching," that was her motto.
"Gloria Estafan Greatest Hits," "1's" -- Mariah Carey
Deb's not-so-secret wish was to be a diva.
"Jagged Little Pill," "Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie" -- Alanis Morissette
After her first marriage, a little man-hating music isn't a surprise.
"Cracked Rear View" -- Hootie and the Blowfish
This one's in everyone's CD collection, isn't it? I think it's a law.
"Bigger, Better, Faster, More!" -- 4 Non Blondes
Is there a woman who lived through the 1990s and didn't sing along to "What's Up"? If there was, I don't want to meet her.
"Parental Advisory Explicit Lyrics" -- George Carlin
This one surprised me. I think I only heard her use the F-word maybe five times. Go f----in' figure.
"Sheryl Crow," "The Globe Sessions" -- Sheryl Crow
I lent these to her when we was dating. She never gave them back. I married her so I could get them back.
OK, not JUST for that, but I can't deny it was a plus.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Friday, March 23, 2007
Things I learned from Deb
Aside from teaching me what true love was like, she passed along some helpful hints and little-known bits I hereby pass along:
1. Looking for a good place to eat? Look for the cop cars.
Well, not with the lights flashing. She meant police officers know where to get a good meal and good service, because when they're on patrol they don't have a lot of time to stop and eat. When you find a place they frequent, it's a good sign the food is good enough to bring them back and the service is fast enough to get them on their way.
2. The human brain is gray and can pop out of the head.
She was a police reporter in Miami, and she sometimes would describe the scene after a guy jumped off a building. The brain, which was a few yards away from the rest of the body, was the part of the story that stayed with her.
3. When a horse has his ears back, he's unhappy.
She knew her way around a horse, and knew this was a tipoff of an unhappy creature. Watching old Westerns, I can see there were a lot of unhappy horses in Hollywood.
4. Pink Floyd can control the weather.
She went to see them in the 90s in Miami, and it started to rain, and it let up just as they were finishing "Dark Side of the Moon." Right on cue. Better than a light show.
5. Katie Couric is evil.
In 1999, Deb went to Columbine to cover the massacre. It was first thing in the morning, cold as hell, and she hadn't had her coffee. She went over to the NBC crew to ask for a cup. Couric was there and acting like a prima donna. I don't know if Couric personally refused to give her a cup or if Deb just witnessed her being a witch, but after that Deb detested the woman. And if you diss my lady, you've made an enemy in me. So Katie is evil.
1. Looking for a good place to eat? Look for the cop cars.
Well, not with the lights flashing. She meant police officers know where to get a good meal and good service, because when they're on patrol they don't have a lot of time to stop and eat. When you find a place they frequent, it's a good sign the food is good enough to bring them back and the service is fast enough to get them on their way.
2. The human brain is gray and can pop out of the head.
She was a police reporter in Miami, and she sometimes would describe the scene after a guy jumped off a building. The brain, which was a few yards away from the rest of the body, was the part of the story that stayed with her.
3. When a horse has his ears back, he's unhappy.
She knew her way around a horse, and knew this was a tipoff of an unhappy creature. Watching old Westerns, I can see there were a lot of unhappy horses in Hollywood.
4. Pink Floyd can control the weather.
She went to see them in the 90s in Miami, and it started to rain, and it let up just as they were finishing "Dark Side of the Moon." Right on cue. Better than a light show.
5. Katie Couric is evil.
In 1999, Deb went to Columbine to cover the massacre. It was first thing in the morning, cold as hell, and she hadn't had her coffee. She went over to the NBC crew to ask for a cup. Couric was there and acting like a prima donna. I don't know if Couric personally refused to give her a cup or if Deb just witnessed her being a witch, but after that Deb detested the woman. And if you diss my lady, you've made an enemy in me. So Katie is evil.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Movie time
In no particular order, some of Deb's favorite movies:
"True Grit" -- She was raised with horses and she loved Westerns, and she agreed with me that John Wayne was underrated as an actor.
"Benny & Joon" -- Johnny Depp.
"Chocolat" -- Johnny Depp.
"Pirates of the Carribean" -- Orlando ... nah, just kidding. You know who.
"Lady and the Tramp" -- She loved Disney movies, including "Sleeping Beauty," "Bambi" and "Cinderella," but she especially loved this one because of the Siamese cats.
"Dracula" -- The original Bela Lugosi one.
But her all-time, beyond-any-doubt favorite movies?
First, The Wizard of Oz. I think she really wanted to be Judy Garland when she grew up.
But most of all, "Breakfast at Tiffany's." When we took a trip to L.A., she insisted we go to Rodeo Drive, and when we found out there was a cafe in front of the Tiffany's there, she further insisted we eat there. We had $15 salads, so she could say she had brunch at Tiffany's.
What's to explain? The heroine is an independent, free-spirited romantic with a cat. That's my Deb. If they made a movie about her life, it's just too bad Audrey Hepburn isn't around to be in it.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
The Dream
In my support group, the others all talked about The Dream.
Most of them had dreamt that their loved one had come back in a dream so vivid, they were sure it wasn't a dream. They knew it was more than a dream ... it was a visit.
I listened to these stories and wished I could have The Dream.
This morning, I did.
There she was, as real as the keyboard I'm typing on. I took her hand to kiss it, but instead she pressed it to her lips first, then I kissed her hand.
Then I just gazed at her face for a while. It took me a moment to realize it was the same, but different. She wasn't the cancer-worn woman she was when we parted, but she was young again, without a wrinkle, without a care.
I reached up and caressed her cheek, and I ran my thumb along her chin. She smiled.
I told her I'd like nothing more in the world than to hold her again, and we hugged.
That's when my brain started kicking in. I started telling myself this was a dream. It felt real, but it was a dream. Maybe it was time for her to go.
I woke up smiling.
Most of them had dreamt that their loved one had come back in a dream so vivid, they were sure it wasn't a dream. They knew it was more than a dream ... it was a visit.
I listened to these stories and wished I could have The Dream.
This morning, I did.
There she was, as real as the keyboard I'm typing on. I took her hand to kiss it, but instead she pressed it to her lips first, then I kissed her hand.
Then I just gazed at her face for a while. It took me a moment to realize it was the same, but different. She wasn't the cancer-worn woman she was when we parted, but she was young again, without a wrinkle, without a care.
I reached up and caressed her cheek, and I ran my thumb along her chin. She smiled.
I told her I'd like nothing more in the world than to hold her again, and we hugged.
That's when my brain started kicking in. I started telling myself this was a dream. It felt real, but it was a dream. Maybe it was time for her to go.
I woke up smiling.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Six months later ...
Once upon a time, there was a boy and a girl. They found each other and fell in love. Then the girl got sick, and she died. The boy was very sad.
I'm still working on the ending.
I'm still working on the ending.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Some Infrequently Asked Questions
Q. When did you and Deb meet, move in together, get married, etc.?
A. A brief timeline:
Dec. 8, 2000 -- Deb and I meet on my birthday at Olive Garden when we show up separately with friends.
Dec. 10 -- After spending a couple of days working up some nerve, I ask our friend Erin for her phone number. After spending an hour working up more nerve, I call her. She's not home. I go to work and find that she has called me while I was driving in. We make a lunch date.
Shortly after -- We have the lunch date. Seems to me it was a Monday.
2001 -- We date frequently, but since she is distrustful of men after a series of bad relationships, we start out as friends. I start showing up at her place on Sunday afternoons with bagels and we read the newspaper together. I meet her mother. Deb and I go ice skating, the only time we did that. Her mother and sister visit. Sometime that summer I tell her I love her. It takes her a while to believe me. Eventually, she does.
New Year's Eve 2001 -- We ... um ... start a tradition. Use your imagination.
March 2002 -- Her car is repossessed. Our first real crisis. I help her find a used car.
Juneish 2002 -- Deb has been working days while I've been working nights. We have little time together. I make a fateful decision: I ask her to shack up with me. She agrees. We find a house and agree to split the rent. Then on the day we are to sign the lease, she is let go from her job. Undaunted, we find a cheaper place and move in together.
New Year's Eve 2002 -- The tradition continues.
January 2003 -- Deb finds a new job. She keeps it until we leave Colorado.
Spring 2003 -- We visit Disneyland.
Sometime in fall -- We visit my mother. She approves of Deb.
Dec. 7, 2003 -- I propose. She accepts.
Shortly thereafter -- I have the panic attack to end all panic attacks.
Dec. 24, 2003 -- We nearly break up after I tell her about my doubts, but we decide to take it five minutes at a time.
New Year's Eve 2003 -- Yada yada yada.
June 13, 2004 -- We get married.
August 2004 -- We honeymoon at Disney World. We might as well have stayed, because ...
October 2004 -- I quit my job in Colorado and we move to Florida. We find a small rental house.
New Year's Eve: "Skyrockets in flight ... "
March 2005 -- During a visit to her ob-gyn, a lump is discovered in Deb's breast.
A couple of weeks after that: Deb is hospitalized with a bad cold. During her stay, the lump is biopsied, and found to be malignant.
Shortly after that -- She undergoes weeks of chemotherapy to shrink the mass.
June 2005 -- Deb has a mastectomy.
July and August 2005 -- She undergoes radiation treatment.
September 2005 -- Thinking the cancer is licked, we start house shopping.
November 2005 -- We move into our house.
Late December 2005 -- Nodes reappear on Deb's chest wall. We know it's bad news.
New Year's Eve 2005 -- The tradition is broken. She doesn't feel well enough to even go to a Barenaked Ladies concert. At her insistance I go alone, and have a miserable time.
February 2006 -- She's hospitalized with breathing problems and restarts chemo.
Through September -- She is hospitalized twice more. We go to Disney World one last time when my friend Matt brings his family.
Sept. 11 -- She dies.
Q. Deb was married before?
A. Yes. She didn't like to talk about him. From what I understand, after they got married, he quit his job and moved them in with his mother, who thought he could do no wrong. He also expected her to support them on her salary. They divorced after less than a year. I've never met the man, and if I did, I'd injure him badly, and if I couldn't, I'd pay someone to do it. Seriously.
Q. What is your favorite memory of Deb?
A. The way she looked at me on our wedding day.
Q. What would you change if you could?
A. Besides her getting sick and dying? I'd have married her sooner. She hinted that she wanted to for months before I proposed. I should have taken her up on it.
Q. When was your first kiss?
A. On the ice rink in Colorado Springs.
Q. Did you guys fight?
A. We never had a screaming match. When we got angry, we went to our separate corners until we cooled down, then we talked it out. We never went to bed angry.
Q. Would you, knowing all the pain you'd have to endure, do it all over again?
A. Hell, yeah.
A. A brief timeline:
Dec. 8, 2000 -- Deb and I meet on my birthday at Olive Garden when we show up separately with friends.
Dec. 10 -- After spending a couple of days working up some nerve, I ask our friend Erin for her phone number. After spending an hour working up more nerve, I call her. She's not home. I go to work and find that she has called me while I was driving in. We make a lunch date.
Shortly after -- We have the lunch date. Seems to me it was a Monday.
2001 -- We date frequently, but since she is distrustful of men after a series of bad relationships, we start out as friends. I start showing up at her place on Sunday afternoons with bagels and we read the newspaper together. I meet her mother. Deb and I go ice skating, the only time we did that. Her mother and sister visit. Sometime that summer I tell her I love her. It takes her a while to believe me. Eventually, she does.
New Year's Eve 2001 -- We ... um ... start a tradition. Use your imagination.
March 2002 -- Her car is repossessed. Our first real crisis. I help her find a used car.
Juneish 2002 -- Deb has been working days while I've been working nights. We have little time together. I make a fateful decision: I ask her to shack up with me. She agrees. We find a house and agree to split the rent. Then on the day we are to sign the lease, she is let go from her job. Undaunted, we find a cheaper place and move in together.
New Year's Eve 2002 -- The tradition continues.
January 2003 -- Deb finds a new job. She keeps it until we leave Colorado.
Spring 2003 -- We visit Disneyland.
Sometime in fall -- We visit my mother. She approves of Deb.
Dec. 7, 2003 -- I propose. She accepts.
Shortly thereafter -- I have the panic attack to end all panic attacks.
Dec. 24, 2003 -- We nearly break up after I tell her about my doubts, but we decide to take it five minutes at a time.
New Year's Eve 2003 -- Yada yada yada.
June 13, 2004 -- We get married.
August 2004 -- We honeymoon at Disney World. We might as well have stayed, because ...
October 2004 -- I quit my job in Colorado and we move to Florida. We find a small rental house.
New Year's Eve: "Skyrockets in flight ... "
March 2005 -- During a visit to her ob-gyn, a lump is discovered in Deb's breast.
A couple of weeks after that: Deb is hospitalized with a bad cold. During her stay, the lump is biopsied, and found to be malignant.
Shortly after that -- She undergoes weeks of chemotherapy to shrink the mass.
June 2005 -- Deb has a mastectomy.
July and August 2005 -- She undergoes radiation treatment.
September 2005 -- Thinking the cancer is licked, we start house shopping.
November 2005 -- We move into our house.
Late December 2005 -- Nodes reappear on Deb's chest wall. We know it's bad news.
New Year's Eve 2005 -- The tradition is broken. She doesn't feel well enough to even go to a Barenaked Ladies concert. At her insistance I go alone, and have a miserable time.
February 2006 -- She's hospitalized with breathing problems and restarts chemo.
Through September -- She is hospitalized twice more. We go to Disney World one last time when my friend Matt brings his family.
Sept. 11 -- She dies.
Q. Deb was married before?
A. Yes. She didn't like to talk about him. From what I understand, after they got married, he quit his job and moved them in with his mother, who thought he could do no wrong. He also expected her to support them on her salary. They divorced after less than a year. I've never met the man, and if I did, I'd injure him badly, and if I couldn't, I'd pay someone to do it. Seriously.
Q. What is your favorite memory of Deb?
A. The way she looked at me on our wedding day.
Q. What would you change if you could?
A. Besides her getting sick and dying? I'd have married her sooner. She hinted that she wanted to for months before I proposed. I should have taken her up on it.
Q. When was your first kiss?
A. On the ice rink in Colorado Springs.
Q. Did you guys fight?
A. We never had a screaming match. When we got angry, we went to our separate corners until we cooled down, then we talked it out. We never went to bed angry.
Q. Would you, knowing all the pain you'd have to endure, do it all over again?
A. Hell, yeah.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
A little rambling on the relativity of time
It's been six months since Deb passed away, but it feels like yesterday and 100 years ago all at the same time.
I can still feel her head under my chin. I can still feel her hand in mine. I can still remember what it felt like to run my thumb along her chin when caressed her cheek. I can even feel her squeezing my tush if I stop and think about it.
But it seems like forever since she's been gone, since I held her, since we kissed.
It felt like that when we were together. We only knew each other for 5 3/4 years, but it always felt like we'd been together forever and that we had just met. Then, it was a good feeling. Now, not so much.
I used to go into stores, see things I know she liked and automatically think, "Deb would really like that," then have to stop myself from getting it. Now I find myself thinking, "Deb would have liked that" more often.
Slowly, painfully, she's becoming past tense.
Some things have become easier. I can listen to songs we used to sing to in the car without automatically breaking into tears. I can talk about her without having to excuse myself for a good cry. I even went to Disney World by myself and didn't spend the whole time thinking about who should have been sitting next to me.
I've even started getting used to coming home and not finding her in the recliner, watching "Countdown with Keith Olbermann."
But I haven't stopped missing her.
I can still feel her head under my chin. I can still feel her hand in mine. I can still remember what it felt like to run my thumb along her chin when caressed her cheek. I can even feel her squeezing my tush if I stop and think about it.
But it seems like forever since she's been gone, since I held her, since we kissed.
It felt like that when we were together. We only knew each other for 5 3/4 years, but it always felt like we'd been together forever and that we had just met. Then, it was a good feeling. Now, not so much.
I used to go into stores, see things I know she liked and automatically think, "Deb would really like that," then have to stop myself from getting it. Now I find myself thinking, "Deb would have liked that" more often.
Slowly, painfully, she's becoming past tense.
Some things have become easier. I can listen to songs we used to sing to in the car without automatically breaking into tears. I can talk about her without having to excuse myself for a good cry. I even went to Disney World by myself and didn't spend the whole time thinking about who should have been sitting next to me.
I've even started getting used to coming home and not finding her in the recliner, watching "Countdown with Keith Olbermann."
But I haven't stopped missing her.
Monday, February 12, 2007
Things I miss this Valentines Day (and every day)
- Deb's saying, "I love you, sweetie."
- Her saying, "Honey, I'm hooooome!"
- Her smile.
- The fake smile she gave when I told her to smile.
- The even faker smile she gave when I told her to mean it.
- Her kiss.
- The way her hand felt on mine.
- The mole.
- Her hugs.
- The feeling when she'd keep hugging me when I would stop.
- The feeling I had when I didn't want to stop hugging when she did.
- The whistle she gave when she caught me on the way to the shower.
- Her "puppy dog eyes" look.
- Her "hur-hur-hur" laugh.
- Her girlish giggle.
- Her naughty giggle.
- Any of her laughs.
- Her blue eyes.
- The look she gave me that made me feel like I was the only man in the world.
- The joking way she said, "Yes, dear," like a old lady.
- Her booty.
- The way she said, "Thank you for putting up with me," like it was a hardship.
- The feel of her caress on my face as I'd lean in for a kiss.
- The way she'd prance when she pretended to be a model.
- Her singing in the car, especially during "Bohemian Rhapsody," when she'd sing the high parts and I'd sing bass.
- The way my hand felt when I slipped it under her leg while I was driving.
- Her dancing.
- The way she'd sing at concerts, like she didn't care if anyone else was around.
- The way we'd dance during "Call and Answer" at Barenaked Ladies concerts.
- Folding her clothes when I did the laundry.
- Watching her sleep.
- The way the top of her head felt under my chin when she stood in front of me.
- Her karaoke dance (it's impossible to describe ... it was full-body singing)
- Her giggle when I nibbled on her ear.
- Her cooking.
- The way she'd scratch my back.
- That almost invisible scar she had near her upper lip where she had a mole removed.
- The way she'd get obsessed over one videogame and play it constantly, then just drop it one day.
- How she'd start knitting projects then set them aside and never finish them. The important thing was she kept trying.
- The way she'd always say, "I miss the kitties," whenever we were gone from the house more than a couple of hours.
- The way she'd say "I miss Boo," ever since that cat died.
- The way she'd call for capital punishment for people who abused their animals on those animal rescue shows on "Animal Planet."
- Washing her back.
- Filling her water bottle when she was too weak to get out of bed.
- The way she flashed her 1/2-carat engagement ring around like it was 20 carats.
- How she'd go with me to baseball games, even though she wasn't even sure what teams were on the field.
- Fixing her coffee, and how she'd tell me I made a mean cup of coffee for someone who didn't drink it himself.
- The way she'd wiggle her eyebrows when she said something naughty.
- Having someone who knows why "You look good in anything" is the all-purpose answer to all of life's questions.
- The way she'd whine, "Awww, Riiiicky!" after I'd say, "Looocy, you got some 'splainin' to do!"
- Opening the car door for her.
- Telling each other, "Valentine's Day is for amateurs."
- Fixing her ramen.
- The way she'd sing along with the Winnie the Pooh ride at Disney World.
- The way she stuffed her jacket pockets with things because she didn't want to carry a purse.
- The way she'd play on the computer until it was almost time to go to work even though I'd nag her about the time, and she'd have me microwave a Hot Pocket as she hopped in the shower to gobble before she went to work.
- Calling her "Girlie-Girl."
- Her saying "Mini Cooper" every time we passed one.
- The way she'd have me fill out an Amazon wish list so she'd know what to get me for Christmas.
- Her trying to explain soap opera storylines to me when I was silly enough to ask what was going on.
- Buying her DVDs she said she wanted but she'd never open them.
- Having her pick out clothes for me at the store.
- Having her thank me by saying, "You're the bestest hubby in the world, you know that?"
- Finding a strand of her hair on my clothes.
- How Kraft macaroni and cheese was her favorite dish.
- Her snoring.
- How she delighted in telling gruesome tales from her days on the crime beat at the Miami Herald, then would coo over a cat food commercial.
- How she called soap operas "her stories," like she was an 80-year-old woman.
- Standing next to her at our bedroom window in Colorado Springs, watching the fireworks off Pikes Peak on New Years Eve.
- Waking up beside her and us vowing never to leave the bed ever again.
- Calling her on my dinner break, even if there was nothing to talk about.
- Holding her jacket when she went clothes shopping, and her telling me, "At least I'm not making you play Purse Boy."
- Hearing her exclaim "Tigger!" when we spotted him at Disney World.
- Finding her staring at me, and when I asked her why, she'd say, "I'm checking out my hubby. Nothing wrong with that, is there?"
- Staring at her, and when she asked me why, I'd say, "I'm checking out my girl. Nothing wrong with that, is there?"
- How half a glass of wine would get her tipsy.
- Having her tell me, "If it wasn't for you, I'd be curled up in a ball somewhere," and knowing the same was true for me.
- Waiting up til midnight on Christmas Eve to open presents.
- Hearing her whine, "I don't wanna go to work. I only go because they pay me. If they didn't pay me, I wouldn't go."
- Our ritual when I came home from work. Her: "How was your day?" Me: "WAAAAAH!!!" Her: "Same as usual, huh?"
- How she had a couple dozen pairs of shoes, but always ended up wearing the $6 pair from Wal-Mart.
- How she'd refer to our current president as "The Moron" or "The Idiot."
- Watching her guzzle down bottled water like a camel.
- Having her correct me when I told her she guzzled down bottled water like a camel, because camels can go for months without water and can store up to 20 gallons, and therefore don't need to guzzle water.
- Her fuzzy black jacket.
- Her talking about how we were going to do things "in 10 or 12 years," even towards the end.
- Having her say, "Do you want to be left alone?" and having her understand when the answer was "Yes."
- Hearing about her dreams.
- Telling her, "You make me happy."
- Her smell on the pillow.
- Slipping my hand into her back pocket.
- Having her sleep while I drove, knowing it meant she trusted me.
- Knowing to hand her six packets of sugar whenever she asked for it in a restaurant, because I knew that's how many she put in her coffee.
- Having her tell me, "How did I get so lucky?"
- Her "Huked On Fonix Werked Fur Mee!" T-shirt.
- Watching her with small children.
- Running my thumb over her chin when I held her face.
- Her nibbling on my ear.
- The feel of her head on my shoulder.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Black suits and white lies
I told a white lie.
I was on the cruise, and found myself tired of being a widower, so I told a white lie.
I was tired of trying to figure out how to work the words, "My wife passed away," into every conversation. Especially when I was trying to meet new people. I felt like I was wearing a "Pity Me" T-shirt.
The final straw was when I met a perfectly nice woman. Under normal circumstances, I would have ... well, I can't say I'd make a pass at her, because I'm socially handicapped, but I'd have at least asked if she wanted to get a drink. Then I found myself uttering those magic words, and boom, the timber of the conversation changed. It was no longer an introduction, it was a sympathy session.
I've got too much pride to try to use Deb's death as leverage. I would never try to get someone to feel sorry for me so I could get them to go out with me or to do anything for me. But it's also an unavoidable fact. Why was I by myself? Why was the reservation for two but I was alone? Plus, I'm perfectly willing to tell people about Deb; she was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I'm proud to say I was married to her.
But sometimes, I want to take the black suit off and just be me. Or whoever it is I'm becoming since I'm not Deb's husband any more.
So when it came time to dispense of the extra concert ticket I had, when I found someone who needed one, I simply said, "It's my wife's. She can't make it."
Technically, it's true. Plus whoever got the ticket didn't have to know they were using a dead woman's ticket, because that thought might have made them uncomfortable. Plus I got in a conversation that didn't include the words, "I'm sorry."
Besides, Deb probably appreciated the mental acrobatics of it. She and I used to agree that fast food hamburgers are the perfect meal because all the food groups are represented: meat, dairy, grains and vegetables.
So I told a white lie. Big deal.
I was on the cruise, and found myself tired of being a widower, so I told a white lie.
I was tired of trying to figure out how to work the words, "My wife passed away," into every conversation. Especially when I was trying to meet new people. I felt like I was wearing a "Pity Me" T-shirt.
The final straw was when I met a perfectly nice woman. Under normal circumstances, I would have ... well, I can't say I'd make a pass at her, because I'm socially handicapped, but I'd have at least asked if she wanted to get a drink. Then I found myself uttering those magic words, and boom, the timber of the conversation changed. It was no longer an introduction, it was a sympathy session.
I've got too much pride to try to use Deb's death as leverage. I would never try to get someone to feel sorry for me so I could get them to go out with me or to do anything for me. But it's also an unavoidable fact. Why was I by myself? Why was the reservation for two but I was alone? Plus, I'm perfectly willing to tell people about Deb; she was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I'm proud to say I was married to her.
But sometimes, I want to take the black suit off and just be me. Or whoever it is I'm becoming since I'm not Deb's husband any more.
So when it came time to dispense of the extra concert ticket I had, when I found someone who needed one, I simply said, "It's my wife's. She can't make it."
Technically, it's true. Plus whoever got the ticket didn't have to know they were using a dead woman's ticket, because that thought might have made them uncomfortable. Plus I got in a conversation that didn't include the words, "I'm sorry."
Besides, Deb probably appreciated the mental acrobatics of it. She and I used to agree that fast food hamburgers are the perfect meal because all the food groups are represented: meat, dairy, grains and vegetables.
So I told a white lie. Big deal.
Friday, January 19, 2007
No coincidences
So I've just gotten back from a cruise with the Barenaked Ladies. I go to Wednesday's acoustic set and take a lot of pictures with my digital camera. Of course, the batteries die out about halfway through, and I didn't bring spares.
Rewind to the night before. I was alone in my cabin, watching the ocean wave past my window. In the darkness, I can see Deb lying on the bed, looking at me. I tell her I miss her, that I wish she was here, having fun with me. I once again make what has become an almost involuntary gesture: I wish for a sign.
I don't believe in astrology. I think Nostradamus was high on something and wrote really bad poetry. But I do believe in signs, and I don't believe in coincidences.
I think God, the universe, karma, whoever or whatever is in charge of things does communicate with us, if we're willing to pay attention. I think these messages sometimes take the form of what we've come to call "coincidences." Like when the radio plays a song you were just thinking about, or a friend calls you just when you needed to hear a friendly voice.
That night in the cabin, I wished again for a sign that Deb was all right, that I would be all right, that things would be ... all right.
When you get into a situation like mine, everyone tells you things will work out. And it's true, things WILL work out. The only problem is they don't FEEL like they're going to work out until they actually DO work out. Before then, anyone who tells you that sounds like an idiot.
Flash forward. I go back to the cabin and hook up my camera to my laptop, hoping to salvage the few photos I was able to take before the batteries died.
The concert photos weren't there. What was there was a picture of Deb and some of our cats, back after I had brought her home from one of several hospital stays.
I vaguely remember taking the photos, but that was 10 months ago, and I had wiped the memory card clean several times since then.
So ... she's all right. I'm going to be all right. Things will be all right.
No coincidences.
Rewind to the night before. I was alone in my cabin, watching the ocean wave past my window. In the darkness, I can see Deb lying on the bed, looking at me. I tell her I miss her, that I wish she was here, having fun with me. I once again make what has become an almost involuntary gesture: I wish for a sign.
I don't believe in astrology. I think Nostradamus was high on something and wrote really bad poetry. But I do believe in signs, and I don't believe in coincidences.
I think God, the universe, karma, whoever or whatever is in charge of things does communicate with us, if we're willing to pay attention. I think these messages sometimes take the form of what we've come to call "coincidences." Like when the radio plays a song you were just thinking about, or a friend calls you just when you needed to hear a friendly voice.
That night in the cabin, I wished again for a sign that Deb was all right, that I would be all right, that things would be ... all right.
When you get into a situation like mine, everyone tells you things will work out. And it's true, things WILL work out. The only problem is they don't FEEL like they're going to work out until they actually DO work out. Before then, anyone who tells you that sounds like an idiot.
Flash forward. I go back to the cabin and hook up my camera to my laptop, hoping to salvage the few photos I was able to take before the batteries died.
The concert photos weren't there. What was there was a picture of Deb and some of our cats, back after I had brought her home from one of several hospital stays.
I vaguely remember taking the photos, but that was 10 months ago, and I had wiped the memory card clean several times since then.
So ... she's all right. I'm going to be all right. Things will be all right.
No coincidences.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
How I got through the holidays
The holidays weren't as bad as they could have been. That's the best thing I can say about them.
Of the big three holidays, the one I was most worried about was Christmas Eve, because Deb and I would wait up til midnight and open our presents. This year, I didn't even put up a tree, much less have presents to open.
New Year's was also one to dread, because we would ... um ... er ... we had a tradition, let's leave it at that.
Thanksgiving, I didn't worry about. Turns out it was the worst of all. I suppose it was because I didn't make plans or because it was the first real holiday without Deb, but that was the one that put me in a funk. I worked, but even that couldn't mask the fact that when I went home, I was alone.
Christmas eve, I was better prepared. I worked again, but I also stayed late. When I went home, it was already Christmas. There were no presents to open, no tree to stare at, and the only gifts left for me were the ones the cats left me in the litterbox. Not exactly Bing Crosby, but I knew it was coming, so I was ready.
New Year's, I invited co-workers after work to come over to watch my infamous "Wheel of Fortune" appearance from 1985. (No, that's not what Deb and my tradition was) When we arrived at my house, the fireworks all across town were lighting up, and at midnight I wasn't alone.
When everyone one had gone home, I took a glass of champagne onto the porch and lifted it to the sky. Then Deb and I had a toast. "To us," I said.
That was part of our tradition.
Of the big three holidays, the one I was most worried about was Christmas Eve, because Deb and I would wait up til midnight and open our presents. This year, I didn't even put up a tree, much less have presents to open.
New Year's was also one to dread, because we would ... um ... er ... we had a tradition, let's leave it at that.
Thanksgiving, I didn't worry about. Turns out it was the worst of all. I suppose it was because I didn't make plans or because it was the first real holiday without Deb, but that was the one that put me in a funk. I worked, but even that couldn't mask the fact that when I went home, I was alone.
Christmas eve, I was better prepared. I worked again, but I also stayed late. When I went home, it was already Christmas. There were no presents to open, no tree to stare at, and the only gifts left for me were the ones the cats left me in the litterbox. Not exactly Bing Crosby, but I knew it was coming, so I was ready.
New Year's, I invited co-workers after work to come over to watch my infamous "Wheel of Fortune" appearance from 1985. (No, that's not what Deb and my tradition was) When we arrived at my house, the fireworks all across town were lighting up, and at midnight I wasn't alone.
When everyone one had gone home, I took a glass of champagne onto the porch and lifted it to the sky. Then Deb and I had a toast. "To us," I said.
That was part of our tradition.
Monday, January 08, 2007
What I think about remarrying
(originally written 12/04/06)
One of my favorite restaurants in Yuma, my hometown, is called Lutes Casino. It's not so much a casino as a pool hall with a snack bar that serves burgers (including one called the Especial -- a burger with a sliced hot dog in it. No one eats it because they like it; they eat it so they can say they've eaten it). They also serve the world's best rolled tacos, even better than the ones at the Chile Pepper, my favorite restaurant in the Western Hemisphere.
Anyway, Lutes also has video games and one of those claw machines. You know, you stick in money, you guide the claw and you hope you can extract one of the prizes inside. On my birthday more than 10 years ago, I stuck 50 cents in that machine and got a plastic mug on my first try. I've never tried it again.
I can honestly say I have a 100 percent success rate with claw machines. If I tried again and failed (which, let's face it, is a strong possibility), I could only say I have a 50 percent success rate. Besides, it'd never be as good as that first time, where I succeeded despite not knowing what the hell I was doing.
What does this have to do with remarrying? Substitute the word "marriage" for the words "claw machines" in the previous paragraph, and you get the picture.
I reserve the right to change my mind, of course. I just don't expect to.
One of my favorite restaurants in Yuma, my hometown, is called Lutes Casino. It's not so much a casino as a pool hall with a snack bar that serves burgers (including one called the Especial -- a burger with a sliced hot dog in it. No one eats it because they like it; they eat it so they can say they've eaten it). They also serve the world's best rolled tacos, even better than the ones at the Chile Pepper, my favorite restaurant in the Western Hemisphere.
Anyway, Lutes also has video games and one of those claw machines. You know, you stick in money, you guide the claw and you hope you can extract one of the prizes inside. On my birthday more than 10 years ago, I stuck 50 cents in that machine and got a plastic mug on my first try. I've never tried it again.
I can honestly say I have a 100 percent success rate with claw machines. If I tried again and failed (which, let's face it, is a strong possibility), I could only say I have a 50 percent success rate. Besides, it'd never be as good as that first time, where I succeeded despite not knowing what the hell I was doing.
What does this have to do with remarrying? Substitute the word "marriage" for the words "claw machines" in the previous paragraph, and you get the picture.
I reserve the right to change my mind, of course. I just don't expect to.
Where I'm at, and where I'll be
(originally written 12/02/06)
I've been going to a support group, which has given me another outlet for the grief, which may explain why I haven't put anything here for a while. For now, here's an emotional update.
I think I've sighted acceptance a couple of times, but it's like one of those things you think you see out of the corner of your eye, but when you focus on it, it's not really there.
Anger, it turns out, I've directed at myself. I spend time going over the things I think I should have done better. What makes me feel better is realizing Deb would often apologize to me for what she considered her bad temper and I'd have to tell her I never even noticed. She, I know, would do the same for me.
Depression comes and goes, like Jehovah's Witnesses.
Denial and bargaining are long gone.
Also, my sister sent me pictures of the headstone from mine and Deb's gravesite. While it's what I wanted, it's just plain strange to see your name on a gravestone, with the blank date waiting for you like a reservation at a restaurant.
Oh well. I was about due for a midlife crisis anyway.
I've been going to a support group, which has given me another outlet for the grief, which may explain why I haven't put anything here for a while. For now, here's an emotional update.
I think I've sighted acceptance a couple of times, but it's like one of those things you think you see out of the corner of your eye, but when you focus on it, it's not really there.
Anger, it turns out, I've directed at myself. I spend time going over the things I think I should have done better. What makes me feel better is realizing Deb would often apologize to me for what she considered her bad temper and I'd have to tell her I never even noticed. She, I know, would do the same for me.
Depression comes and goes, like Jehovah's Witnesses.
Denial and bargaining are long gone.
Also, my sister sent me pictures of the headstone from mine and Deb's gravesite. While it's what I wanted, it's just plain strange to see your name on a gravestone, with the blank date waiting for you like a reservation at a restaurant.
Oh well. I was about due for a midlife crisis anyway.
Perfect moments
(originally written 11/20/06)
The way I figure it, people are lucky to have one or two perfect moments, fleeting, joyous pockets of life where if they close their eyes and think very hard, they can recall everything about it and relive it over and over again. I think it's what carries us through the hard times, the thought that there may be more of them coming.
Deb blessed me with several.
1. My nephew has just started playing the theme to "Forrest Gump" on the keyboard in my mother's living room. It's warm, because someone has accidentally kicked the air conditioning vent in the floor closed. I am standing in a grey jacket, a blue dress shirt and a yellow tie, none of which I would have picked out for myself but the guy at Penney's insists would look good on me. I am sweating, not just because of the heat, but because I am about to get married.
Then Deb steps in the room. She is wearing a blue dress with a blue veil. Her hair is up; she never has worn her hair up before with me. There are little flowers in her hair.
She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and I begin to cry.
She walks up to me and wipes tears from my face.
"Don't you start," she whispers. "Or I'll lose it."
I cry through the whole ceremony. But I'll never forget that look she gave to me as she told me not to cry, and I doubt I'll ever see anything so beautiful again.
2. We're at Disney World on our honeymoon. The sun is beginning to set, and we're in front of the castle.
She starts walking. I grab her hand, pull her back to me, bend her back and give her a kiss.
"Whoa-ho-ho," she says.
3. It's the day before my birthday, Dec. 7, 2003, a Sunday. Deb and I are on the couch, in our pajamas, watching TV, and I've just made a decision.
I go upstairs and get the ring she picked out from the Kay Jewelers ad the week before. She didn't know she was picking it out; she just pointed to it and said, "This one would make a great engagement ring." It was something she did whenever there was a jewelry ad lying around. This time, I paid attention.
I was going to ask her to marry me the next day, the third anniversary of the day we met at Olive Garden, and we were going to go back to the restaurant to celebrate, but she had to work, so we were going to go that day. I was going to ask her in the restaurant to embarrass her, but on the couch I decided that embarrassing her was the last thing I wanted to do.
"Honey, can you come upstairs?" I call down.
When she gets there, I am already on one knee, holding the ring box.
She walks up to me, tears in her eyes, smiling. "Yes!"
"I didn't even ask the question!" I shout back.
4. It's 4 a.m., Sept. 10. Deb was moaning loudly in her hospital bed in the other room. She's semi-coherent. I help her get a drink of water. It's not easy, because she can't hold a glass, but she insists on trying. I eventually help her.
I sit up with her a while, then ask her if there's anything else I can do. She says no. I tell her I'm going back to bed.
As I walk down the hallway, I tell her, "Love you, sweetie."
I hear her half-mumble behind me, "Love you."
The rest of the day, when she speaks, she mumbles, and I can't make out what she says. She dies the next day.
That "Love you" is the last thing she said to me. It's an odd perfect moment, but I hold onto it.
The way I figure it, people are lucky to have one or two perfect moments, fleeting, joyous pockets of life where if they close their eyes and think very hard, they can recall everything about it and relive it over and over again. I think it's what carries us through the hard times, the thought that there may be more of them coming.
Deb blessed me with several.
1. My nephew has just started playing the theme to "Forrest Gump" on the keyboard in my mother's living room. It's warm, because someone has accidentally kicked the air conditioning vent in the floor closed. I am standing in a grey jacket, a blue dress shirt and a yellow tie, none of which I would have picked out for myself but the guy at Penney's insists would look good on me. I am sweating, not just because of the heat, but because I am about to get married.
Then Deb steps in the room. She is wearing a blue dress with a blue veil. Her hair is up; she never has worn her hair up before with me. There are little flowers in her hair.
She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and I begin to cry.
She walks up to me and wipes tears from my face.
"Don't you start," she whispers. "Or I'll lose it."
I cry through the whole ceremony. But I'll never forget that look she gave to me as she told me not to cry, and I doubt I'll ever see anything so beautiful again.
2. We're at Disney World on our honeymoon. The sun is beginning to set, and we're in front of the castle.
She starts walking. I grab her hand, pull her back to me, bend her back and give her a kiss.
"Whoa-ho-ho," she says.
3. It's the day before my birthday, Dec. 7, 2003, a Sunday. Deb and I are on the couch, in our pajamas, watching TV, and I've just made a decision.
I go upstairs and get the ring she picked out from the Kay Jewelers ad the week before. She didn't know she was picking it out; she just pointed to it and said, "This one would make a great engagement ring." It was something she did whenever there was a jewelry ad lying around. This time, I paid attention.
I was going to ask her to marry me the next day, the third anniversary of the day we met at Olive Garden, and we were going to go back to the restaurant to celebrate, but she had to work, so we were going to go that day. I was going to ask her in the restaurant to embarrass her, but on the couch I decided that embarrassing her was the last thing I wanted to do.
"Honey, can you come upstairs?" I call down.
When she gets there, I am already on one knee, holding the ring box.
She walks up to me, tears in her eyes, smiling. "Yes!"
"I didn't even ask the question!" I shout back.
4. It's 4 a.m., Sept. 10. Deb was moaning loudly in her hospital bed in the other room. She's semi-coherent. I help her get a drink of water. It's not easy, because she can't hold a glass, but she insists on trying. I eventually help her.
I sit up with her a while, then ask her if there's anything else I can do. She says no. I tell her I'm going back to bed.
As I walk down the hallway, I tell her, "Love you, sweetie."
I hear her half-mumble behind me, "Love you."
The rest of the day, when she speaks, she mumbles, and I can't make out what she says. She dies the next day.
That "Love you" is the last thing she said to me. It's an odd perfect moment, but I hold onto it.
More private jokes
(originally written 11/12/06)
More things only she and I would laugh at.
1. "Ya know, you just can't get enough Billy Joel on the radio, dadgummit." (also works for The Eagles, The Cars, Pat Benatar and Bon Jovi)
2. Chiggers.
3. "What do you want to do?" "I don't know, what do you want to do?" (repeat until exhausted)
4. "You know what I need?" "More cowbell?" (OK, other people laugh at that, but she always caught me off guard with that one.)
5. "Sex?"
6. "You look good in anything."
More things only she and I would laugh at.
1. "Ya know, you just can't get enough Billy Joel on the radio, dadgummit." (also works for The Eagles, The Cars, Pat Benatar and Bon Jovi)
2. Chiggers.
3. "What do you want to do?" "I don't know, what do you want to do?" (repeat until exhausted)
4. "You know what I need?" "More cowbell?" (OK, other people laugh at that, but she always caught me off guard with that one.)
5. "Sex?"
6. "You look good in anything."
On up the road
(originally written 11/08/06)
I'd been talking to Debra a couple of days recently. She'd meet me on the front porch or during a break at work. It wasn't a haunting or a hallucination. She was just there. Whenever I got really lonely, she'd be there.
Monday, though, when we were driving, she had something to tell me. She had to go.
Why, I asked.
I've got things to do, and so do you. You can't get on with your life and have me here. You have to let me go.
What if I want to talk to you?
You can talk to me any time you want, she said. And I'll come by and see you sometimes. I can't just be here all the time. You have to let me go.
I didn't want to. We drove a little farther. She let the subject drop for a minute or two. Then I stopped at a stoplight.
I'm going to get out here, she said.
Will I see you again?
Of course you will, someday, she said. On up the road.
I love you, I told her.
I love you too, sweetie.
She got out of the car and headed up the road. And I was alone.
Maybe this is acceptance. Maybe it's a mind game. Maybe it's just a metaphor. But she's gone, and I must deal with it.
And I must keep heading up the road. She's waiting.
I'd been talking to Debra a couple of days recently. She'd meet me on the front porch or during a break at work. It wasn't a haunting or a hallucination. She was just there. Whenever I got really lonely, she'd be there.
Monday, though, when we were driving, she had something to tell me. She had to go.
Why, I asked.
I've got things to do, and so do you. You can't get on with your life and have me here. You have to let me go.
What if I want to talk to you?
You can talk to me any time you want, she said. And I'll come by and see you sometimes. I can't just be here all the time. You have to let me go.
I didn't want to. We drove a little farther. She let the subject drop for a minute or two. Then I stopped at a stoplight.
I'm going to get out here, she said.
Will I see you again?
Of course you will, someday, she said. On up the road.
I love you, I told her.
I love you too, sweetie.
She got out of the car and headed up the road. And I was alone.
Maybe this is acceptance. Maybe it's a mind game. Maybe it's just a metaphor. But she's gone, and I must deal with it.
And I must keep heading up the road. She's waiting.
The little losses
(originally written 10/30/06)
This may fall under the category of too much information, but I think I crossed that line a while back.
Deb had this mole on her right side of her back just above her bottom. Whenever I held her close in bed, I could feel it, and I liked to flick my finger over it. This, I told her, is my mole. You're never having it removed.
I was thinking about it last night, and realized I'm never going to have the chance to do that again.
Then today the message disappeared.
I had Deb's last phone message to me still in my saved messages on my voice mail. I have it committed to memory, because for the last six weeks, whenever I've been really down, I'd listen to it to hear her voice and pretend, if only for a moment, that this is all a ghastly mistake.
"Hey sweetie, it's me. I'm just calling to see if you're coming back tonight to visit because visiting hours are over, so you'll have to come in through the children's hospital. I hope you do, because I miss you. See you soon, love you, bye-bye."
I should have guessed the company doesn't keep phone messages forever, and I knew I should have figured out a way to record the message on my computer. I do have a videotape of her that she made before I met her, so I do have recordings of her voice.
But this was the only one I had of her saying "Love you."
This, I think, is the part of the mourning process they don't tell you about. Yes, you lose your wife, your husband, your child, your parents, your loved one when they die, and that's the big loss. But then, little by little, piece by piece, you lose the little things they added to your life on a daily basis, and those are the little losses.
In a way, they die over and over again.
I know the holidays are going to be hell this year because I'll remember all the little things I've lost, like her face when she tried the first batch of my holiday fudge. Or her exclaiming "Cool beans!" when she opened a present she really liked. Or our annual New Year's kiss.
Frankly, I just want this year to end now.
This may fall under the category of too much information, but I think I crossed that line a while back.
Deb had this mole on her right side of her back just above her bottom. Whenever I held her close in bed, I could feel it, and I liked to flick my finger over it. This, I told her, is my mole. You're never having it removed.
I was thinking about it last night, and realized I'm never going to have the chance to do that again.
Then today the message disappeared.
I had Deb's last phone message to me still in my saved messages on my voice mail. I have it committed to memory, because for the last six weeks, whenever I've been really down, I'd listen to it to hear her voice and pretend, if only for a moment, that this is all a ghastly mistake.
"Hey sweetie, it's me. I'm just calling to see if you're coming back tonight to visit because visiting hours are over, so you'll have to come in through the children's hospital. I hope you do, because I miss you. See you soon, love you, bye-bye."
I should have guessed the company doesn't keep phone messages forever, and I knew I should have figured out a way to record the message on my computer. I do have a videotape of her that she made before I met her, so I do have recordings of her voice.
But this was the only one I had of her saying "Love you."
This, I think, is the part of the mourning process they don't tell you about. Yes, you lose your wife, your husband, your child, your parents, your loved one when they die, and that's the big loss. But then, little by little, piece by piece, you lose the little things they added to your life on a daily basis, and those are the little losses.
In a way, they die over and over again.
I know the holidays are going to be hell this year because I'll remember all the little things I've lost, like her face when she tried the first batch of my holiday fudge. Or her exclaiming "Cool beans!" when she opened a present she really liked. Or our annual New Year's kiss.
Frankly, I just want this year to end now.
The next five minutes
(originally written 10/21/06)
Right after my panic attack was the darkest moment Deb and I went through. You see, it was my proposing to her that set off my panic attack.
Panic attacks, for those who've never had one, are the closest things to a heart attack you can get without actually having one. You can't stop thinking you're going to die. All you can do is keep reminding yourself to breathe, because if you don't, you'll die. All your emotions had ganged up on you and attack your body. Your chest hurts. Your brain kicks into overdrive. You can't move.
That's what happened to me a couple of days after I proposed. I tried to convince myself it wasn't because of the proposal, but it was undeniable. And Deb knew it.
It wasn't that I didn't love Deb. It was that I wasn't sure if I LOVED Deb. Big difference.
Our relationship evolved into love. It didn't start with a bang. It didn't start out as puppy love. It was something that grew. And having never done it that way before, I wasn't sure it was something that would last.
I told her this the next day after the attack had passed. She offered to give back the ring. Then she broke down crying, wondering if we were going to break up, if I wanted her to move out or if I was going to leave.
I told her that wasn't what I wanted. All I did know was the idea of forever scared the hell out of me.
I didn't want a guarantee that the rest of our lives would be perfect, I told her. I couldn't think that far ahead. All I could count on was the next five minutes.
OK, she said. I'll take it. We'll take it five minutes at a time.
I told her to keep the ring. If she could accept those terms, I knew she was worth fighting for.
Eventually, and with help from my therapist, what I figured out was that I had earned Deb's love through time and patience, not from instant chemistry, and that it was more durable because of that. Something you earn is always more precious than something you're given. And that's why it lasted.
Every now and then, we'd ask each other if we were good for the next five minutes. When we got into a disagreement, we'd ask. When things were going good, we'd ask. When we had nothing else to say, we'd ask.
Now that she's gone, people keep telling me to take it one day at a time. I say I will.
But to be honest, I'm taking it five minutes at a time.
Right after my panic attack was the darkest moment Deb and I went through. You see, it was my proposing to her that set off my panic attack.
Panic attacks, for those who've never had one, are the closest things to a heart attack you can get without actually having one. You can't stop thinking you're going to die. All you can do is keep reminding yourself to breathe, because if you don't, you'll die. All your emotions had ganged up on you and attack your body. Your chest hurts. Your brain kicks into overdrive. You can't move.
That's what happened to me a couple of days after I proposed. I tried to convince myself it wasn't because of the proposal, but it was undeniable. And Deb knew it.
It wasn't that I didn't love Deb. It was that I wasn't sure if I LOVED Deb. Big difference.
Our relationship evolved into love. It didn't start with a bang. It didn't start out as puppy love. It was something that grew. And having never done it that way before, I wasn't sure it was something that would last.
I told her this the next day after the attack had passed. She offered to give back the ring. Then she broke down crying, wondering if we were going to break up, if I wanted her to move out or if I was going to leave.
I told her that wasn't what I wanted. All I did know was the idea of forever scared the hell out of me.
I didn't want a guarantee that the rest of our lives would be perfect, I told her. I couldn't think that far ahead. All I could count on was the next five minutes.
OK, she said. I'll take it. We'll take it five minutes at a time.
I told her to keep the ring. If she could accept those terms, I knew she was worth fighting for.
Eventually, and with help from my therapist, what I figured out was that I had earned Deb's love through time and patience, not from instant chemistry, and that it was more durable because of that. Something you earn is always more precious than something you're given. And that's why it lasted.
Every now and then, we'd ask each other if we were good for the next five minutes. When we got into a disagreement, we'd ask. When things were going good, we'd ask. When we had nothing else to say, we'd ask.
Now that she's gone, people keep telling me to take it one day at a time. I say I will.
But to be honest, I'm taking it five minutes at a time.
An emotional sneak attack
(originally written 10/19/06)
So there I was, walking around Lowry Park Zoo, getting some exercise (it's nice having an annual pass), feeling pretty good and listening to the iPod.
Then "He Went To Paris" by Jimmy Buffett came on.
I should have known better, but I let it play.
If you've never heard it, it's a ballad about a man who ... well, goes to Paris. He's a young man, and he thinks he'll stay for a little while and move on. Instead, as the song says, "four or five years slip away." Then he goes to England, gets married and has a son, then "20 more years slipped away." Then there's World War II, and both his wife and son die, and he loses an eye. He heads to the islands, where Jimmy meets him and he says:
"Jimmy, some of it's magic and some of it's tragic, but I had a good life all the way."
I'm crying now thinking about it.
The song's never had that effect on me before, but when I hear it, I think of the life Deb and I didn't have, the places we didn't go, and yes, the children we didn't have.
That's the thing about death. It doesn't just take away the person you love. It takes away your future with that person. And in my case, Deb was my future and my present.
I was so overwhelmed by the mourning that I cried at the zoo, next to the emus. I can only imagine what they thought.
Maybe one day there'll be a new future for me to look forward to, with new opportunities and new people. For now, though, I mourn the things that can never be.
So there I was, walking around Lowry Park Zoo, getting some exercise (it's nice having an annual pass), feeling pretty good and listening to the iPod.
Then "He Went To Paris" by Jimmy Buffett came on.
I should have known better, but I let it play.
If you've never heard it, it's a ballad about a man who ... well, goes to Paris. He's a young man, and he thinks he'll stay for a little while and move on. Instead, as the song says, "four or five years slip away." Then he goes to England, gets married and has a son, then "20 more years slipped away." Then there's World War II, and both his wife and son die, and he loses an eye. He heads to the islands, where Jimmy meets him and he says:
"Jimmy, some of it's magic and some of it's tragic, but I had a good life all the way."
I'm crying now thinking about it.
The song's never had that effect on me before, but when I hear it, I think of the life Deb and I didn't have, the places we didn't go, and yes, the children we didn't have.
That's the thing about death. It doesn't just take away the person you love. It takes away your future with that person. And in my case, Deb was my future and my present.
I was so overwhelmed by the mourning that I cried at the zoo, next to the emus. I can only imagine what they thought.
Maybe one day there'll be a new future for me to look forward to, with new opportunities and new people. For now, though, I mourn the things that can never be.
Thoughts on death
(originally written 10/17/06)
Notice that didn't say "Thoughts of death." I think it's only natural for me to have done some contemplation of dying having just lost Deb, but I'm not thinking about trying it out anytime soon. I know one of my reasons for existing was to be Deb's husband, but even thought that's over, I figure I'm still here for some reason, if only to tick off conservatives.
I warn you: the ultimate conclusion I will draw from these meanderings is "I don't know." If you're reading hoping I'm going to come to some grand conclusion or tell you what I think happens when you die, I wouldn't bother reading on.
I believe in Jesus and heaven. But that doesn't mean I think that when you die you board a holy escalator and head straight for the pearly gates. It also doesn't mean I think you lie a'mouldering in your grave wait for the trumpets to blare on Judgment Day.
I believe in Judgment Day, of course. Otherwise the whole salvation thing is kind of pointless, you know. I'm just not sure what you do until then.
Mark Twain, a pretty smart guy but definitely a disillusioned one, thought that oblivion is our destination. He thought it sounded restful and acknowledged that the universe had carried on without him for a few million years before he existed and would carry on fine when he ceased to be. If I'm wrong about my faith, then I have to admit I like this thought. Better not to exist than to spend eternity hanging out in Hades with the hypocrites and those people who won't turn off their cellphones in the movie theater.
I, on the other hand, think that the soul (for the lack of a better word), is a hardy thing, and death is the release of it from the body.
I watched my wife pass away. One second she was my wife and the next ... she wasn't. The body was there, but it certainly wasn't her anymore. It didn't look like her. It certainly didn't act like her. So it wasn't her. It was just what was left behind. Deb's soul, the part of her that IS her, is somewhere else.
So what do I think happens when you die?
I like to think you get to hang around for a while and stay near the people you love. I like to think you get a chance to do the things you wanted to do and go where you wanted to go when you were alive. I even like to think you may get to extract a little karmic revenge on those who wronged you (provided, of course, they REALLY deserve it).
For example, I'm convinced Deb spent a couple of weeks dashing around radio stations and making them play "You and Me" by Lifehouse, which I told her I associated with her. I couldn't count the number of times that song came on when I turned on the radio. It even came on when I stopped at the funeral home to make the arrangements. It seems like something she'd do.
Then ... I don't know. Maybe you get to check into a cosmic waiting room with a buffet and wait around for Judgment Day. Maybe you join into a cosmic co-op with other souls and travel around the universe. It's a big place ... that'd probably keep a person occupied for an eternity or so.
Again, I like to think this stuff, but I don't know. I don't think anyone does.
Warned you, I did.
Notice that didn't say "Thoughts of death." I think it's only natural for me to have done some contemplation of dying having just lost Deb, but I'm not thinking about trying it out anytime soon. I know one of my reasons for existing was to be Deb's husband, but even thought that's over, I figure I'm still here for some reason, if only to tick off conservatives.
I warn you: the ultimate conclusion I will draw from these meanderings is "I don't know." If you're reading hoping I'm going to come to some grand conclusion or tell you what I think happens when you die, I wouldn't bother reading on.
I believe in Jesus and heaven. But that doesn't mean I think that when you die you board a holy escalator and head straight for the pearly gates. It also doesn't mean I think you lie a'mouldering in your grave wait for the trumpets to blare on Judgment Day.
I believe in Judgment Day, of course. Otherwise the whole salvation thing is kind of pointless, you know. I'm just not sure what you do until then.
Mark Twain, a pretty smart guy but definitely a disillusioned one, thought that oblivion is our destination. He thought it sounded restful and acknowledged that the universe had carried on without him for a few million years before he existed and would carry on fine when he ceased to be. If I'm wrong about my faith, then I have to admit I like this thought. Better not to exist than to spend eternity hanging out in Hades with the hypocrites and those people who won't turn off their cellphones in the movie theater.
I, on the other hand, think that the soul (for the lack of a better word), is a hardy thing, and death is the release of it from the body.
I watched my wife pass away. One second she was my wife and the next ... she wasn't. The body was there, but it certainly wasn't her anymore. It didn't look like her. It certainly didn't act like her. So it wasn't her. It was just what was left behind. Deb's soul, the part of her that IS her, is somewhere else.
So what do I think happens when you die?
I like to think you get to hang around for a while and stay near the people you love. I like to think you get a chance to do the things you wanted to do and go where you wanted to go when you were alive. I even like to think you may get to extract a little karmic revenge on those who wronged you (provided, of course, they REALLY deserve it).
For example, I'm convinced Deb spent a couple of weeks dashing around radio stations and making them play "You and Me" by Lifehouse, which I told her I associated with her. I couldn't count the number of times that song came on when I turned on the radio. It even came on when I stopped at the funeral home to make the arrangements. It seems like something she'd do.
Then ... I don't know. Maybe you get to check into a cosmic waiting room with a buffet and wait around for Judgment Day. Maybe you join into a cosmic co-op with other souls and travel around the universe. It's a big place ... that'd probably keep a person occupied for an eternity or so.
Again, I like to think this stuff, but I don't know. I don't think anyone does.
Warned you, I did.
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