Like A Phoenix (redux)

 The ache is still acute sometimes. I feel it in the quiet after dinner when I’m left to put away the food and clean the kitchen without company. I feel it late every night when the silence of the house settles in and I get ready for sleep, staring at the empty, flat side of the bed.

I still spend a fair amount of time looking back. Chris is on my mind every day still. It is not an exaggeration to say that nearly every waking hour I have thoughts and memories of him. There is still a lot of pining for my old life, what I fight myself to not consider my real life. After all, if my real life is over, and that life is indeed over, where does that leave me now? Am I not alive anymore? Is this my fake life? It doesn’t feel entirely comfortable yet and certainly not one of my choosing, that is for sure...

What am I supposed to do now? What should I do with these days right now? The pressure to make something of my time weighs on me.

As usual, my Phoenix helpfully reminds me to stay in the here and now. She frequently demands my attention as dogs do, and I credit her for saving me many times over from fretting over my purpose and the future.

I learn from Phoenix when I pay attention. Once, I literally saw how sustained looking back doesn’t serve her well. We were on a walk and she became distracted by a group of people behind us. Phoenix could not be dissuaded from watching the walkers and her neck craned to look over her shoulder in curiosity. As she walked forward with her head turned back, she smacked directly into our neighbor’s car. The kids and I laughed once we confirmed that she was just fine, but I filed this moment away as it held an important lesson for me…

That dog. She is funny. She is a live wire of enthusiasm and energy, eager to protect our home and her yard. One morning she leapt off my bed before 6:00 to howl wildly at a large turkey strolling across our street directly in front of her living room couch lookout. She quivered with excitement and her voice cracked mid-howl as that tom spread his magnificent feathers as if to taunt her. Later that same day, Phoenix and I were playing fetch when a hawk flew overhead. She immediately tensed her muscles, looked skyward, and let loose a howl that was only slightly distorted by the tennis ball still in her mouth. In the dead of night, she wakes me with her doggie nightmares accentuated by whining, shaking, and mini howls. During the day, when I would sometimes like to work uninterrupted, Phoenix assertively pushes her snout under my arm so I cannot type. Often, she will then put her front paws on my lap and further escalate the interaction by moving her paws up to my shoulders so I am forced to turn away from the computer for a full body hug and slobbery kisses.

Phoenix can also be mellow, enjoying afternoons curled tightly into a ball of sweetness next to one of her people. She anticipates bedtime and chooses a person to snuggle for the night, and if it had not been me, she often “asks” for me from a kid’s room hours later.

Last night the other side of my bed was not unoccupied. My daughter was settled into Chris’s old spot with a cadre of stuffed animals. She still finds it a treat to sleep with me and when she asked on a vacation night, I readily agreed because I know these days are numbered. It was a regular girl’s night with that 65-pound coonhound mix cuddled between us. It was every bit as crowded and cozy as you might imagine, with the dog and girl alternately resting directly on me as they both took deep and slow sleep breaths.

In the wee hours, I woke and couldn’t get back to sleep immediately. Phoenix was still right up by our heads, so I stroked her silky ears a while. In her sleepy state, she rolled on her back for a belly rub; I could see her long legs sticking up ridiculously as I petted her tummy and chest. Eventually she tired of my attention and stood up, did her signature full body shake, then strode to the end of the bed for more room and privacy. She began that animal routine of turning around several times before lying down. She paused unexpectedly in her circling. Just as my brain was forming the question of why, Phoenix burped loudly. She then circled once more, harrumphed as she flopped down onto the bed, and nudged me even closer to the edge.

I shook my head in the dark and laughed.

No, this is certainly not the life I had and loved.

This is the life I have now, and it is full of many good moments and much love.

Like a phoenix, I am rising from the ashes. There is no other option but to take steps forward and make a new life, bit by bit. I am doing it.

 

I Am Enough, I Choose Me

 

For the better part of two decades I’ve worn a pair of sapphire studs in the piercings closest to my head. Next to those, I wore a smaller, cheaper set of zirconium studs. Walking farther out on my earlobes, I used to have a third set of matched piercings and a fourth on the left side, the tiniest signals that I was a normal teenager determined to rebel in some small way. Once I had a tenure-track job, I let holes #5-7 close and stuck with the two evenly matched pairs of studs. I thought the look suited me and my plain style, and it was convenient to rarely change my earrings.

The sapphire earrings matched my engagement ring, chosen with Chris in the fall of 2003. What a happy day that was, wandering through Boston jewelry stores feeling like the happiest fishes out of water. We only had eyes for each other and our future. I was drawn to a ring with a plain white gold setting featuring a central oval sapphire with small diamonds flanking it. It was pretty – the blue was my color – yet not pretentious. He later returned to choose this ring from a few we liked and gave it to me weeks later, upon my return from spending Christmas with my family. A few months after that, Chris covertly selected the sapphire studs and presented them to me to commemorate our wedding.

Unfortunately, I lost one of the earrings not long afterwards as I was waiting for the train in the Kendall T station. It was the winter after our wedding; we had been bundled up for a cold walk from lab but then were sweating as we waited on the overheated platform for the train, which was late. I remember removing my winter hat and feeling the earring tear away from the backing, knowing with sickening certainty that it landed down by the rails. I saved the remaining lone stud for years. It was later fashioned into a charm for a family necklace my mother commissioned for me – the main pendant is a silver bar with the names of my children, Chris, and me engraved, one name on each of the four sides.

A few years after this debacle, my dear friend invited me to be a bridesmaid in their wedding party. The dresses were chosen individually, each a blue color; I selected a royal blue satin dress. It was a wonderful wedding – so full of happiness and love. As a token of their appreciation, the couple gave the bridesmaids earrings, mine a pair of sapphire studs. How delightful for me that this commemorative gift was so similar to my own wedding gift from Chris! Placing those studs in my ears felt right, and I rarely removed them in the decade plus that has passed.

Once, I lost a stud for a few weeks. It eventually turned up on a tiny ledge of my bed, the random surface formed by an uneven placement of the top mattress on the box spring. I remember my relief at snapping the earring back in its rightful location. Sadly, I lost one of the earrings again a few weeks ago. Despite my valiant efforts, it has not been recovered. So here I am, stuck with my cheapo zirconium studs and nothing classy to wear next to them.

Does it even matter? Perhaps my ears should be stripped of jewelry. After all, I no longer wear my beloved rings. After I removed my rings from my finger, I added our wedding rings to that family necklace and wore it religiously for a long time. Then the chain began to tarnish and leave marks on my neck, and I couldn’t keep up with polishing it. Halfheartedly, I researched a replacement chain but abandoned the search without a purchase. I ended up retiring that family necklace alongside my engagement ring in its original gift box, now yellowing with age (how can that be…).

Just like the tarnished chain and the yellowing box, I am also showing my age. My unadorned hands look plain and old. My hair has quite a bit of white coming in – I like to think it’s from the stress, but perhaps it would be my genetic destiny regardless of circumstances. I’m no spring chicken, and certainly not a fancy nor fashionable one. Perhaps the season of sentimental, pretty jewelry is over for me.

And yet.

And. Yet.

I am still here.

I am still breathing, still trying to move forward, still striving for connection, still living.

And, as a living, somewhat normal person, I miss those studs. They were perfect when Chris gave them to me, then the other pair was perfect when my friend gave them to me. There were different meanings behind the gifts, but both were heartfelt, thoughtful, and they suited me.

Do I not get to have nice things because I do not have a husband or another man in my life?

Am I not enough on my own, just as I am, to deserve a pair of nice earrings?

Goshdarnit I am enough.

I am deserving, especially after this incredible load of crap thrown my way followed by a pandemic, making me more alone than ever.

(What’s that quote? Oh yes. Stuart Smalley aka Al Franken. “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me.”)

There is nobody left to know me in the way Chris did, to quietly notice the things I like or need and surprise me with them. No flowers. No upgraded tech. No respite care in the form of takeout arranged when I’m tired, preparation of kids’ lunches, or cleaning of the kitchen. It’s all entirely up to me, and the responsibility of running the house and family weighs on me. I don’t particularly enjoy it; I am too often stressed by it.

It’s up to me, though, to eek enjoyment out of life. What a waste it would be if I just suffered through the rest of my days…

So, I searched for sapphire studs in the covid way - online. This would not be a break-the-bank purchase; it’s a gift to myself slightly nicer than junk jewelry that won’t make anyone in my town jealous. It is not because I need the earrings as a connection to the past. Yes, that is nice, but they looked good on me. They did indeed suit me and my lifestyle. I thoroughly enjoyed those earrings and I want a new pair. The only thing preventing me from having them is choosing to prioritize me, to opt to spoil myself, to recognize that I am enough, just as I am.

I do not need a man or anyone else to give me jewelry.

I chose me and ordered the sapphire earrings.

I am enough.

I choose me.

 

Twin Invasive Vines

Much of our property is rather wild and unwanted plants routinely encroach on the cleared yard. Years ago, Chris built a stone wall to define the perimeter of the backyard. With help, I later installed a makeshift fence to allow the dog a space to safely run and play. The yard itself needs serious rehabilitation - the grass is thin and of poor quality, weeds easily take over, and there are large patches of dirt in the dog run. Still, we love the yard and use it hard. The area beyond the barrier is woodsy and fully controlled by invasive plants: poison ivy, poison oak, thorny bushes, and woody vines that climb up trees. In the spring, as the earth warms and plants wake up, these nuisances are first to grow and hardest to remove. They thrive on the metal mesh fence and eagerly reach over to poke us.

I started clearing behind the fence early this spring to get ahead, but it is a tough battle. No matter how many vines and stalks I clip back, there seem to be just as many a few days later. If I let my guard down, pesky, sharp thorns dig in wherever they can get a hold. My approach this year is slow and steady, a few hours of work each weekend. As I carry out this work alone, nagging lines of thought bubble below my consciousness. I notice two themes, like twin invasive plants threatening to choke off healthy processing and growth. If I allow them to run rampant like the thorny vines, they can ruin an hour, a whole day, much of a week, or more.

…

The Poisonous Vine of the Past

I didn’t know what to do.

How was I supposed to know what to do?

It was unbelievable and terrifying; there was no script.

Why didn’t I ask more questions?

I didn’t even know what to ask.

Why didn’t I hire more help?

I didn’t know what was needed or available or how to get it anyway.

Why wasn’t I more loving?

I was horrified, scared, in disbelief, stressed, paralyzed.

Why did I leave?

I should have been there for that whole day, laid down in that hospital bed for every possible moment.

How was I supposed to know the end was imminent?

I should have known; it seems so obvious now.

 

…Wrapped Around Healthy Wood of the Past

What was I supposed to do, anyway, about any of it?

Nobody can know what to do in these situations. There is no map. You do the best you can.

I did the best I can.  

 

AND

 

The Invasive Weed of the Present

I don’t know what to do with my life.

How can I move forward in a meaningful way?

I don’t know how to take care of our house.

How do people know what needs to be maintained?

I don’t know what will make this okay for our children.

Are they okay? Will they be okay?

I don’t know how to redeem our story.

What possible good could come out of what happened?

I don’t know how to be unworried.

What am I not preventing that will go wrong next?

I don’t know how to be happy.

How can I ever feel joy again?

I do not have any idea what to do.

 

…Threatens New Growth

What am I supposed to do now?

Nobody can possibly know what to do in these situations.

You chart your own path. You do the best you can.

I am doing the best I can.  

I will keep going.

…

 

Just as I do in my yard, I will be vigilant about the intrusive thoughts. I’ll carefully cut away those thorny plants to avoid piercing my skin. Once severed from the root, I will let the weeds wither where they were once gaining strength. Later, I will gingerly pull the dead unwanted vines away from the healthy supports. They will grow back, sometimes even with a vengeance, but I’ll remove them again as needed. The growth beyond the fence will become junglelike as summer sets in, but I won’t let the poisonous stuff gain a foothold in the yard, my imperfect oasis.

The lesson I am learning is this - peace and healthy growth do not naturally prevail. They must be cultivated and consistently tended. The work feels endless. It is difficult and painful, and I often don’t feel like doing it. When I let up and allow the poisonous stuff to grow out of control, it creates a thorny minefield that is even harder to clear out. I am recognizing that it is my most important job to tend to my pain, to grapple with the thorns, to be as gentle with and encouraging of myself as I would with a friend. I am trying to do this work.

I am doing the best I can.    

Unconditional Love

Love seems to come from some innate place, one that is not controlled by rational choice. Sure, the beginning of most loving relationships is usually initiated by a conscious decision excepting perhaps a child’s love for a parent, but as it grows, love becomes instinctual, intuitive, involuntary. A force of its own.

Does that mean humans don’t distort love, misuse or even abuse it? No, of course not. There will always be the dark side of humanity. But the best of our human capacity to love is when we offer it benevolently and even unconditionally.

For a long while I thought unconditional love was reserved for parents, responsible for bringing their children into the world in the first place. At this point, I have been a parent for a long time and I have experienced how intense the love for one’s child is, right from the start. The feeling of your newborn transferred into your arms - all slippery and awkward and loud - oh, HERE you are, little love. I would do anything for you.

But it’s not all roses from there, is it? I know firsthand that unconditional love for children is a real thing, but not one that is easy. When your child struggles in any way, you want to fix the problem and the awful truth is that some things are not fixable by another person or, in some cases, at all. Further, this kind of love involves being the bad guy, the punching bag, and still giving another chance to hit the reset button. Still, I love those kids with all of my heart in a way that they can’t understand, for no child can truly grasp the specific and vast nature of her parents’ love.

I think quite a bit about how Chris included a promise to love me unconditionally in his wedding vows. When he shared them with me at age 26, it made a big impression and gave me pause. Did I really deserve unconditional from Chris? After all, I have many flaws… 

Colby, that line of thinking was missing the point completely! Unconditional love means the beloved does not need to deserve or earn it, or for it to be deemed fair. Remember the “un” in unconditional…

Fast forward to now, the present time in which I feel approximately one hundred years old after everything that happened. Through all of his burdens and challenges, Chris was faithful to everything he promised on our wedding day. He did indeed love me unconditionally. We rarely argued, but when we had our moments, he always saw the good in me and offered me his best self. He was shiningly proud of me and my accomplishments that were separate from him. He always believed in me.

For my part, I loved him back just as unconditionally. It doesn’t mean I knew what to do all of the time. It means I was proud of him, enjoyed him, supported him, laughed with him, listened to what he needed to say. In the hardest of times, I honored him as a person with dignity, and fought for his care and wishes. I loved him to my core, and I still do.

Even though I still have desperately difficult days when it is hard to set aside the hollowed out missingness to dwell in gratitude for Chris, I do not claim that his love is gone from my life. It is still here. I just have to work to get out of my own way to find it now without his physical presence. I am learning to listen for it in my memories, to see it in my home, to feel it when I need him the most.

Yes, I can still draw on that love even though he is not here. It allows me to forgive myself as I remember the mistakes and my regrets from the late stages of his illness, for there was not one single thing I ever did that Chris did not forgive. His gentle, steady love is still with me now as I explore and create new things, as I guide our children alone, as I struggle and stumble and wonder what on earth to do with my life. His love is very much here as I continue to muddle through, now two years past having him at my side.

Reflecting tonight as I wipe away tears from missing him, I am humbled that my life is full of rich relationships and love. Chris, our children, my family, his family, my dear friends old and new… I have so much love in my life.

Additionally, I have shared a special kind of unconditional love for two years now. Some might find it silly, but my pup Phoenix loves me with incredible abandon. Even after I’ve driven her to hide under the table because I raised my voice, even after I have chased her down and lifted her into the bathtub to wash her. She loves overtly and enthusiastically, with whole-body wags, up on hind legs hugs, and exuberant, persistent doggy kisses. She prefers to sleep with me for the duration of the night, and sometimes resting next to me is not close enough - she must sleep with her head and neck draped over me. Funny enough, even considering her tendency to hog the bed, her sensitive stomach, that awful howling, and her terrible jumping habit, I love her back just as unconditionally. There is nothing she can do that I won’t excuse just for the chance to scratch behind her silky ears and draw her slender head to mine… The absence of a shared spoken language heightens every nonverbal interaction. This love is a luxurious love, and a pure one. She has saved me in so many ways.

There is so much love in my life, offered and given unconditionally. How lucky I am. All is not lost, far from it.

Unplugged

Yesterday was a typical March day, warmish and light past dinnertime, yet a cold wind made the air feel more like winter than spring. I needed a run. Desperately. Quarantine, lockdown, whatever we are calling these days one year into covid19, has made me restless. I spend too much time in my home and in my mind, tortured by the “would’ve-could’ve-should’ve-if only-he was sitting right there-he said this-why didn’t I say that” thoughts that are always running somewhere in the background. Physical activity is my only reliable strategy for reframing, for relief.

I set off, purposefully leaving my phone charging at my bedside. I wanted to deny myself the distractions I so often seek – music, podcast, any auditory stimuli – and silently breathe in the air while moving my body. I wanted to hear the birds proclaiming change is on the way.

It was infinitely harder to be unplugged…

My route starts out on my street, running past a dozen houses before hitting a busier street that leads to longer loop. Unplugged, there are landmines within thirty seconds, even before the intersection with the main road. That nice family up the street, two working parents with a kindergartener girl and a younger boy, is converging at their home base after a day of separation. The father has been playing with the kids, the mom arrives home with grocery bags. My throat constricts as the dad watchfully ensures that the toddler boy stays a safe distance from her vehicle as she slows to a stop. The unabandoned joy of the girl running to meet her mother’s car touches a nerve. The domestic, everyday simplicity is familiar and beautiful, but it breaks my heart.

Why? Why are those days over for us? What did we do wrong? They aren’t so different from us, what did they do right that we messed up?

Running with a mask is uncomfortable under the best of circumstances, but a crying jag made it unbearable. I felt like I might not be able to continue as I gasped for oxygenated air and wiped snot on the inside of my mask.  

I focused on breathing slowly, trying to make my exhale longer than my inhale, a trick I have heard will steady one’s heartrate. It didn’t work. I felt like I might suffocate, so I looked around. Seeing nobody else walking or running, I lowered my mask below my nose and mouth.

Sweet freedom.

I steadied my breathing. I looked up. I saw barren tree branches against the clearest of clear blue skies. The intake air caught in my throat again as I remembered Chris’s hope for me, for all of us, articulated by Dar Williams:

Here’s wishing you the bluest sky

 and hoping something better comes tomorrow.

Hoping all the verses rhyme

and the very best of choruses to follow all the doubt and sadness,

I know that better things are on their way.

 

Here's hoping that the days ahead

Won't be as bitter as the ones behind you.

Be an optimist instead
And somehow happiness will find you.
Forget what happened yesterday
I know that better things are on their way.

 

I just can’t. I just can’t see better days and I will never forget. I can’t do this. I am so tired. I am a pessimist.

 

Most of my running route was ahead of me and this was a decision point – give in or bear down. I chose the latter despite the leaden feeling in my legs. I banished all thoughts and listened to my feet on the pavement, tried to block out the aches and pains of my body, the thoughts of my slow pace, my graying hair and middle age. My inner cheerleader piped up:

 

Just keep going. Something is better than nothing, any exercise is better than no exercise. You’ll be happy when you are done.

 

One mile turned into two. As I turned the corner near the train station, memories overcame me again. A cold, slushy, winter day when I picked Chris up from the commuter rail train after an appointment at the hospital to go over the most recent brain imaging tests. We discussed the radiation oncologist’s interpretation of his latest MRI while lingering in the parking lot, just across the street from where I currently ran. It had not been good news. There was some kind of T1 FLAIR on the scan. Maybe that’s not the right terminology, and I wracked my brain for what had been mentioned in the radiologist’s report. It doesn’t matter now… It had been terrible news and we both knew it, and then the worst came to pass in the months that followed that day.

 

I hate myself in the present moment for what I didn’t know then, and what I didn’t know then was what to say to Chris. At the time nearly three years ago, I had absolutely no idea what to say. I could not offer any comfort, no words of assurance. My own brain had been full of a static white noise indicative of panic. All I could think was You are actually going to die soon and how is that going to go? What will I do without you? What am I supposed to do? I only knew it would not be helpful to verbalize those thoughts, so I left them unsaid. I cannot remember what I said to him; I am only certain it was inadequate. He probably knew what I was afraid of anyway.

 

The truth is, I still don’t know what to do even after everything that happened after that day passed. I admitted this as I ran past the place where Chris and I shared that painful moment, though experienced it differently.

 

I hate this so much.

 

“This” meaning I hate myself for everything I failed to do and say back then. “This” meaning I hate my current life. “This” meaning I hate myself for hating that I am alive, living this terrible, empty, less-than, privileged, stuck in the mud life while Chris is dead.

 

I feel ashamed because “this” is not what he wanted for me. “This” is not living my best life. “This” is trauma. “This” is waking up day after day without the person you were so close to you thought you couldn’t live without. “This” is not what it means to be truly living at all.

 

“This” is why I am constantly seeking distraction. “This” is why I desperately need the pandemic to be over, for me and the kids to be out of the house five days a week. “This” is awful, tortured, looking back, willing to trade anything for getting to go back for even a minute, even to the hardest days when he was alive. “This” is why I run with headphones pulsing music or pumping someone else’s story through my ears. “This” is why I am jealous of the neighboring family coming home to an ordinary night, free from the drama of a terminal brain tumor.

 

The unplugged run still did me good, it was still better to have finished than given up. The exercise tired my body, it brought the tears that frequently (yes, still) need release.

 

Next time, I’ll return to my old habits and allow myself the distraction of being plugged in. After all, there must be a reason that grieving people are advised to get up and take a shower when they’d rather stay in bed, go to work when they’d rather stay home. Distraction serves a helpful purpose.

 

 

 

 

Little Things, Big Things

 It was just a small part of the day, a quick trip to Target. The dog was in the back seat of the car after a walk in the woods so I could not aimlessly wander the aisles. This stop was all business - dog food and shaving items. My son needed a men’s razor and shave gel.

A few days earlier, my oldest child turned fourteen. He is now decidedly taller than me with little trace of his toddler plumpness. He and I have noticed quite a bit of peach fuzz on his face, and I mentioned that whenever he wanted to shave, we could tackle that. He didn’t say much, so I left it there except to acknowledge that it would be strange without Dad. I told him we could easily find resources just like I do when I’m faced with a task Dad used to do. YouTube, of course. In fact, I had learned of a guy who made videos for just this purpose – to help boys whose fathers weren’t around for any reason – and I mentioned that to my son.

A few weeks went by, and then my son said he thought he should shave. He worried out loud that he would never learn without Dad. It was one of the only times he has voiced that kind of concern… My heart felt a stabbing pain for his loss. For Chris’s loss. My mind’s eye traveled back in time to other moments, where a father took absolute delight in teaching his son to use tools. To ride a bike. To fish.  

I don’t know what to say in the face of pain related to Chris’s death that isn’t mine. If I try to dive into the feelings too much, it goes nowhere and feels forced. I know that instantly relating back to my pain is doing the other person a disservice; I think it might be worse than saying nothing, so I try to avoid doing that though the urge is strong and well-intentioned. As in so many other unfixable moments of this experience, first with Chris and later with family members, I listened in this case. I did not want to say nothing, so I simply said I was sorry, that Dad would have loved to teach him. We let it go again.

Later, I found out that my son had privately searched for the YouTube man’s channel after our conversation. Sure enough, there was a video tutorial on shaving and he had watched it. Turns out it didn’t seem so hard and my boy was ready to try. We looked in the bathroom closet. There was a plastic case of six razor cartridges and Dad’s old razor. I had thrown away the used blade on the razor a while back, closing my eyes as I buried the dulled cartridge in the trash, but I saved the handle for just this moment. That act had reminded me of discarding Chris’s electric toothbrush head a few days after he died, I had forced myself to do it while swallowing bile.

The razor handle seemed to be missing a piece to fit to the blades in the refill pack. The scientist in me pulled out my own razor and replacement blades to examine the mechanism for snapping together, and still I couldn’t understand the six cartridges in front of us. The blades obviously needed another piece of plastic to fit to the razor handle. Perhaps I had unknowingly thrown that critical fitting away with the last blade Chris used. It was clear that there was no way for our son to affix the new blades and reuse Chris’s razor handle with the supplies I could find in our house.

It was another disappointment, but I didn’t say anything about that to our son. In fact, I don’t know if using Chris’s razor and blades would have been meaningful to him or if it would have been a burden imposed by me, or just… a means to an end - shaving for the first time in that minute.

Thus, my trip to Target. I tried to make it easy on myself by limiting the time so I couldn’t lose myself in memories and wonderings, the “he should be here, he should get to do this” thoughts. Unfortunately, I spent considerable time in the shaving aisle out of confusion. I saw the same multi-pack of blades lacking the plastic fitting that we had at home, and I didn’t see any razor handles that could use them. I felt stupid. I looked at new razors that came with two replacement blades, seeing the same handle that Chris used but blade cartridges with a plastic fitting. All the while, my brain was working overtime remembering the countless times we ran simple errands together. First it was just us, then it was our family of three, later it became our finished family of four. We preferred to be together whenever possible, even for the mundane stuff, even when a toddler and six-year-old in tow tried our patience, even when I was convinced said six-year-old had lice and I was close to hyperventilating in Target. It was always. Always. ALWAYS safe and comfortable and life-affirming to be together.

Come back. We need you. Please come back.

I swore to myself that I would not cry in Target over this. One more minute in the men’s hygiene aisle and I would, aching for my husband and in disbelief that our boy was becoming a man without his father, so I just grabbed a new razor packaged with two replacement blades. There were too many options for shaving cream and gel, so I forced myself to pick a can without overthinking the choice. I made a beeline for the self-checkout lanes and escaped.

It felt sad, yet good at the same time, to casually present the purchases to my son. He had a need. His dad would be the most natural person to help him, but he’s dead. So, I took care of it in the best and only way I know how.  

My son put the new shaving supplies in “his” bathroom. The lower-level bathroom. The bathroom that Chris arranged to be remodeled and painted himself in the cheerful blue color we chose together. The one the males in the family used for a couple of years, and now just my boy does.

Later, my son shaved for the first time in the privacy of his bathroom. Chris wasn’t there. I was not needed in the room. Apparently, it went quite well without either of us supervising. Just one tiny cut. I provided some advice - put a little piece of tissue on it. The blood will draw the tissue to press against the skin, sealing it off. Miraculously (from my son’s point of view), that worked. Believe it or not, I do know a thing or two.

I am all that my children have now for their daily care, guidance, and ultimate launching into the world. I worry that I am not enough. Still, I do the best I can because there is no other choice. Similarly, the children are forced to be self-reliant and mature beyond their years. That last point may not be all bad, but the tradeoff is terrible. How I wish it were not so…

This was just a small event. Something that my son and I handled. But it was a big reminder that the things Chris lamented he would miss are now happening. Time has passed and the children are growing up. Two years past his death and these kids are entirely different people, much farther down their personal trajectories toward adulthood. Without a doubt, Chris would be shocked by their stature and delighted by their personalities.

Why am I the one still here? Why did I draw the long straw? Why am I not filled with joy at being able to witness this?

With respect to the latter, it is because my heart is full of loss. Surviving and coping require so much, it is still hard to feel any joy. And yet, I am uncomfortable with my selfishness. I have been so focused on my personal pain that sometimes I cannot imagine what others feel. The kids miss Dad even if they don’t talk about it much. Chris has missed so much time with them, so many accomplishments and such growth, and he will miss so much more.

Chris knew and fully understood what I am only now beginning to grasp. Oh, he clearly and deeply knew just what he would miss. At the time, when he talked of disappearing and not getting to see how the kids turned out, I didn’t know what to say. I tried to listen. I tried to be present and not turn away out of fear. I tried not to burden him with my own pain of facing a future without him. I hope I did the right thing in those moments; I hope it was enough. I did the best I could.

I miss him.

We miss him.

He should be here.

This was just a little thing, a blip, but the little things in life are what make it so special. The little things are really the big things, and Chris is missing them all.

 

 

 

Outsider

Our neighborhood is mostly made up of modest 1970s split level homes, but there are a couple of larger, enviable colonials with beautifully landscaped yards. A young couple recently moved into one of those “nicer” homes. I did not meet them until they adopted a dog early in the pandemic, then they were frequently out walking and Phoenix would raise a ruckus whenever they approached us on the street. It was rather awkward until they graciously offered to let the dogs say hello. The dogs sniffed each other and we made some small talk. I discovered they are lovely people. If we were contemporaries they would likely be too popular, too fashionable to be close friends of mine, but as it turns out I’m a good decade or more senior to them and we can certainly be friendly acquaintances whose dogs now adore one another.    

For quite some time I wondered what this couple thought of me, the solitary middle-aged woman who plays numerous sports in the yard with her two kids, is pulled around by a large, poorly trained dog, and undertakes dubious DIY projects with no partner in sight. It troubled me that they might think I was divorced, then it bothered me that I considered divorce stigmatizing. Why do I care what they think, anyway?

I have not always been alone. Someone once chose me, treasured me, considered me his rock, made this place a home with me, took care of me just as I took care of him.

About a month ago, I noticed a change to their patterns. One car was gone for a few days while snow collected on the remaining vehicle. As I accompanied Phoenix on her countless walks from that cluster of days, I watched for signs of activity that would mark their return. I knew they were at the hospital for their baby’s birth. My vigilance, likely borne of PTSD, could not be set aside until I saw the baby blue decorations on the front porch complete with a cheerful “It’s a Boy!” banner. First came a rush of relief for his safe arrival. Then, on its heels came something much less attractive - envy crept in from the edges of my consciousness.

I had what they have and now it’s gone.

I want what they have.

Why didn’t I get to keep what they almost certainly will?

I used to be in that club. You know, the one that our culture worships yet withholds membership from far too many people. The club that proclaims if you have done everything right as a successful person you will be educated, land a great job, marry the perfect person, buy a beautiful house that is decorated just so, have 2.3 perfect kids spaced two years apart, celebrate 10 years of marriage, then 20, then enjoy an empty nest together, then retire and travel, then celebrate a golden wedding anniversary.

It’s an exclusive club by nature, unattainable for most. Just looking at the numbers, I’m puzzled at how the mystique of the club can persist with the divorce rate still hovering near 50%. And beyond that, we are not all so privileged to reap any one of those membership benefits if we simply work hard enough and do the right things. It’s a real problem that our culture worships that club, with its ladder laden with over-the-top wedding proposals, elaborate reveals for a baby’s biological sex, and ostentatious house renovations. It just sets people up for disappointment and envy.

I’m certainly guilty of buying into it all… I continually sought the next life notch – college, grad school, husband, baby, tenure-track position. The last stop was the home we purchased after I got my coveted job offer. It was all going according to plan and yes, I felt a bit smug. Self-satisfied. See? I worked so hard and I got what I deserved.

Then the train veered off the expected path with the surprise brain tumor… After a period of shock and intense treatment, I kept clawing at my club membership. We should have been kicked out with the terminal diagnosis, but not many people knew about it and I faked it. I enjoyed posting pictures of my perfect family and hid the fact that baby #2 was born to a father who would not live to see her out of childhood. I desperately didn’t want that to be true, so I didn’t advertise it. Instead, I shared the most flattering pictures of our intact family of four and basked in the approval of the club.

Oh, but now there is no more pretending. Dead husband, single mom. Those things get you kicked out of the club for good. The members are horrified that tragedy can strike someone like you, someone who did everything right. Nobody knows what to do with your struggle, your deflated affect, your distractedness, your solitary widowed existence. You are out.

I cannot blame anyone for my outsider status. In fact, the finger points toward me most of all. I bear guilt for revering the club in the first place. It smacks of privilege and I don’t like that, I wish I didn’t want what I do. Yet here I am, very much on the outside now, willing to give anything to be let back in.

That’s not happening. Not ever.

It’s something I have yet to come to terms with. You cannot go back. A person who has died never walks through the door again. Even if I were to remarry a new partner, we would make some kind of blended, grieving family that really doesn’t fit into the club.  

I’m an outsider now.

I hate it so much. Sometimes I’m downright surly because I spent my entire childhood being a nerd outsider, my college years dedicated to being a rule-following perfectionist outsider, my grad school years struggling as a feelings-driven science outsider. Just when things came together for me, boom! Permanent outsider status conferred as a young widowed parent.

On my good days, I try to make the best of it. When the couple up the street appeared to walk the dog with a stroller, I decided I needed to reach out. I made an enormous pot of soup and dropped some off, admiring their sweet baby and saying that they made a lovely family. Sincerely. The baby fussed a bit, and they looked tired. The husband implied the baby cried a lot. I wished them good luck and hoped they would get some rest. I told them I was always around if they needed a respite dog walker or anything else. I think/hope it was a normal social interaction.

They likely didn’t know that I swallowed the lump in my throat and held back my stories about how our first baby was quite difficult, too. They probably wouldn’t have known what to say if I described how Chris would allow our son to suck on his pinky finger and walk laps through the house with him until he finally fell asleep. 

My vision was blurred by tears on the walk back home. This is far from the only situation in which I felt like my contributions would make people feel awkward so I said nothing. My stories cannot spill out naturally anymore; there's not much to say that is lighthearted or fun or generally welcome in most company.

I’m an outsider now.