Since you've been gone, you have only shown up in nightmares. My therapist tells me that the nightmares are occurring because my mind knows there's been a trauma involving you, so it spends the whole night imagining the worst case scenario. Unfortunately for my imagination, reality is worse. But I've spent many a night over the past three weeks seeing you cheat on me with other women, tell me you didn't love me, come to me as a ghost reminding me that you are dead, break up with me, turn your back on me when I'm crying, and die over and over again. The nightmares have been better than the waking moments because at least I get to see you, but painful nonetheless.
Last night before I fell asleep in the hotel room at the Mt. Princeton Hot Springs, I asked you to visit me in my dreams instead of in a nightmare. It took me a long time to fall asleep.
I awoke from sleep. I was laying in our bed in Boulder, on the right side, closest to the window, where I slept when you were alive. As I opened my eyes I saw your face above me. Your eyes were bright and full of life. Your cheeks were pink with excitement. I could see the sunlight from the open window casting a beam onto your hair – each strand sparkled. You smiled into my sleepy eyes, and I noticed that in between your teeth you were holding a red rose. My heart fluttered. You were about to propose to me. It was just the way you'd told your mother you were going to do it. You were alive and we were about to get engaged.
As I became aware of my surroundings, I realized you had made breakfast. You had set up a romantic picnic all around me on the bed like a tea party from a fairy tale. Coffee and tea were balancing on china saucers, eggs were plated – sunny side up with flakes of pepper and Himalayan sea salt, crisp bacon let off a rich aroma around me, and there was a colorful fruit salad with tons of berries. Everything was brighter in our bedroom, the colors more punchy than I'd noticed before.
"I love you," you said. "I love you too!" I squealed. I lifted myself up from the bed, wrapped my arms around your neck, and kissed your lips. I was careful as I moved, because I didn't know I was dreaming and nothing would spill. I wondered if I needed to eat before what was going to happen next, happened. I wasn't very hungry for food.
I don't remember any more of the dream. I don't remember if there was anymore to it at all or perhaps if you asked me those four words and I'd finally been able to tell you 'yes!'. But it was enough just to see that look of love in your eyes. The look I'd become so accustom to seeing every time we crossed paths everyday. The look I was thrilled to see every hour, every day, for decades and decades to come. I got to see that look last night, even if it was only a vision. Thank you, Ted.
---
A few weeks before your death, I was sitting at my computer upstairs working on a deadline for my magazine job. You were downstairs in the studio, practicing your drums. The beat of the double bass echoed softly through the walls. Your music gave a rhythm to my work, a beat for my day to day grind. I loved hearing you practice.
As I zoomed in on my screen, focused on refining a layout, I heard a shrill 'meow' from beside my desk. It was Beats, our cat. She had a mouse in her mouth. I gasped, "Beats! OHMIGOD, no!" I grabbed my phone and texted you, "OMGGGGG Beats has a mouseeeeeeeeeohsfsfkahfisfwfheywo!!!!!!" I lept up from my chair and lunged at Beats. She playfully dashed into the master bathroom, the room next door, with the mouse in between her jaw. I followed her and as I studied the situation, the mouse blinked at me, as if trying to send me a silent SOS. "IT'S ALIVEEEEEEEEEEE!!!! Helpppppppppppdfkshsdkfsdf," I texted. I heard the drums stop downstairs.
I grabbed Beats. She dropped the mouse. Stunned and slick with cat slobber, it froze. I pulled Beats away from her pray. She has a rule, which she broke. She can hunt but she cannot bring her victims into the house. The mouse ran. "Shit!" I cried. Without thinking, I dropped Beats and began to chase the mouse. Beats took off after it too. Now, I am chasing Beats chase the mouse through our bedroom and onto the landing at the top of the stairs. The mouse freezes at the top of the stairs. Kira, the dog, has been alerted to the frenzy and is running up the stairs to see what the fuss is about. Kira spots the mouse. Her tail begins to wag at a dangerous pace.
I hear you coming up the stairs from the basement. "AHHHHHHHH!" I shout!
The mouse makes a run for it. It bolts down the stairs, past Kira. I grab Beats and nearly tumble down the stairs with the cat. Beats hisses at me, pissed, as I hold her between my hands. Kira, confused and excited by the commotion isn't really sure who to chase: the mouse, Beats and I, or you, who has now appeared at the bottom of the stairs, ready to help.
The mouse races into the sun room and hides inside of a pile of rolled-up yoga mats. Still holding Beats in one hand, I grab Kira's collar in the other and hold her back. You are belly laughing at my klutzy plan of action.
I'm completely convinced that you are the only person in the world who could be graceful and gentle in an emergency such as this. You delicately unwrap each mat until you spot the mouse. "Awwwwww," you say. "It's not a mouse, it's a cute little chipmunk! Come here Mr. Chipmunk, I'm gonna save your life." You grab the mouse/chipmunk by its tail and hold it up. It's calm in your grip. It trusts you.
You slide into some sandals and open the front door as I hold the animals back. You head outside, still holding the chipmunk by its tail. I let go of the animals and run to the front window so I can see you.
I watch you as you inspect the chipmunk. You check for bite marks or blood. You walk to the edge of the driveway. While still dangling the stunned rodent in your right hand, you construct a little cave out of rocks and place some leaves in it as a carpet, all with your left. With care, you set the chipmunk down in its new recovery center. The last thing I saw you do, before I turned away so you wouldn't see me watching, was pat the chipmunk on its head gingerly and wish it luck. Then you turned to come back inside. An incognito hero.
You treated everyone in your life like that little chipmunk, Ted. You were generous, modest, and tender. You didn't need anyone to see you pleasing people and you never asked for pat on the back or a payback. You simply acted out of love. Your compassion is the biggest lesson you gave me in our short time on Earth together and will continue to teach me for the rest of my days. You showed me that life is more beautiful when you unquestionably come from a place of pure, absolute, and humble love. Thank you, Ted. Thank you for saving Mr. Chipmunk. And thank you for saving me.
Showing posts with label animals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label animals. Show all posts
Grey
We left Steamboat early this morning to make our way back to Boulder – hugs, goodbyes, gifts, and coffee passed around. Minutes before loading into the car, a bear was spotted in our host's backyard. It wandered down a path and onto a neighboring green from the golf course behind their property. I swallowed a hiccup of hope as I watched the animal. I see you in nature.
I took two long walks yesterday. I wasn't motivated to move at all yesterday, but eventually I did. I wanted to curl up in a ball and wither away, tattered in sadness. I can literally feel pain in my heart, since you left. It aches constantly, ricocheting storm clouds of depression through my being. I have been fortunate in my life to have never been taunted by depression before now. In fact, I think have been insensitive to the struggle that it creates due to my naivety. But now, I can recognize its symptoms as they start to settle in. I hear the infomercials calling my name.
Just a few weeks ago, I was the happiest I had ever been. If we had been colors in a box of crayons we would have been a shockingly bright purple and its complimentary lemon-lime. We were creating drawings unlike anything anyone had ever seen – wild and and imaginative art. We were pissing people off with our neon accolades as we tore through life with love and color.
Then death showed up, took your crayon, and snapped mine in half with a 'fuck you'. The colors are gone, along with our dreams, brightness, and mostly, our togetherness. Now, I feel like a grey crayon. And not a pretty grey.
When we were making all the choices for our home renovation, you liked to poke fun at how often I would choose grey as a color palette. You'd laugh and say, "Grey?! What about a color?" I'd say, "But you know, like a pretty grey!" Your eyes would narrow with confusion and humor. We'd compromise and choose a color that would compliment the grey I so adored. Without you, I feel like a grey without its compliment. A grey that clashes with all the other colors. A grey that when children open the box of crayons, would be the last pick, "Ewwww, I don't want that one." The stray loser chosen last for the kickball team. Stranded, ugly, and colorless.
Despite the darkness that is cast over me, strangely, nature appears more beautiful than ever. Maybe it's because I have lost trust in what I thought was stable: people, life, and plans… but the bigness of this world and what's above it give me a sliver of hope. The moon rising over mountains, big and luminous, casting its silver glimmer on mountain peaks: it's sublime. The sunlight feels warmer than I've ever noticed, despite it being the middle of November. The mountains seem stronger, sturdier, and more majestic than before. My immediate world is bleak. Days pass like black and white, silent movies. But when I look into nature's eye, I see her magic. I see the hope that one day my pages will fill with color once again. I see you in nature. I can't really feel you and I can't really hear you, but I have faith that you live in her beauty. That you, like a master puppeteer, will be able to direct some sunlight towards my days, someday. While everything else around me is so shattered, what I thought was my future has turned into ashes, and my heart is broken – I see the stability in the Earth, the heavens, and the realms in between where I know you reside.
Last May, we traveled to South Africa for a wedding. We made the event into an opportunity to travel for a couple weeks. The story I want to tell happened at the very end of our two week trip. But at the beginning of our trip, on the way to Africa, another incident occurred that I will share first, because it's kind of funny and I've taken to embarrassing myself lately.
We boarded the plane in Denver, and you – always the mischievous dare-devil, handed me a Cheeba Chew before we went through security. A Cheeba Chew is medicated candy containing 70 mg of THC. You told me the candy would help my impending motion sickness, as I always get nauseas during air travel. You told me it would chill us out, make the long journey fun, and we'd be able to sleep deeply. I am incredibly sensitive to pot and don't partake very often, but you know what you're talking about, so I trusted you. My results were not as you described.
The paranoia kicked in as soon as I sat down on in my seat on the aisle. You sat in the middle, having claimed the aisle seat for our next flight, the international leg. The flight attendant ambled down the aisle, mindlessly collecting drink orders and distributing beverages and crackers. "Ted, I can't order my drink! She is going to know! Will you ask her for a water with no ice for me?" I whispered. My eyes were wide with fear. You belly laughed and said, "Don't worry, sweetie, you're fine. And yes, I'll get you your water." "Ted! I am so scared they aren't going to let us into South Africa," I whispered into your ear. "What, baby? I can't hear you," you responded. "The dogs will know we have pot in our systems," I whispered even more quietly. "Babe, it's legal in Colorado. We didn't do anything illegal. Plus, dogs aren't going to be able to smell oil inside of our bodies. Unconvinced, I said "I don't know, I think we are in trouble. I swear that flight attendant it looking at me weird." "I can't hear what you're saying, love," you replied, totally enjoying this. "I. Feel. Like. I'm. Screaming!" I replied, so quietly you could barely catch a syllable of what I was saying. I reached forward into the seat pocket and grabbed the motion sickness bag. My knuckles white and my belly uneasy, I sat in near stillness for the next two hours as we flew across the continental USA to our layover in Atlanta. You, barely phased by the candy, very sweetly tended to me and my dramatic hysteria. You held my hand, checked in with me, and rubbed my back as I squeezed my eyes shut and leaned onto your shoulder, frozen with fear and nausea. "You bit off more than you could chew," you said, always finding time for a pun.
By the time we arrived in Atlanta, the candy wore off. You got me some food and water, and soon enough I was back to myself again. The rest of our travel to Johannesburg was much less entertaining. We settled into our seats and enjoyed ten hours of on demand movies. We don't have cable at home, so TV is a bonus. Like giddy kids, we'd choose a movie together. Yes, we both would watch the same one, even though we had independent screens. We would choose our film and then say, "1. 2. 3. Go!" and hit play at the same time. Hand in hand, we'd watch the movie as we squirmed in the non-ergonomic coach seats with their three-inch recline. A few movies later, we arrived in South Africa. We cleared customs with no problem. Not a single dog pawed or growled at our bellies.
After a blissful couple weeks in South Africa, we spent our last day in the country in Capetown, before a redeye flight back home. We had saved a hike we wanted to take together for that last day. Table Mountain had been the recommended route, but we chose Lion's Head instead. It was less popular and just as scenic, offering a view of the whole city, harbor, and stretch of coast from the top. As the taxi dropped us at the start, near the top of Signal Hill, the clouds rolled in. We had been advised to start the hike early to avoid the overcast skies, but we'd decided that sleeping in and a relaxing morning was more important that day. So we had no one to blame but ourselves as the fog poured in from all sides.
We made our way up the gravel road, circling the peak. We chatted aimlessly and both decided the sky was going to open up, clear, and blue as soon as we reached the summit. The road turned into a single file, rocky path. One at a time, we continued on. We passed another small group of hikers, applauding ourselves for 'training at altitude' in Colorado. The 669 meter ascent wasn't affecting us much, and we continued to make our way up with nonstop conversation. We snapped photos of each other climbing up a section of steep rock that used chains and ladders and joked about how in the U.S.A. it would be a lawsuit. And after about 90-minutes, we climbed over the last rock, to the top of the peak. We couldn't see a thing.
Fog completely surrounded us. We literally could hardly make our each others faces standing two feet apart. We laughed and laughed, and decided that it didn't matter. We joked about stealing a photo from Google to show the view from the top. We sat down and added our names to a rock full of hearts and messages. You ate a Kind Bar. I fed some of it to a little bird that arrived and ate from my hand. We eventually left, and carefully made our way down the trek. The sun stayed behind the clouds all day.
When it was you and I surrounded by grey, it didn't matter, because we were together, and in our world, it was always colorful. Without you, the gray is cold, lonely, and ugly.
I took two long walks yesterday. I wasn't motivated to move at all yesterday, but eventually I did. I wanted to curl up in a ball and wither away, tattered in sadness. I can literally feel pain in my heart, since you left. It aches constantly, ricocheting storm clouds of depression through my being. I have been fortunate in my life to have never been taunted by depression before now. In fact, I think have been insensitive to the struggle that it creates due to my naivety. But now, I can recognize its symptoms as they start to settle in. I hear the infomercials calling my name.
Just a few weeks ago, I was the happiest I had ever been. If we had been colors in a box of crayons we would have been a shockingly bright purple and its complimentary lemon-lime. We were creating drawings unlike anything anyone had ever seen – wild and and imaginative art. We were pissing people off with our neon accolades as we tore through life with love and color.
Then death showed up, took your crayon, and snapped mine in half with a 'fuck you'. The colors are gone, along with our dreams, brightness, and mostly, our togetherness. Now, I feel like a grey crayon. And not a pretty grey.
When we were making all the choices for our home renovation, you liked to poke fun at how often I would choose grey as a color palette. You'd laugh and say, "Grey?! What about a color?" I'd say, "But you know, like a pretty grey!" Your eyes would narrow with confusion and humor. We'd compromise and choose a color that would compliment the grey I so adored. Without you, I feel like a grey without its compliment. A grey that clashes with all the other colors. A grey that when children open the box of crayons, would be the last pick, "Ewwww, I don't want that one." The stray loser chosen last for the kickball team. Stranded, ugly, and colorless.
Despite the darkness that is cast over me, strangely, nature appears more beautiful than ever. Maybe it's because I have lost trust in what I thought was stable: people, life, and plans… but the bigness of this world and what's above it give me a sliver of hope. The moon rising over mountains, big and luminous, casting its silver glimmer on mountain peaks: it's sublime. The sunlight feels warmer than I've ever noticed, despite it being the middle of November. The mountains seem stronger, sturdier, and more majestic than before. My immediate world is bleak. Days pass like black and white, silent movies. But when I look into nature's eye, I see her magic. I see the hope that one day my pages will fill with color once again. I see you in nature. I can't really feel you and I can't really hear you, but I have faith that you live in her beauty. That you, like a master puppeteer, will be able to direct some sunlight towards my days, someday. While everything else around me is so shattered, what I thought was my future has turned into ashes, and my heart is broken – I see the stability in the Earth, the heavens, and the realms in between where I know you reside.
Last May, we traveled to South Africa for a wedding. We made the event into an opportunity to travel for a couple weeks. The story I want to tell happened at the very end of our two week trip. But at the beginning of our trip, on the way to Africa, another incident occurred that I will share first, because it's kind of funny and I've taken to embarrassing myself lately.
We boarded the plane in Denver, and you – always the mischievous dare-devil, handed me a Cheeba Chew before we went through security. A Cheeba Chew is medicated candy containing 70 mg of THC. You told me the candy would help my impending motion sickness, as I always get nauseas during air travel. You told me it would chill us out, make the long journey fun, and we'd be able to sleep deeply. I am incredibly sensitive to pot and don't partake very often, but you know what you're talking about, so I trusted you. My results were not as you described.
The paranoia kicked in as soon as I sat down on in my seat on the aisle. You sat in the middle, having claimed the aisle seat for our next flight, the international leg. The flight attendant ambled down the aisle, mindlessly collecting drink orders and distributing beverages and crackers. "Ted, I can't order my drink! She is going to know! Will you ask her for a water with no ice for me?" I whispered. My eyes were wide with fear. You belly laughed and said, "Don't worry, sweetie, you're fine. And yes, I'll get you your water." "Ted! I am so scared they aren't going to let us into South Africa," I whispered into your ear. "What, baby? I can't hear you," you responded. "The dogs will know we have pot in our systems," I whispered even more quietly. "Babe, it's legal in Colorado. We didn't do anything illegal. Plus, dogs aren't going to be able to smell oil inside of our bodies. Unconvinced, I said "I don't know, I think we are in trouble. I swear that flight attendant it looking at me weird." "I can't hear what you're saying, love," you replied, totally enjoying this. "I. Feel. Like. I'm. Screaming!" I replied, so quietly you could barely catch a syllable of what I was saying. I reached forward into the seat pocket and grabbed the motion sickness bag. My knuckles white and my belly uneasy, I sat in near stillness for the next two hours as we flew across the continental USA to our layover in Atlanta. You, barely phased by the candy, very sweetly tended to me and my dramatic hysteria. You held my hand, checked in with me, and rubbed my back as I squeezed my eyes shut and leaned onto your shoulder, frozen with fear and nausea. "You bit off more than you could chew," you said, always finding time for a pun.
By the time we arrived in Atlanta, the candy wore off. You got me some food and water, and soon enough I was back to myself again. The rest of our travel to Johannesburg was much less entertaining. We settled into our seats and enjoyed ten hours of on demand movies. We don't have cable at home, so TV is a bonus. Like giddy kids, we'd choose a movie together. Yes, we both would watch the same one, even though we had independent screens. We would choose our film and then say, "1. 2. 3. Go!" and hit play at the same time. Hand in hand, we'd watch the movie as we squirmed in the non-ergonomic coach seats with their three-inch recline. A few movies later, we arrived in South Africa. We cleared customs with no problem. Not a single dog pawed or growled at our bellies.
After a blissful couple weeks in South Africa, we spent our last day in the country in Capetown, before a redeye flight back home. We had saved a hike we wanted to take together for that last day. Table Mountain had been the recommended route, but we chose Lion's Head instead. It was less popular and just as scenic, offering a view of the whole city, harbor, and stretch of coast from the top. As the taxi dropped us at the start, near the top of Signal Hill, the clouds rolled in. We had been advised to start the hike early to avoid the overcast skies, but we'd decided that sleeping in and a relaxing morning was more important that day. So we had no one to blame but ourselves as the fog poured in from all sides.
We made our way up the gravel road, circling the peak. We chatted aimlessly and both decided the sky was going to open up, clear, and blue as soon as we reached the summit. The road turned into a single file, rocky path. One at a time, we continued on. We passed another small group of hikers, applauding ourselves for 'training at altitude' in Colorado. The 669 meter ascent wasn't affecting us much, and we continued to make our way up with nonstop conversation. We snapped photos of each other climbing up a section of steep rock that used chains and ladders and joked about how in the U.S.A. it would be a lawsuit. And after about 90-minutes, we climbed over the last rock, to the top of the peak. We couldn't see a thing.
Fog completely surrounded us. We literally could hardly make our each others faces standing two feet apart. We laughed and laughed, and decided that it didn't matter. We joked about stealing a photo from Google to show the view from the top. We sat down and added our names to a rock full of hearts and messages. You ate a Kind Bar. I fed some of it to a little bird that arrived and ate from my hand. We eventually left, and carefully made our way down the trek. The sun stayed behind the clouds all day.
When it was you and I surrounded by grey, it didn't matter, because we were together, and in our world, it was always colorful. Without you, the gray is cold, lonely, and ugly.
Signs
October 29. 2014
Yesterday I wrote to you, Ted, desperate for your 'light', for a sign that showed me you're still out there, dancing in the moonlight. Then, I woke up in the morning and made my way to our couch. In the utter exhaustion, weakness, and grief that has plagued me deeply, I laid down. I couldn't figure out what an annoying buzzing was that I'd never heard before. I thought it was one of the wasps that have taken over our house. Then I saw something flickering. I realized there was a rainbow-maker hung high on the window that I'd never seen. Rainbows began to dance all over the walls, without any pattern or organization. I said to Lena, who was next to me: this is Teddy, right? She said: absolutely. The rainbows moved down to my body and ran over my legs, and chest, and other places Ted adored. I was able to smile and laugh as I gyrated with the rainbow flickers, knowing it was his light and his playful mind. And now I know that when the sun is out at that hour, I have something to do - I can see my beloved dance in the rainbows. It gives me something to look forward to, which is a glimmer (literally) of hope.
Yesterday I wrote to you, Ted, desperate for your 'light', for a sign that showed me you're still out there, dancing in the moonlight. Then, I woke up in the morning and made my way to our couch. In the utter exhaustion, weakness, and grief that has plagued me deeply, I laid down. I couldn't figure out what an annoying buzzing was that I'd never heard before. I thought it was one of the wasps that have taken over our house. Then I saw something flickering. I realized there was a rainbow-maker hung high on the window that I'd never seen. Rainbows began to dance all over the walls, without any pattern or organization. I said to Lena, who was next to me: this is Teddy, right? She said: absolutely. The rainbows moved down to my body and ran over my legs, and chest, and other places Ted adored. I was able to smile and laugh as I gyrated with the rainbow flickers, knowing it was his light and his playful mind. And now I know that when the sun is out at that hour, I have something to do - I can see my beloved dance in the rainbows. It gives me something to look forward to, which is a glimmer (literally) of hope.
And in case another sign was needed:
Our pup, Kira, woke me over an hour ago. She climbed into bed feeling much heavier and more needy than I'd ever noticed. We both cried for a bit, but something in her told me to get up. I got up and went to Ted's closet. Laid on the floor and cried there with her for a bit. But something in her told me to keep moving, she took me downstairs. This is unlike her because Kevin had only been to sleep an hour before and I knew she'd been fed and out. She is not usually needy. She asked for food. I opened the door to the garage and a giant black bear looked up at me, paws full of kale salad, quinoa, and leftover chicken from the catering that has been so generously supplied for all the family in town. It was my Teddy. He just wanted a healthy 4am snack, per usual. The bear got up and slowly trotted off into the darkness, Kira and I standing in the doorway, wide-eyed and excited. Probably best that he left, because my first inclination was to run and hug him.
I had told Ted many times lately that I look for bears on my drives to and from the house and whenever I look out the windows. I have never seen one before. We leave the garage open accidentally weekly and it's never happened. And on Sunday, Teddy's dear friend Frenchy had also been looking for a sign. His Elizabeth had woken up to go to work to find a bear leaning on Frenchy's car. It was also their first bear sighting. Maybe if I hadn't made my way down there, seen him, and then closed the doors when he left, he would have cleaned up his dishes and mess, like Ted would have. Or more likely, he was reminding Kevin and I that tomorrow is garbage day, because he always remembered, and we always forgot.
He is here, strong and free and playful: in nature, in light, in animals, and in our hearts. I will never stop looking.
Our pup, Kira, woke me over an hour ago. She climbed into bed feeling much heavier and more needy than I'd ever noticed. We both cried for a bit, but something in her told me to get up. I got up and went to Ted's closet. Laid on the floor and cried there with her for a bit. But something in her told me to keep moving, she took me downstairs. This is unlike her because Kevin had only been to sleep an hour before and I knew she'd been fed and out. She is not usually needy. She asked for food. I opened the door to the garage and a giant black bear looked up at me, paws full of kale salad, quinoa, and leftover chicken from the catering that has been so generously supplied for all the family in town. It was my Teddy. He just wanted a healthy 4am snack, per usual. The bear got up and slowly trotted off into the darkness, Kira and I standing in the doorway, wide-eyed and excited. Probably best that he left, because my first inclination was to run and hug him.
I had told Ted many times lately that I look for bears on my drives to and from the house and whenever I look out the windows. I have never seen one before. We leave the garage open accidentally weekly and it's never happened. And on Sunday, Teddy's dear friend Frenchy had also been looking for a sign. His Elizabeth had woken up to go to work to find a bear leaning on Frenchy's car. It was also their first bear sighting. Maybe if I hadn't made my way down there, seen him, and then closed the doors when he left, he would have cleaned up his dishes and mess, like Ted would have. Or more likely, he was reminding Kevin and I that tomorrow is garbage day, because he always remembered, and we always forgot.
He is here, strong and free and playful: in nature, in light, in animals, and in our hearts. I will never stop looking.
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