The biggest commitment one can make in love is to be parted by death. Now, it is up to me alone – the remainder of our pair – to remember. To remember the way you said 'I love you'. To remember the promises we intended to keep for ourselves and one another. To remember how it felt to dance wrapped in each others arms. To remember how peaceful it was to sleep next to you and wake up nestled in your body. To remember the way my heart felt warm when I was with you. To remember how OK everything always was when you were there. To remember the way your hand danced with mine – the way your fingers explored every ridge of my skin. To remember how it felt to lock our eyes – how our pupils dilated as our souls merged. To remember how we came together when we made love. To remember how safe I felt when you held me. Now, as I question everything, it is up to me to remember how it felt to question nothing.
I'm winging it now. When I keep my gaze down and my mind full, I can fake progress. Maybe it's not always faking. But when I catch my reflection in a mirror and see my own sad eyes staring back at me, I realize that I'm so not OK. Now I wear sunglasses when it's overcast. I wear them not to protect my eyes from the sun, but to protect the world from seeing me and from me seeing me. Loneliness grows like a spreading tumor. I reach out to cope. I reach out in some healthy ways. I reach out in some unhealthy ways. I reach out in some ways that I don't know what the fuck to think about them. But I reach out to try to catch my balance amidst a fall. I reach out to anything that I can cling to as I tumble down this hole. I don't know what's at the bottom. I don't know if there's ground. I don't know if there's light. I don't know if there's love. I don't know if there's peace. I don't know if there's death. I just know that I'm falling, I'm reaching, and I'm alone.
For the first time in my life, I've chosen to truly go inside. I am staying in my broken shell and dissecting the pieces that are left of me. I am not letting very many people in anymore. I'm scared of what I might lose. I'm scared of what they might find. I'm scared of showing that I've lost control. I've lost. My tail is between my legs and I cower, embraced in my own arms. But my arms don't comfort me. No arms comfort me. Only your arms ever made me feel truly safe, truly special, and truly loved. I have to learn to find comfort and safety within the confines of my self. But it's hard. It's like taking an icepick to a glacier. How deep does it go? Where is the root? Hidden so far under the surface. Floating. Cracked. Melting. Buried.
I try to protect myself from further pain, but what used to hurt me now only tingles numbly. I can't tell if the trembles help or hurt. Just more feelings to join in the dance of my despair. Every interaction reminds me that I'm not interacting with you. Every thing I do reminds me of my loneliness. I no longer want to climb in our bed at night. It's too sad. I don't want to sleep because I'll only wake one day farther from the last day I saw you. The void that exists in the space you filled becomes larger – every breath, every hour, every day. Even in the moments when I may smile, I may laugh, I may feel pleasure – the truth is that I am in severe pain. I am missing you indescribably. My love for you remains my guiding light. I am here, powerlessly lonely. Reaching. Praying. Coping. Winging it.
Wherever you are tonight, my love, I hope to God you're having a beautiful adventure. That's the thing about love, I would never want you to feel pain. So, today, despite the clouds covering my universe, I am grateful that you left us peacefully – and that I am the one who has to suffer, not you.
Showing posts with label mourning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mourning. Show all posts
Too Sad To Write
I have been too sad to write for the past three days. Grief can be like paralysis.
Three days ago we celebrated New Years. I didn't want to celebrate. I didn't open my blinds to see 2015 until this morning. I wanted to remain cocooned in darkness. I didn't want to see what a new year looked like without you. I have stepped outside one time so far this year. I don't want to feel the breath of the new year on my skin. I have hardly responded to my phone messages. I've ignored my email. I haven't opened my computer. I don't want to see what the technology is offering. I don't want to hear the "Happy New Years". I don't want to see who got engaged. I don't want to hear the pop of champagne bottles or the clink of glasses. I've stayed as horizontal as possible until friends coerced me up to eat or Kira asked to go outside. But even she didn't want to see the sun.
Everyone who knows you is sad. I know that. I don't want to compare my grief to others. But watching others smile, celebrate, and honor you through stickers, signs, stories, and memorabilia isn't enough for me. I tried to do it. It worked for a few hours. But the highs are low and the lows aren't describable by language. That's why I haven't been writing. I can't put words to my sadness. There's no way to explain the sorrow when I wake up and you're not there. There's no way to explain how it feels to remember you're gone minute-after-minute. There's no way to explain what life looks like with the knowledge that I can't be with you. Every time I close my eyes I'm taken back to that night. When I sleep, what used to be dreams are now robbed by chilling nightmares. When I feel close to you for a moment – maybe by hearing a song you loved, being near someone who reminds me of you, or seeing a sign from above – the comfort is fleeting. What lingers is a gut-wrenching reminder of how absent you are and guilt for my temporary solace.
I've spent the last week or so surrounded by friends of yours who have been in your life for years, many more years then I was. I have heard story after story that I wasn't around for. I have met people that you never got to introduce me to. I've had heart-to-hearts with friends that I wasn't able to deeply connect with until now, until tragedy hit. And they're all sad. They all miss you. They all love you. But I watch their lives continue and it makes me feel angry. It's anger that I know isn't warranted. But I want to dive under my covers, ignore any semblance of forward motion, and never come out – and definitely not watch others move forward with their new year and their happy lives.
I'm envious of all the people who shared decades with you. I didn't even get two years with you. And yet I had dreams about you since I was a child. And since we started our life together, since we fell in love, I needed to wake up with you each morning. I depended on your kiss to fuel the start of my day. I got to admire you as you did little nothings like brush your teeth, shave, or make tea. I took great care in sudsing you up in the shower, cleaning every bit of you with love and organic soap. I exercised more patience than I knew I had when I'd towel you dry. I moved slowly when I'd kiss your chest and watch your eyes light up with desire. I got to combine my pleasure with your pleasure and witness the creation of true love.
But now I wake up alone. I washed the sheets yesterday because they smelled of tears, sweat, loneliness, and nightmares. And last night I barely slept. I was cold in our bed. I felt so foreign on those clean sheets, the ones that I'd surprised you with one day because they were made out of bamboo and I knew you'd love them. When I did sleep, I dreamt that our house was being robbed while I lay in bed unaware. I woke up in fear and I realized it's a dream I've had a few times now – everything I thought was mine disappearing, everything I thought I could trust being ripped out from under me – a thinly veiled reality.
Kira sleeps on the bed next to me now. She can tell she's needed. She tries to let the weight of her body and the rise and fall of her breath comfort me, but it hardly helps. It just makes me feel even more sad for her loss. Because she misses you too. She wanders around the house and stares out into the distance with the sad eyes of an old dog who's left watching her mom cry all day when just months ago we were all so happy together.
On New Year's Eve I went all-access to your favorite show. I wore stickers with your initials all over me. I stuck smiley faces all over myself and everything I touched, something you were known for doing. I held a sign in the air that read "Team Welles". I brought a bit of your ashes with me to the show in a Ziploc bag and dozens of your friends poured tubes of glitter in with them. I told those who knew you, "If you'd like to take some of him, you can. We can all toss him up in the air at midnight." We called it 'Teddy Confetti'.
I thought people would think I was nuts. But they didn't. With gratitude and love, hand after hand after hand (including band members and their wives!) scooped up your glittery remains and not only offered you to the air, but put you on their faces like warpaint and pressed you to their lips like a kiss. There was more Ted on people's faces than I ever would have been OK with had you been alive! It was an honor to know that the man I love so much, the man I miss and crave so desperately will never be forgotten. And it was truly beautiful to witness how much people wanted a part of you to be a part of them. During the encore, the lights lit up with your name and the band sang the refrain, "Sometimes it seems like such a hard life, but there's good times around the bend. The rollercoaster's got to roll to the bottom if you want to climb to the top again". For about five-minutes, I felt joyful. But when the band left the stage and the house lights came on displaying the wreckage of dirty confetti and popped balloons, my sadness sank in deeper and the guilt-clock chimed.
For every step forward, it's a few steps back. I feel I'm still lingering somewhere around the start-point. Time slithers forward even though I regress. What is time anyway? What is something you can't see, you can't feel, you can't taste? Is it even real? And yet we celebrate the damned thing anyway. So, New Years – the end of a year that housed so much love, so much beauty, and both the happiest and the saddest days of my life. Around me, I watched people curse the old and await the new, while I curse the now and the new, and hide under my sheets hoping to go back three months – back to happiness, back to love, and back to when I wanted to see the light that each day brings.
Three days ago we celebrated New Years. I didn't want to celebrate. I didn't open my blinds to see 2015 until this morning. I wanted to remain cocooned in darkness. I didn't want to see what a new year looked like without you. I have stepped outside one time so far this year. I don't want to feel the breath of the new year on my skin. I have hardly responded to my phone messages. I've ignored my email. I haven't opened my computer. I don't want to see what the technology is offering. I don't want to hear the "Happy New Years". I don't want to see who got engaged. I don't want to hear the pop of champagne bottles or the clink of glasses. I've stayed as horizontal as possible until friends coerced me up to eat or Kira asked to go outside. But even she didn't want to see the sun.
Everyone who knows you is sad. I know that. I don't want to compare my grief to others. But watching others smile, celebrate, and honor you through stickers, signs, stories, and memorabilia isn't enough for me. I tried to do it. It worked for a few hours. But the highs are low and the lows aren't describable by language. That's why I haven't been writing. I can't put words to my sadness. There's no way to explain the sorrow when I wake up and you're not there. There's no way to explain how it feels to remember you're gone minute-after-minute. There's no way to explain what life looks like with the knowledge that I can't be with you. Every time I close my eyes I'm taken back to that night. When I sleep, what used to be dreams are now robbed by chilling nightmares. When I feel close to you for a moment – maybe by hearing a song you loved, being near someone who reminds me of you, or seeing a sign from above – the comfort is fleeting. What lingers is a gut-wrenching reminder of how absent you are and guilt for my temporary solace.
I've spent the last week or so surrounded by friends of yours who have been in your life for years, many more years then I was. I have heard story after story that I wasn't around for. I have met people that you never got to introduce me to. I've had heart-to-hearts with friends that I wasn't able to deeply connect with until now, until tragedy hit. And they're all sad. They all miss you. They all love you. But I watch their lives continue and it makes me feel angry. It's anger that I know isn't warranted. But I want to dive under my covers, ignore any semblance of forward motion, and never come out – and definitely not watch others move forward with their new year and their happy lives.
I'm envious of all the people who shared decades with you. I didn't even get two years with you. And yet I had dreams about you since I was a child. And since we started our life together, since we fell in love, I needed to wake up with you each morning. I depended on your kiss to fuel the start of my day. I got to admire you as you did little nothings like brush your teeth, shave, or make tea. I took great care in sudsing you up in the shower, cleaning every bit of you with love and organic soap. I exercised more patience than I knew I had when I'd towel you dry. I moved slowly when I'd kiss your chest and watch your eyes light up with desire. I got to combine my pleasure with your pleasure and witness the creation of true love.
But now I wake up alone. I washed the sheets yesterday because they smelled of tears, sweat, loneliness, and nightmares. And last night I barely slept. I was cold in our bed. I felt so foreign on those clean sheets, the ones that I'd surprised you with one day because they were made out of bamboo and I knew you'd love them. When I did sleep, I dreamt that our house was being robbed while I lay in bed unaware. I woke up in fear and I realized it's a dream I've had a few times now – everything I thought was mine disappearing, everything I thought I could trust being ripped out from under me – a thinly veiled reality.
Kira sleeps on the bed next to me now. She can tell she's needed. She tries to let the weight of her body and the rise and fall of her breath comfort me, but it hardly helps. It just makes me feel even more sad for her loss. Because she misses you too. She wanders around the house and stares out into the distance with the sad eyes of an old dog who's left watching her mom cry all day when just months ago we were all so happy together.
On New Year's Eve I went all-access to your favorite show. I wore stickers with your initials all over me. I stuck smiley faces all over myself and everything I touched, something you were known for doing. I held a sign in the air that read "Team Welles". I brought a bit of your ashes with me to the show in a Ziploc bag and dozens of your friends poured tubes of glitter in with them. I told those who knew you, "If you'd like to take some of him, you can. We can all toss him up in the air at midnight." We called it 'Teddy Confetti'.
I thought people would think I was nuts. But they didn't. With gratitude and love, hand after hand after hand (including band members and their wives!) scooped up your glittery remains and not only offered you to the air, but put you on their faces like warpaint and pressed you to their lips like a kiss. There was more Ted on people's faces than I ever would have been OK with had you been alive! It was an honor to know that the man I love so much, the man I miss and crave so desperately will never be forgotten. And it was truly beautiful to witness how much people wanted a part of you to be a part of them. During the encore, the lights lit up with your name and the band sang the refrain, "Sometimes it seems like such a hard life, but there's good times around the bend. The rollercoaster's got to roll to the bottom if you want to climb to the top again". For about five-minutes, I felt joyful. But when the band left the stage and the house lights came on displaying the wreckage of dirty confetti and popped balloons, my sadness sank in deeper and the guilt-clock chimed.
For every step forward, it's a few steps back. I feel I'm still lingering somewhere around the start-point. Time slithers forward even though I regress. What is time anyway? What is something you can't see, you can't feel, you can't taste? Is it even real? And yet we celebrate the damned thing anyway. So, New Years – the end of a year that housed so much love, so much beauty, and both the happiest and the saddest days of my life. Around me, I watched people curse the old and await the new, while I curse the now and the new, and hide under my sheets hoping to go back three months – back to happiness, back to love, and back to when I wanted to see the light that each day brings.
144 Things I Want and 20 I Don't
I don't want to be alone.
I don't want to be an inspiration because I meet grief with grace.
I don't want to have to be brave.
I don't want a new chapter.
I don't want to learn these lessons.
I don't want the sound of sirens to give me flashbacks.
I don't want the talk of death to remind me of you.
I don't want to be jealous when I see love.
I don't want to walk into our house and remember you're not here.
I don't want to see a picture and be saddened by the memory.
I don't want you to be past tense.
I don't want to avoid places because we went there together.
I don't want to hear songs and cry because the lyrics remind me of my loss.
I don't want hugs of pity.
I don't want to be the woman who was with that amazing man who died.
I don't want to have to be looked after.
I don't want to be worried about.
I don't want to cry myself to sleep every night.
I don't want life to look bleak.
I don't want the word angel to remind me of you.
I want you.
I want to see the flecks of sunshine in your eyes.
I want you to kiss every curve of my body.
I want you to ride me like you rode the mountains.
I want to hear your laugh.
I want to see your smile.
I want to sit next to you.
I want to marry you.
I want to be your wife.
I want to be the mother of your children.
I want to watch you be a father.
I want my babies to look like you.
I want to make you a pie.
I want to work around each another in the kitchen.
I want you to take a picture of me doing a handstand.
I want to you to rub my belly when my stomach hurts.
I want you to write me a love note.
I want to make cookies with you.
I want to you to cook the eggs.
I want to sit next to you on the couch.
I want to curl up on your lap.
I want you to bring me tea with three ice cubes.
I want you to hold my hand.
I want you there when I'm hungover.
I want to lay my cheek on your chest.
I want to you to order the sushi.
I want to throw a party together.
I want to listen to your new favorite song.
I want to you to remind me of that person's name.
I want to make memories together.
I want to see you.
I want to touch you.
I want to smell you.
I want to lick you.
I want to taste you.
I want to turn you on.
I want to watch porn with you.
I want to make you come.
I want to gaze into your eyes.
I want to watch the sunrise with you.
I want to grow old together.
I want to do yoga with you.
I want to pick out a lamp with you.
I want to go on a hike together.
I want to take the dance classes we signed up for.
I want you to give me more crystal hearts.
I want to choose an outfit for you to see.
I want you to tell me I look beautiful.
I want my phone to light up with a text from you.
I want to shovel snow with you.
I want to pick out a Christmas tree together.
I want to get in the hot tub together.
I want to go to Jamaica with you.
I want to go on our honeymoon.
I want to make the bed with you.
I want to fold your laundry.
I want us to eat almond butter on strawberries.
I want to take a shower with you.
I want to see you in the bathroom mirror.
I want to buy you a new shirt.
I want to unbutton your new shirt.
I want your new shirt on the floor.
I want you to bend me over the bathroom counter.
I want you to remind me to take my vitamins.
I want you to drum on my butt with your hands.
I want to see you in the crowd.
I want to watch you laugh.
I want to pull you close.
I want you there when I'm at a party.
I want to take your clothes to the dryer cleaner.
I want to hear you sneeze.
I want to play dress up with you.
I want to admire the view with you.
I want to walk the dog together.
I want to raise teenagers together.
I want you to finish the book you were reading.
I want to see you naked.
I want you to tell me I work too much.
I want to watch a sitcom with you.
I want you to leave me a voicemail.
I want you to buy me flowers.
I want you to drive.
I want to put our hand prints in wet cement.
I want to smoke a joint with you.
I want to stay up all night with you.
I want you next to me when I wake up.
I want to have a glass of wine together.
I want you to tell me a joke.
I want you to tell me I loaded the dishwasher wrong.
I want to hear you playing the drums.
I want to watch you on stage.
I want to pop champagne together.
I want to watch the turkeys with you.
I want you to tell me my products are taking up too much room in the shower.
I want you to tell me a fact about apple cider vinegar.
I want you to feed the cat.
I want you to clean her litter box.
I want to make you a whiskey sour.
I want to take a bath with you.
I want to make fun of our feet together.
I want to look at Playboy with you.
I want to hear your opinion.
I want to agree with you.
I want you to tap your finger on my belly button.
I want you to ask me what color I got my nails painted.
I want to clean out the fridge with you.
I want you to ask me how my class was.
I want to double check for pine nuts and sunflower seeds.
I want to make you fresh juice.
I want a bite of your food.
I want another bite.
I want you to tell me to slow down.
I want you to put concealer on the scars on my back because I can't reach.
I want to use your body as my plaything.
I want you to pack us a cooler.
I want to wash the dishes with you.
I want to set up the tent together.
I want to make salad dressing with you.
I want to eat organic with you.
I want to keep trying to get you to like sweet potatoes.
I want to go back to Canada with you and your family.
I want to grow a garden together.
I want to complain about my headache to you.
I want to take the dog for a walk with you.
I want to sit on the deck with you.
I want to climb things together.
I want to go back to the Playa with you.
I want us to play Yahtzee.
I want you to make a fire in the fireplace.
I want you to remind me not to use so many paper towels.
I want to watch you watch music.
I want you to teach me to ski.
I want you to teach me.
I want you to go on a date with you.
I want you to pay.
I want to snuggle with you.
I want to have hotel sex with you.
I want to have birthday sex with you.
I want to make love to you.
I want to fuck you.
I want you to tell me you love me.
I want my future to include you.
I want to know where you are.
I want you to kiss me at midnight.
I don't want to be an inspiration because I meet grief with grace.
I don't want to have to be brave.
I don't want a new chapter.
I don't want to learn these lessons.
I don't want the sound of sirens to give me flashbacks.
I don't want the talk of death to remind me of you.
I don't want to be jealous when I see love.
I don't want to walk into our house and remember you're not here.
I don't want to see a picture and be saddened by the memory.
I don't want you to be past tense.
I don't want to avoid places because we went there together.
I don't want to hear songs and cry because the lyrics remind me of my loss.
I don't want hugs of pity.
I don't want to be the woman who was with that amazing man who died.
I don't want to have to be looked after.
I don't want to be worried about.
I don't want to cry myself to sleep every night.
I don't want life to look bleak.
I don't want the word angel to remind me of you.
I want you.
I want to see the flecks of sunshine in your eyes.
I want you to kiss every curve of my body.
I want you to ride me like you rode the mountains.
I want to hear your laugh.
I want to see your smile.
I want to sit next to you.
I want to marry you.
I want to be your wife.
I want to be the mother of your children.
I want to watch you be a father.
I want my babies to look like you.
I want to make you a pie.
I want to work around each another in the kitchen.
I want you to take a picture of me doing a handstand.
I want to you to rub my belly when my stomach hurts.
I want you to write me a love note.
I want to make cookies with you.
I want to you to cook the eggs.
I want to sit next to you on the couch.
I want to curl up on your lap.
I want you to bring me tea with three ice cubes.
I want you to hold my hand.
I want you there when I'm hungover.
I want to lay my cheek on your chest.
I want to you to order the sushi.
I want to throw a party together.
I want to listen to your new favorite song.
I want to you to remind me of that person's name.
I want to make memories together.
I want to see you.
I want to touch you.
I want to smell you.
I want to lick you.
I want to taste you.
I want to turn you on.
I want to watch porn with you.
I want to make you come.
I want to gaze into your eyes.
I want to watch the sunrise with you.
I want to grow old together.
I want to do yoga with you.
I want to pick out a lamp with you.
I want to go on a hike together.
I want to take the dance classes we signed up for.
I want you to give me more crystal hearts.
I want to choose an outfit for you to see.
I want you to tell me I look beautiful.
I want my phone to light up with a text from you.
I want to shovel snow with you.
I want to pick out a Christmas tree together.
I want to get in the hot tub together.
I want to go to Jamaica with you.
I want to go on our honeymoon.
I want to make the bed with you.
I want to fold your laundry.
I want us to eat almond butter on strawberries.
I want to take a shower with you.
I want to see you in the bathroom mirror.
I want to buy you a new shirt.
I want to unbutton your new shirt.
I want your new shirt on the floor.
I want you to bend me over the bathroom counter.
I want you to remind me to take my vitamins.
I want you to drum on my butt with your hands.
I want to see you in the crowd.
I want to watch you laugh.
I want to pull you close.
I want you there when I'm at a party.
I want to take your clothes to the dryer cleaner.
I want to hear you sneeze.
I want to play dress up with you.
I want to admire the view with you.
I want to walk the dog together.
I want to raise teenagers together.
I want you to finish the book you were reading.
I want to see you naked.
I want you to tell me I work too much.
I want to watch a sitcom with you.
I want you to leave me a voicemail.
I want you to buy me flowers.
I want you to drive.
I want to put our hand prints in wet cement.
I want to smoke a joint with you.
I want to stay up all night with you.
I want you next to me when I wake up.
I want to have a glass of wine together.
I want you to tell me a joke.
I want you to tell me I loaded the dishwasher wrong.
I want to hear you playing the drums.
I want to watch you on stage.
I want to pop champagne together.
I want to watch the turkeys with you.
I want you to tell me my products are taking up too much room in the shower.
I want you to tell me a fact about apple cider vinegar.
I want you to feed the cat.
I want you to clean her litter box.
I want to make you a whiskey sour.
I want to take a bath with you.
I want to make fun of our feet together.
I want to look at Playboy with you.
I want to hear your opinion.
I want to agree with you.
I want you to tap your finger on my belly button.
I want you to ask me what color I got my nails painted.
I want to clean out the fridge with you.
I want you to ask me how my class was.
I want to double check for pine nuts and sunflower seeds.
I want to make you fresh juice.
I want a bite of your food.
I want another bite.
I want you to tell me to slow down.
I want you to put concealer on the scars on my back because I can't reach.
I want to use your body as my plaything.
I want you to pack us a cooler.
I want to wash the dishes with you.
I want to set up the tent together.
I want to make salad dressing with you.
I want to eat organic with you.
I want to keep trying to get you to like sweet potatoes.
I want to go back to Canada with you and your family.
I want to grow a garden together.
I want to complain about my headache to you.
I want to take the dog for a walk with you.
I want to sit on the deck with you.
I want to climb things together.
I want to go back to the Playa with you.
I want us to play Yahtzee.
I want you to make a fire in the fireplace.
I want you to remind me not to use so many paper towels.
I want to watch you watch music.
I want you to teach me to ski.
I want you to teach me.
I want you to go on a date with you.
I want you to pay.
I want to snuggle with you.
I want to have hotel sex with you.
I want to have birthday sex with you.
I want to make love to you.
I want to fuck you.
I want you to tell me you love me.
I want my future to include you.
I want to know where you are.
I want you to kiss me at midnight.
Home Alone
It's been 62 days, 20 hours, and 36 minutes since I saw you take your last breath. Each day creeps slowly onto the next. I've settled into the knowledge that my only healer will be time. I've heard it, I've read it, but now I feel it, I know it. As of now, the wound remains open and raw. I think in some ways it's more open and raw now than it was 62 days ago. The adrenaline has left my system, the support is softer and less immediate, and the reality is vivid. Life without you is sinking in, it's desolate.
Tonight is the first time in 62 days that I've been at our house by myself. I've been alone for six hours now. I made a plan for myself. I would stay busy and 'not have to think about it' too much. But as I've learned, no matter what I'm occupying my body with, my mind is still longing for you. There's absolutely no distraction from grief. So in the past six hours, while I worked through my checklist of distractions, I still managed to cry in nearly every room of the house.
I thought that since I was alone in our home tonight maybe you would come to visit. You'd make a paranormal stopover just to check in with me, give me a kiss, and tell me you're watching over me. You'd wrap your angel wings around me. But, the house is quiet. There are so signs of angelic visitors. Kira and Beats are sad with me. They're curled up in little balls in their waiting spots. They've been waiting for Daddy to get home for 62 days now.
Our pets would occasionally follow me from room to room as I moved through the house this evening. I unpacked from the last six week's travel. I put my things away around all of your stuff that is everywhere. I did yoga and meditated. I thought of how much you would have loved to be practicing next to me and how proud you would be that I've been meditating. I took a shower and shaved my legs. I thought about how I would tell you, "Feel how smooth my legs are!" You would stroke my shin and say, "Oooh, yeah! Niiice!" I streamed the String Cheese Incident show. I now know over half the songs I hear, including their names, and sometimes who wrote them. You would be so proud. You would be so stoked to hang here with me tonight doing all these things we loved to do together. If you were here, then I wouldn't have had to cry through it all.
I cleaned my engagement ring tonight. I used a little brush to wipe its facets clean while it soaked in liquid. I watched the wear from the past couple months rinse off the diamonds like. When I took it out it was more sparkly than ever. I stared at it for a long time wishing I could wash myself of everything that easily, going back to my pure form, not carrying all of this weight. I admired the ring. It is perfect. It is just what I always dreamed of. We were supposed to be married. We were supposed to be happy. We were supposed to live long lives together. But instead, this perfect ring represents an broken promise. I thought about how badly I wish that you'd been able to propose to me before you died. How badly I wanted to tell you 'yes'. How I wanted to be able to call my best friend and tell her the news. I wish that the ring had been completed just one-week earlier, then maybe I'd have been able to hear those words. Maybe it would have changed something. When I called my best friend that morning 62 days ago she answered brightly, thinking I may have exciting news – then she heard my sobs. She couldn't even understand what I was saying, but she knew the news was not what she was expecting. The news was not good.
So today begins a new phase. A phase of being back home, without you. A phase of rebuilding. A phase I'm not ready for. I am not ready to rebuild or to leave the world with you that I wanted more than I ever wanted anything in this life. I'm not ready, but I have to go, because I have to contend with time – my healer.
Tonight is the first time in 62 days that I've been at our house by myself. I've been alone for six hours now. I made a plan for myself. I would stay busy and 'not have to think about it' too much. But as I've learned, no matter what I'm occupying my body with, my mind is still longing for you. There's absolutely no distraction from grief. So in the past six hours, while I worked through my checklist of distractions, I still managed to cry in nearly every room of the house.
I thought that since I was alone in our home tonight maybe you would come to visit. You'd make a paranormal stopover just to check in with me, give me a kiss, and tell me you're watching over me. You'd wrap your angel wings around me. But, the house is quiet. There are so signs of angelic visitors. Kira and Beats are sad with me. They're curled up in little balls in their waiting spots. They've been waiting for Daddy to get home for 62 days now.
Our pets would occasionally follow me from room to room as I moved through the house this evening. I unpacked from the last six week's travel. I put my things away around all of your stuff that is everywhere. I did yoga and meditated. I thought of how much you would have loved to be practicing next to me and how proud you would be that I've been meditating. I took a shower and shaved my legs. I thought about how I would tell you, "Feel how smooth my legs are!" You would stroke my shin and say, "Oooh, yeah! Niiice!" I streamed the String Cheese Incident show. I now know over half the songs I hear, including their names, and sometimes who wrote them. You would be so proud. You would be so stoked to hang here with me tonight doing all these things we loved to do together. If you were here, then I wouldn't have had to cry through it all.
I cleaned my engagement ring tonight. I used a little brush to wipe its facets clean while it soaked in liquid. I watched the wear from the past couple months rinse off the diamonds like. When I took it out it was more sparkly than ever. I stared at it for a long time wishing I could wash myself of everything that easily, going back to my pure form, not carrying all of this weight. I admired the ring. It is perfect. It is just what I always dreamed of. We were supposed to be married. We were supposed to be happy. We were supposed to live long lives together. But instead, this perfect ring represents an broken promise. I thought about how badly I wish that you'd been able to propose to me before you died. How badly I wanted to tell you 'yes'. How I wanted to be able to call my best friend and tell her the news. I wish that the ring had been completed just one-week earlier, then maybe I'd have been able to hear those words. Maybe it would have changed something. When I called my best friend that morning 62 days ago she answered brightly, thinking I may have exciting news – then she heard my sobs. She couldn't even understand what I was saying, but she knew the news was not what she was expecting. The news was not good.
So today begins a new phase. A phase of being back home, without you. A phase of rebuilding. A phase I'm not ready for. I am not ready to rebuild or to leave the world with you that I wanted more than I ever wanted anything in this life. I'm not ready, but I have to go, because I have to contend with time – my healer.
Grief Etiquette
I've never learned very much about etiquette. I've gotten the basics over the years: elbows off the table, proper placement of silverware, don't sneeze on someone's face, no farting on airplanes or in elevators (both of which you rarely followed), what's appropriate cocktail attire, no white after Labor Day unless you live in the South, don't talk on your mobile at a restaurant, chew with your mouth closed, don't cuss in front of children – I mean, I can get by. Sometimes I can really fake it and appear quite classy. Other times, I can break the rules with the best of them.
As I've involuntarily climbed aboard this journey of mourning, I've noticed how uncomfortable my pain can make others. What is the etiquette for grief? When someone is suffering, does one say anything or not? What is appropriate? What is not?
Previous to your death, I would have no idea how to address a grieving friend or acquaintance. Most likely, I wouldn't have said anything at all. I'd be concerned that I'd say the wrong thing, I'd offend and look bad, I'd make them think about it more, or worse, make them cry! Everyone's situation is unique and every person deals with pain in a different way. But I've thought of some tools that I think may help others. As a disclaimer, these are only my opinions. While my aunt went to Miss Porter's School, that's about the extent of etiquette training in my extended-family. I've done no research, this is simply advice from me.
Say Something
Saying nothing is the wrong thing. Get me alone, or in a small group, and say something.
For me, two things are getting me through this process right now: love and faith. Because I am a preschooler in faith but have a PhD in love, love is the big one. I have lost my lover. The man who loved me most, supported me fully, is my best friend, and my biggest advocate is no longer here to make me feel whole – what I need, first and foremost, is love. One easy way to show love, or even give it because it feels like the right thing to do, is to support someone. Support doesn't happen through the silent treatment.
It Doesn't Matter What
I'm not judging what words people are saying to me and they shouldn't either. I mean, they can, but it's a waste of energy. Just saying something and being honest is what's most important. Most likely there will be someone who said something more eloquent and much less eloquent too. But it doesn't really matter. Every word of support is hitting from a different angle and every breath of love is contributing to re-inflating my heart.
The easiest thing someone could say (instead of nothing) is to look me in the eye, and say "I'm so sorry for your loss." If there's more they need to say, I am open to it. But don't pretend like it didn't happen.
I Won't Be Offended
My grief process is not about anyone but me. That's not to sound selfish, but really, it is selfish. It's not self-righteous/selfish it's self-preservation/selfish. Right now, so I don't drive off a cliff or sink into a pit of depression I'll never get out of, my main focus is on myself. Then next up is family and faith: staying connected and building hope. Beyond that, I really have no energy left.
My grief is not about the person on the other end of the conversation. It's not about the last time we spoke, or how close we are, or how much they knew you. Though I have no energy to judge what others are saying, I know there's an emptiness when someone who knows you've died, says nothing at all. Grief isn't eloquent. No matter what is said, inarticulate or not, as long as it's an attempt at support, I will not be offended. I'm not offended by people who are silent either, I simply wish they weren't.
I'm Already Thinking About It
When people avoid saying something to me out of fear of broaching the subject, I think it's important to note that the pain NEVER goes away. Your death is always on my mind. It will be for a very long time. I've heard it's like carrying around a boulder in your pocket, then eventually a stone, then a small rock, and someday a grain of sand. But it will always be there. My love for you is vast and unbroken. I will always have you in my mind, even if I'm thinking about other things too. So I would recommend to others: don't avoid addressing grief for fear of reminding me about it, I haven't forgotten.
I Might Cry
People shouldn't be concerned with making me cry. I will cry anyway. And that is OK.
I have learned how to cry without shame in every public place possible. Last week, your mother and I went to run errands. We went to Churchills, Kazmaier's, Home Depot, Bass Pro Shops, and PakMail – and we cried in every store. We cried in parking lots. We cried in the car. And that's OK. We are in so much pain. Last week in Chicago, I walked home to Berk's from a yoga class and I sobbed for six blocks straight: tears, sounds, snot, kleenex, nose-blowing, gasping, the whole ordeal. And I didn't hide it. Because I don't have the energy to and because I don't need to. To be honest, it's healthy for people to see that it's not all unicorns, roses, and rainbows. Just because I'm devastated, doesn't mean I should hide it, or stop it, or plug it up with a pill. Where there is joy, there is sorrow.
I'm Not Doing Well
If someone asks me how I'm doing, I will not say "good". Don't get caught off guard. We're so programmed to say "good" or "fine" or "well, thank you". I'm not doing well. And truthfully, I shouldn't be! If I was doing "well", that would be pretty fucked up. I'm hanging in there. I'm putting one foot in front of the other. I'm alive. I'm here.
Don't Expect a Response
So many people have reached out to me on so many forums. I want to respond to each person accordingly and with the same amount of love that they have given to me, but I simply can't. I'm trying my best. It will take a long time to move through this process. I'm overwhelmed with the support and I'm so grateful. I don't know how I would have made it this far without all of the love I've received. I suck at thank-you notes even when everything's peachy. So in this case, I hope no one is offended, but that they don't expect a response. I got their flowers, I received their message, I saw they called, I read their letter, I listened to their song, I received the cookies/fruitcake/soup, I love the memento, I am grateful for the ticket, I heard their prayers – I thank them.
Don't Compare the Death of a Human to the Loss of a Pet
I'm not going to elaborate on this one but it's happened many times already. Just take it from me, it's not the same pain.
As I've involuntarily climbed aboard this journey of mourning, I've noticed how uncomfortable my pain can make others. What is the etiquette for grief? When someone is suffering, does one say anything or not? What is appropriate? What is not?
Previous to your death, I would have no idea how to address a grieving friend or acquaintance. Most likely, I wouldn't have said anything at all. I'd be concerned that I'd say the wrong thing, I'd offend and look bad, I'd make them think about it more, or worse, make them cry! Everyone's situation is unique and every person deals with pain in a different way. But I've thought of some tools that I think may help others. As a disclaimer, these are only my opinions. While my aunt went to Miss Porter's School, that's about the extent of etiquette training in my extended-family. I've done no research, this is simply advice from me.
Say Something
Saying nothing is the wrong thing. Get me alone, or in a small group, and say something.
For me, two things are getting me through this process right now: love and faith. Because I am a preschooler in faith but have a PhD in love, love is the big one. I have lost my lover. The man who loved me most, supported me fully, is my best friend, and my biggest advocate is no longer here to make me feel whole – what I need, first and foremost, is love. One easy way to show love, or even give it because it feels like the right thing to do, is to support someone. Support doesn't happen through the silent treatment.
It Doesn't Matter What
I'm not judging what words people are saying to me and they shouldn't either. I mean, they can, but it's a waste of energy. Just saying something and being honest is what's most important. Most likely there will be someone who said something more eloquent and much less eloquent too. But it doesn't really matter. Every word of support is hitting from a different angle and every breath of love is contributing to re-inflating my heart.
The easiest thing someone could say (instead of nothing) is to look me in the eye, and say "I'm so sorry for your loss." If there's more they need to say, I am open to it. But don't pretend like it didn't happen.
I Won't Be Offended
My grief process is not about anyone but me. That's not to sound selfish, but really, it is selfish. It's not self-righteous/selfish it's self-preservation/selfish. Right now, so I don't drive off a cliff or sink into a pit of depression I'll never get out of, my main focus is on myself. Then next up is family and faith: staying connected and building hope. Beyond that, I really have no energy left.
My grief is not about the person on the other end of the conversation. It's not about the last time we spoke, or how close we are, or how much they knew you. Though I have no energy to judge what others are saying, I know there's an emptiness when someone who knows you've died, says nothing at all. Grief isn't eloquent. No matter what is said, inarticulate or not, as long as it's an attempt at support, I will not be offended. I'm not offended by people who are silent either, I simply wish they weren't.
I'm Already Thinking About It
When people avoid saying something to me out of fear of broaching the subject, I think it's important to note that the pain NEVER goes away. Your death is always on my mind. It will be for a very long time. I've heard it's like carrying around a boulder in your pocket, then eventually a stone, then a small rock, and someday a grain of sand. But it will always be there. My love for you is vast and unbroken. I will always have you in my mind, even if I'm thinking about other things too. So I would recommend to others: don't avoid addressing grief for fear of reminding me about it, I haven't forgotten.
I Might Cry
People shouldn't be concerned with making me cry. I will cry anyway. And that is OK.
I have learned how to cry without shame in every public place possible. Last week, your mother and I went to run errands. We went to Churchills, Kazmaier's, Home Depot, Bass Pro Shops, and PakMail – and we cried in every store. We cried in parking lots. We cried in the car. And that's OK. We are in so much pain. Last week in Chicago, I walked home to Berk's from a yoga class and I sobbed for six blocks straight: tears, sounds, snot, kleenex, nose-blowing, gasping, the whole ordeal. And I didn't hide it. Because I don't have the energy to and because I don't need to. To be honest, it's healthy for people to see that it's not all unicorns, roses, and rainbows. Just because I'm devastated, doesn't mean I should hide it, or stop it, or plug it up with a pill. Where there is joy, there is sorrow.
I'm Not Doing Well
If someone asks me how I'm doing, I will not say "good". Don't get caught off guard. We're so programmed to say "good" or "fine" or "well, thank you". I'm not doing well. And truthfully, I shouldn't be! If I was doing "well", that would be pretty fucked up. I'm hanging in there. I'm putting one foot in front of the other. I'm alive. I'm here.
Don't Expect a Response
So many people have reached out to me on so many forums. I want to respond to each person accordingly and with the same amount of love that they have given to me, but I simply can't. I'm trying my best. It will take a long time to move through this process. I'm overwhelmed with the support and I'm so grateful. I don't know how I would have made it this far without all of the love I've received. I suck at thank-you notes even when everything's peachy. So in this case, I hope no one is offended, but that they don't expect a response. I got their flowers, I received their message, I saw they called, I read their letter, I listened to their song, I received the cookies/fruitcake/soup, I love the memento, I am grateful for the ticket, I heard their prayers – I thank them.
Don't Compare the Death of a Human to the Loss of a Pet
I'm not going to elaborate on this one but it's happened many times already. Just take it from me, it's not the same pain.
A Christmas Poem
As I awake this Christmas morning,
I am met with a mood so blue.
Because all I asked in my time of mourning,
was to wake up next to you.
Children's toe are tapping and pitter patting,
as they wake up bright with cheer.
Today is the day, for my whole life,
it was the happiest time of year!
Families laughing and gift unwrapping,
a trip home from afar.
I never considered that someday soon,
today's joy would be a scar.
Those who are blessed, be grateful this fest,
and hold your loved ones near.
Be thankful for toys for little girls and boys,
some brothers and sisters aren't here.
Chestnuts popping and missing stockings,
all isn't merry and bright.
As you gather around the tree,
remember that some can't see the light.
Hold your loved ones, kiss them and hug them,
if you think they don't look so cheer.
Because today will bear the weight,
of ones who are no longer here.
Head hanging low under mistletoe,
Christmas comes but once a year.
Let gentleness thrive cause some live and some die,
and grief hardly stops here.
I am met with a mood so blue.
Because all I asked in my time of mourning,
was to wake up next to you.
Children's toe are tapping and pitter patting,
as they wake up bright with cheer.
Today is the day, for my whole life,
it was the happiest time of year!
Families laughing and gift unwrapping,
a trip home from afar.
I never considered that someday soon,
today's joy would be a scar.
Those who are blessed, be grateful this fest,
and hold your loved ones near.
Be thankful for toys for little girls and boys,
some brothers and sisters aren't here.
Chestnuts popping and missing stockings,
all isn't merry and bright.
As you gather around the tree,
remember that some can't see the light.
Hold your loved ones, kiss them and hug them,
if you think they don't look so cheer.
Because today will bear the weight,
of ones who are no longer here.
Head hanging low under mistletoe,
Christmas comes but once a year.
Let gentleness thrive cause some live and some die,
and grief hardly stops here.
Course in Miracles
"The miracle comes quietly into the mind that stops an instant and is still."
- A Course in Miracles
This afternoon I got to thinking about miracles. According to a statistic from NPR in 2008, 79% of Americans believe in miracles. This number remains consistent with a stat from USA Today/CNN/Gallup Poll in 1994. Today I sat at a lunch with seven adults and one three-year-old: five believed, two did not, and the remaining one kept quiet on the subject (it was not the three-year-old).
Today is Christmas Eve. As a Jew, I celebrate Christmas because of a pre-nuptial agreement my parents made before they married (dad: Jew, mom: Catholic). My father could raise us Jewish BUT we would always celebrate Christmas and have a Christmas tree. And so it went. We got Hanukkah and Christmas, a beautiful collaboration of two religions and American Capitalist excess.
Embarrassingly, today I actually had to Google what the "miracle of Christmas" is. Yes, I forgot we are celebrating Jesus's birthday. (Mind you, I've been tuning out all holiday cheer this year.) But now I remember, Jesus Christ was born to Mary, a virgin, as the son of God on December 25th. Honestly, this is not a miracle that I have ever really believed in. I tend to take the Bible's stories as metaphors and I also don't think women's words are very trustworthy, perhaps even saintly ones. They don't like to kiss and tell. In order to avoid pushing buttons, or maybe to push a few more, the miracle of Hanukkah celebrates oil burning in the Beit HaMikdash for eight days when it was claimed it would only last for one night – I don't know if I believe in that miracle either.
But over the past two months or so, I've been led to question all my beliefs – miracles, life, death, love, faith, and more. I don't know what I believe anymore. Maybe both of the miracles mentioned above are completely true! I mean, I can't tell you how many times over the past two months I've wished that I could be pregnant with your child despite the fact that you aren't here to make that happen! Why shouldn't I trust that if God or a higher power deems something like that to be possible, then it be possible? I mean, this whole universe thing is quite a miracle. Where did that come from? Something put it there. And I'm confident I saw a male figure standing in my living room the other day when no one was home... I barely thought twice about that miraculous vision. Through this grief, I've realized I need to believe in something. What has pulled me out of the darkness over the past week is the creation of faith. And when I say creation, I mean building something from relatively nothing.
Prior to this tragedy, religion was a part of my identity, rather than a belief system. Unlike so many, I was not pushed to put my faith in a God with a certain name. I was raised with an awareness of the stories but a choice to follow whatever path I was called towards. And to be honest, being raised in a house with mixed messages probably didn't help guide me one way or another. As I watched some friends follow their prescribed religions somewhat blindly (in my opinion, at the time), I became rather cynical about faith in general. It was kind of a dirty word. That being said, I was incredibly active in my Jewish youth group, to the extent of being an international chairwoman. Judaism gave me a social network, leadership training, the knowledge of a cool language not many people can read and write, and a sense of identity. But faith? Not so much. I have always been one of those people who says, "I'm not religious, I'm spiritual." But really, I wasn't that spiritual either.
Now, as I've been pushed to my emotional edge: raw, bleeding, and hopeless – one of the primary elements that's pulled me through is faith (the other main element is love). Faith in what? I'm not sure yet. I'm open to it all at this point. In fact, I've been reading about a book a day. Some are about quantum physics, a scientific methodology that explains 'the theory of everything'. Some are about reincarnation, samsara, past lives and future lives. Some are about the power of love. Some are about spirits and mediums. Some are about New Age mysticism like Kabbalah, the Jewish ancient wisdom that 'reveals how the universe and life work'. Some are about yogic philosophy. Some are poetry. Some are about miracles. Some are about Christian methodology. But what they all have in common is having hope and faith in something bigger than just this thing we call life – what we can see, touch, and be aware of through our five senses. I've been given the courage to choose to believe in the unknown.
In the past I've thought faith was blind – a blanket statement that I'd say I subscribed to. Now, I still believe faith CAN be blind. If we believe in the stories in the Bible verbatim and follow the words we are told without question, I maintain that those choices are blind and uneducated. But if faith is built through study, through questioning, through being able to have an open mind, and not say "I'm right, and you're wrong," I now believe faith is quite courageous. It's not easy to stand up for your faith in this world, I felt that today at my lunch!
I told my therapist this past week, "I wish I'd had a strong sense of faith instilled in my life. At least I'd have something to turn to now." She told me, "Yes, that would be easier. But now you have to build one. That is much harder but very beautiful." It will be a beautiful process. It already is.
I've opened to stillness. I've put down the remote control. I've turned off Instagram and Words With Friends. I've picked up the decision to learn. I've decided that what I thought was "right" is not necessarily "right". I've come to terms with the hard knowledge that I may never really "know". But, I have choosen to have faith in a few unknowns. I choose to believe that there is a truth beyond death. I choose to believe that I will see you again in some form. I choose to believe that you are still a witness to my life in some way. And I choose to continue my belief in miracles, no matter how bleak life looks.
"Miracles occur naturally as expressions of love. They are performed by those who temporarily have more for those who temporarily have less."
– A Course in Miracles
- A Course in Miracles
This afternoon I got to thinking about miracles. According to a statistic from NPR in 2008, 79% of Americans believe in miracles. This number remains consistent with a stat from USA Today/CNN/Gallup Poll in 1994. Today I sat at a lunch with seven adults and one three-year-old: five believed, two did not, and the remaining one kept quiet on the subject (it was not the three-year-old).
Today is Christmas Eve. As a Jew, I celebrate Christmas because of a pre-nuptial agreement my parents made before they married (dad: Jew, mom: Catholic). My father could raise us Jewish BUT we would always celebrate Christmas and have a Christmas tree. And so it went. We got Hanukkah and Christmas, a beautiful collaboration of two religions and American Capitalist excess.
Embarrassingly, today I actually had to Google what the "miracle of Christmas" is. Yes, I forgot we are celebrating Jesus's birthday. (Mind you, I've been tuning out all holiday cheer this year.) But now I remember, Jesus Christ was born to Mary, a virgin, as the son of God on December 25th. Honestly, this is not a miracle that I have ever really believed in. I tend to take the Bible's stories as metaphors and I also don't think women's words are very trustworthy, perhaps even saintly ones. They don't like to kiss and tell. In order to avoid pushing buttons, or maybe to push a few more, the miracle of Hanukkah celebrates oil burning in the Beit HaMikdash for eight days when it was claimed it would only last for one night – I don't know if I believe in that miracle either.
But over the past two months or so, I've been led to question all my beliefs – miracles, life, death, love, faith, and more. I don't know what I believe anymore. Maybe both of the miracles mentioned above are completely true! I mean, I can't tell you how many times over the past two months I've wished that I could be pregnant with your child despite the fact that you aren't here to make that happen! Why shouldn't I trust that if God or a higher power deems something like that to be possible, then it be possible? I mean, this whole universe thing is quite a miracle. Where did that come from? Something put it there. And I'm confident I saw a male figure standing in my living room the other day when no one was home... I barely thought twice about that miraculous vision. Through this grief, I've realized I need to believe in something. What has pulled me out of the darkness over the past week is the creation of faith. And when I say creation, I mean building something from relatively nothing.
Prior to this tragedy, religion was a part of my identity, rather than a belief system. Unlike so many, I was not pushed to put my faith in a God with a certain name. I was raised with an awareness of the stories but a choice to follow whatever path I was called towards. And to be honest, being raised in a house with mixed messages probably didn't help guide me one way or another. As I watched some friends follow their prescribed religions somewhat blindly (in my opinion, at the time), I became rather cynical about faith in general. It was kind of a dirty word. That being said, I was incredibly active in my Jewish youth group, to the extent of being an international chairwoman. Judaism gave me a social network, leadership training, the knowledge of a cool language not many people can read and write, and a sense of identity. But faith? Not so much. I have always been one of those people who says, "I'm not religious, I'm spiritual." But really, I wasn't that spiritual either.
Now, as I've been pushed to my emotional edge: raw, bleeding, and hopeless – one of the primary elements that's pulled me through is faith (the other main element is love). Faith in what? I'm not sure yet. I'm open to it all at this point. In fact, I've been reading about a book a day. Some are about quantum physics, a scientific methodology that explains 'the theory of everything'. Some are about reincarnation, samsara, past lives and future lives. Some are about the power of love. Some are about spirits and mediums. Some are about New Age mysticism like Kabbalah, the Jewish ancient wisdom that 'reveals how the universe and life work'. Some are about yogic philosophy. Some are poetry. Some are about miracles. Some are about Christian methodology. But what they all have in common is having hope and faith in something bigger than just this thing we call life – what we can see, touch, and be aware of through our five senses. I've been given the courage to choose to believe in the unknown.
In the past I've thought faith was blind – a blanket statement that I'd say I subscribed to. Now, I still believe faith CAN be blind. If we believe in the stories in the Bible verbatim and follow the words we are told without question, I maintain that those choices are blind and uneducated. But if faith is built through study, through questioning, through being able to have an open mind, and not say "I'm right, and you're wrong," I now believe faith is quite courageous. It's not easy to stand up for your faith in this world, I felt that today at my lunch!
I told my therapist this past week, "I wish I'd had a strong sense of faith instilled in my life. At least I'd have something to turn to now." She told me, "Yes, that would be easier. But now you have to build one. That is much harder but very beautiful." It will be a beautiful process. It already is.
I've opened to stillness. I've put down the remote control. I've turned off Instagram and Words With Friends. I've picked up the decision to learn. I've decided that what I thought was "right" is not necessarily "right". I've come to terms with the hard knowledge that I may never really "know". But, I have choosen to have faith in a few unknowns. I choose to believe that there is a truth beyond death. I choose to believe that I will see you again in some form. I choose to believe that you are still a witness to my life in some way. And I choose to continue my belief in miracles, no matter how bleak life looks.
"Miracles occur naturally as expressions of love. They are performed by those who temporarily have more for those who temporarily have less."
– A Course in Miracles
Messages from Masters
Today I reread a book that was pivotal to you and I, Many Lives, Many Masters, by Dr. Brian Weiss. After I read the book initially when we were just starting our relationship, I sent it to you and simply said, "You must read this." You did and you told me it changed your life. I was glad, because it had changed mine too. More or less, the philosophy discussed in this book provided more peace than any religion or spiritual concept either of us had studied. It also changed our views on death. After reading the book, we had shared with one another that we "no longer feared death." And then I watched you die. I was VERY afraid.
Over the past couple weeks, I've been experiencing a deep depression in my grief – one that is definitely darker than anything I have ever felt or ever witnessed in someone else. The worst part of this phase of grief is that with it has come faithlessness. Before you died, I thought the world was at my fingertips, love was on my lips, and life was beautiful. I thought the universe was on my side. And since you've been gone, I've been cursed with suffering, uncertainty, and the loss of the man who knew me better and loved me more than anyone.
So this morning, as an attempt to remember what I once believed in, and moreover, what YOU believed in, I reread the book that had impacted our lives so intensely.
The book tells the true story of a psychiatrist, Dr. Weiss, and his patient, Catherine. Catherine had come to see Weiss because she struggled with intense phobias that prevented her from living a normal life. Dr. Weiss, who is rooted in the scientific method and rational Western medicine and thought, is used to prescribing medications and using general therapeutic procedures for treatment. The doctor's philosophy and perspective is shattered when he puts Catherine under mild hypnosis to help her unleash childhood memories, and instead, she regresses to a past life where she lives as a Nubian slave in ancient Egypt. She remembers details from that life and facts from the era that are so specific they could only be identified by historians who specialize on Egypt. It is her death at the end of her life in Egypt thousands of years before which plagues her and causes one of the irrational fears in her current life.
Dr. Weiss works with Catherine over the course of time and she regresses back to parts of 87 different lives that she had experienced on the physical plane. She was a solider in what is now Ukraine in the eighteenth century, a male teacher in Japan, worked in a monastery in Switzerland hundreds of years ago, she was a young Moroccan boy who died in his youth, a slave in the South who was the illegitimate daughter of her owner, a prostitute in Spain named Louisa, an American Indian who lived on the Southwest Florida coast, a very ancient cave dweller, and many more. There are many texts and stories out there that discuss reincarnation. In fact, reincarnation was prominent in the Old and New Testament, but was removed by Constantine at the Council of Nicea in 325 A.D. for fear that is would disrupt political stability. I have personally believed in reincarnation for as long as I can remember. But my main root in this philosophy is that a world of immortal souls is more hopeful than a destination of Hell or even nothing at all. But isn't hope what faith is all about anyway?
But what sets this book apart from the rest in its class is that Catherine goes on to convey information from in-between lives. She unleashes secrets and messages from the Masters – ascended spirits that exist in seven different planes in the spiritual realm. We learn about the purpose of life, karma, debts, and deaths. We learn about how groups of souls often travel together. While you may be my soulmate in this life, you could be my mother in the next, for example. We learn about what happens after death and between incarnations. We learn about if loved ones have the opportunity to connect with us from beyond the grave. We see information gleaned from the collective unconscious that Carl Jung spoke of. We learn about faith. Well, we learn about all of this if we're open to it. In the book, even Catherine has her doubts.
Dr Weiss writes, "The conscious Catherine, when awake, was much more anxious and limited, much simpler and comparatively superficial. She could not tap into this superconscious state. I wondered if the prophets and sages of Eastern and Western religions, those called "actualized," were able to utilize this superconscious state to obtain their wisdom and knowledge. If so, then we all had the ability to do so, for we must all possess this superconscious... I would become increasingly frustrated by the uncrossable gulf between Catherine's conscious, awake intellect and her trance-level superconscious mind. While she was hypnotized, I would have fascinating philosophical dialogues with her at the superconscious level. When awake, however, Catherine had no interest in philosophy or related matters. She lived in the world of everyday detail, oblivious of the genius within her."
What restores my faith is the hope that there is a purpose in this suffering. That maybe it will teach me, or you, or someone a lesson that will make the next step more peaceful and less painful. It gives me the hope that all is not lost. It gives me the hope that you are overseeing me and all of those who miss you so deeply.
The subscription to the beliefs addressed in the text allow me to think you are both conscious and blissful right now. Perhaps you are even nearby. One of the most painful aspects of my grief is that you are somewhere hurting and alone. Even worse, is the fear that you are completely gone, physically and spiritually. But why would I trouble myself with these fears when I didn't believe them two months ago? Why would I cause myself more pain by believing the worst now? I'm trying to get back to my core and remind myself that just because there has been a nightmare in my life, it does not mean I need to rewrite my belief system to be a nightmare too.
When Dr. Weiss is talking to a Master via Catherine in hypnosis, he asks, "Why do we come back [to the physical realm] to learn? Why can't we learn as spirits? The master responds, "Those are different levels of learning, and we must learn some of them in the flesh. We must feel the pain. When you're a spirit you feel no pain. It is a period of renewal. Your soul is being renewed. When you're in a physical state in the flesh, you can feel pain; you can hurt. In spiritual form you do not feel. There is only happiness, a sense of well-being."
While the book gives me tremendous hope at a point in my life where I've never needed it more, it doesn't relinquish the work. While I am clinging onto the faith that there is more than just this life and that we may meet again someday, I still have to live this life without you by my side. And while the big picture provides some solace, the short term is my whole life as I know it, and that's not to be taken lightly. Uncertainty, patience, and time are still the enemies I need to befriend and the the lessons I need to learn. But in the meantime, I am fueled with a bit more belief, faith, and connection today than the skepticism and isolation than I have been living with in the past couple of weeks.
A Master says, "Patience and timing... everything comes when it must come. A life cannot be rushed, cannot be worked on a schedule as so many people want it to be. We must accept what comes to us at a given time, and not ask for more. But life is endless, so we never die; we were never really born. We just pass through different phases. There is no end. Humans have many dimensions. But time is not as we see time, but rather in lessons that are learned."
Over the past couple weeks, I've been experiencing a deep depression in my grief – one that is definitely darker than anything I have ever felt or ever witnessed in someone else. The worst part of this phase of grief is that with it has come faithlessness. Before you died, I thought the world was at my fingertips, love was on my lips, and life was beautiful. I thought the universe was on my side. And since you've been gone, I've been cursed with suffering, uncertainty, and the loss of the man who knew me better and loved me more than anyone.
So this morning, as an attempt to remember what I once believed in, and moreover, what YOU believed in, I reread the book that had impacted our lives so intensely.
The book tells the true story of a psychiatrist, Dr. Weiss, and his patient, Catherine. Catherine had come to see Weiss because she struggled with intense phobias that prevented her from living a normal life. Dr. Weiss, who is rooted in the scientific method and rational Western medicine and thought, is used to prescribing medications and using general therapeutic procedures for treatment. The doctor's philosophy and perspective is shattered when he puts Catherine under mild hypnosis to help her unleash childhood memories, and instead, she regresses to a past life where she lives as a Nubian slave in ancient Egypt. She remembers details from that life and facts from the era that are so specific they could only be identified by historians who specialize on Egypt. It is her death at the end of her life in Egypt thousands of years before which plagues her and causes one of the irrational fears in her current life.
Dr. Weiss works with Catherine over the course of time and she regresses back to parts of 87 different lives that she had experienced on the physical plane. She was a solider in what is now Ukraine in the eighteenth century, a male teacher in Japan, worked in a monastery in Switzerland hundreds of years ago, she was a young Moroccan boy who died in his youth, a slave in the South who was the illegitimate daughter of her owner, a prostitute in Spain named Louisa, an American Indian who lived on the Southwest Florida coast, a very ancient cave dweller, and many more. There are many texts and stories out there that discuss reincarnation. In fact, reincarnation was prominent in the Old and New Testament, but was removed by Constantine at the Council of Nicea in 325 A.D. for fear that is would disrupt political stability. I have personally believed in reincarnation for as long as I can remember. But my main root in this philosophy is that a world of immortal souls is more hopeful than a destination of Hell or even nothing at all. But isn't hope what faith is all about anyway?
But what sets this book apart from the rest in its class is that Catherine goes on to convey information from in-between lives. She unleashes secrets and messages from the Masters – ascended spirits that exist in seven different planes in the spiritual realm. We learn about the purpose of life, karma, debts, and deaths. We learn about how groups of souls often travel together. While you may be my soulmate in this life, you could be my mother in the next, for example. We learn about what happens after death and between incarnations. We learn about if loved ones have the opportunity to connect with us from beyond the grave. We see information gleaned from the collective unconscious that Carl Jung spoke of. We learn about faith. Well, we learn about all of this if we're open to it. In the book, even Catherine has her doubts.
Dr Weiss writes, "The conscious Catherine, when awake, was much more anxious and limited, much simpler and comparatively superficial. She could not tap into this superconscious state. I wondered if the prophets and sages of Eastern and Western religions, those called "actualized," were able to utilize this superconscious state to obtain their wisdom and knowledge. If so, then we all had the ability to do so, for we must all possess this superconscious... I would become increasingly frustrated by the uncrossable gulf between Catherine's conscious, awake intellect and her trance-level superconscious mind. While she was hypnotized, I would have fascinating philosophical dialogues with her at the superconscious level. When awake, however, Catherine had no interest in philosophy or related matters. She lived in the world of everyday detail, oblivious of the genius within her."
What restores my faith is the hope that there is a purpose in this suffering. That maybe it will teach me, or you, or someone a lesson that will make the next step more peaceful and less painful. It gives me the hope that all is not lost. It gives me the hope that you are overseeing me and all of those who miss you so deeply.
The subscription to the beliefs addressed in the text allow me to think you are both conscious and blissful right now. Perhaps you are even nearby. One of the most painful aspects of my grief is that you are somewhere hurting and alone. Even worse, is the fear that you are completely gone, physically and spiritually. But why would I trouble myself with these fears when I didn't believe them two months ago? Why would I cause myself more pain by believing the worst now? I'm trying to get back to my core and remind myself that just because there has been a nightmare in my life, it does not mean I need to rewrite my belief system to be a nightmare too.
When Dr. Weiss is talking to a Master via Catherine in hypnosis, he asks, "Why do we come back [to the physical realm] to learn? Why can't we learn as spirits? The master responds, "Those are different levels of learning, and we must learn some of them in the flesh. We must feel the pain. When you're a spirit you feel no pain. It is a period of renewal. Your soul is being renewed. When you're in a physical state in the flesh, you can feel pain; you can hurt. In spiritual form you do not feel. There is only happiness, a sense of well-being."
While the book gives me tremendous hope at a point in my life where I've never needed it more, it doesn't relinquish the work. While I am clinging onto the faith that there is more than just this life and that we may meet again someday, I still have to live this life without you by my side. And while the big picture provides some solace, the short term is my whole life as I know it, and that's not to be taken lightly. Uncertainty, patience, and time are still the enemies I need to befriend and the the lessons I need to learn. But in the meantime, I am fueled with a bit more belief, faith, and connection today than the skepticism and isolation than I have been living with in the past couple of weeks.
A Master says, "Patience and timing... everything comes when it must come. A life cannot be rushed, cannot be worked on a schedule as so many people want it to be. We must accept what comes to us at a given time, and not ask for more. But life is endless, so we never die; we were never really born. We just pass through different phases. There is no end. Humans have many dimensions. But time is not as we see time, but rather in lessons that are learned."
Emergency
Oh Teddy. I needed you so much today.
Black Friday – the day when Americans rise at the crack of dawn to stampede over one another for a flat screen TV – twelve hours after giving thanks for what they already have. I slept in and avoided the crowds. I tried to keep the thanks that abounded yesterday present in my spirit – but a gratitude hangover kept creeping in. The high (a very relative high) of being with family, loved ones, and surrounded by comfort had worn off – and a low set in. The aching, deep sadness welled up in my body and heart spilled out all day.
I took my grandma to her doctor's appointment. Walking into the clinic was incredibly hard. The smell of the waiting room brought back the trauma of the emergency room. The forms made me recall that night when they wouldn't tell me what was happening with your condition but they were asking me for IDs, co-pays, and insurance cards. Sitting in a doctor's office with that bed, different, but still so similar. I watched my grandma get her blood pressure tested and I knew my own was through the roof. I could hear my heartbeat in my temples. Deep breaths, I told myself.
Last spring, we went out for sushi with Chris and Cassie. I hadn't been feeling very well for a couple days, my stomach had been upset. After polishing off a boatload (literally) of sushi between the four of us, you and I left to go home. On the way home my stomach began to cramp like crazy. I lowered the passenger seat all-the-way back and moaned the whole drive home. You began to get very concerned. By the time we got home, the cramps had gotten unbearable. I had work to do and was dedicated to completing my deadline versus resting. My steadfast focus on work always drove you nuts, but especially in that moment. I laid in bed, gripped my stomach, cried, and laid out pages for my magazine in between running to the bathroom to vomit.
You were beside yourself with concern. I was convinced that I would be OK and tried to keep working. You wouldn't take no for an answer. You nearly dragged me to the car to head to the Emergency Room. I asked if I could bring my computer so I could continue working, you wouldn't hear of it. You were convinced it was appendicitis.
I had never seen you drive so fast. You were going seventy MPH down the strict thirty-five MPH zone on Broadway in Boulder. I joked, "You're going to kill us just getting there! Is this how you're going to drive when I'm in labor someday?" You looked at me and I saw that you had tears streaming down your cheeks. "Sami. This is not a joke, I don't know what I would do if something happened to you," you were dead serious. That was one of the moments when I realized how much you loved me and how you couldn't imagine life without me.
After ninety minutes in the ER, an IV, various failed attempts to hit a vein to insert said IV, a CT-scan, and a urinalysis – the diagnosis was in – it was a bad urinary tract infection and a sushi overdose. I left the ER at 2 am with a bunch of cranberry pills, a mild antibiotic, strict instructions to pee after sex, and a $10,000 bill (not an exaggeration).
As I slowly paid my bill off each month, I would remind you about your paranoia that night, about how you thought something was so wrong and it had been minor. Every time, you would insist that we had done the right thing. You would launch into a long explanation about how you wouldn't know how to go on without me, you had never been so scared in your life, and about how I was your everything. Despite the bill, I agreed with you. We had done the right thing. I would wrap my arms around you and promise that I would never leave you.
When the tables turned the night of your death, I acted in the exact same way that you did. The instant something seemed off, I called 911 – three numbers I had never dialed consecutively before. Three numbers I never, in my worst nightmare, expected I'd have to dial. Before panic set in, adrenaline filled my veins and I acted to the best of my ability. Except adrenaline and action weren't enough. We didn't get off lucky. We got off horribly, horribly wrong. And now, I am learning what life is like without you. And it's not OK. I am not OK. And in moments of sheer devastation, I scream at the sky, "How could you leave me? You said you would never leave me!"
Today, after my grandma's appointment, we went to a restaurant in Perrysburg to grab a salad. As my mom, grandma, and myself sat in a booth – we noticed some commotion behind us near the door. An elderly man had slipped and hit his head. He was passed out and a crowd of people were gathering around. Sheer panic began to fill my body, my hair stood up on my skin. "We already called 911!" I heard someone shout. I turned to my mom and said, "This is not going to be OK for me."
Within a few minutes (not sixteen...) I saw emergency lights flashing against the brick walls of the restaurant. "Do not turn around," my mom instructed. I turned around. EMTs filled the front of the restaurant responding to the man's needs. "He is going to be OK. He conscious," my mom said. I didn't turn around again. I gripped the booth with my fingernails, trying to ground myself. I took more deep breaths. I sat in that booth, quivered, and sobbed silent tears for the next ten minutes until the man left. He was OK. 'Why him. Why was he OK and Ted wasn't? He's an old, frail man and Teddy was only 34. Ted still had his whole life to live!' I tried not to think about it. After the commotion died down, I stood up to refill my coffee. My legs felt like jello. I thought, 'Oh great, now I'm going to pass out and they're going to have to come back for me.' The thought of myself in an ambulance made me snap out of it. I let it go.
The reaction of the trauma is nothing compared to the loss. But together, the pain and stress continue to snowball. I try to go on with my days, but they feel so empty. I try to put out of my mind what this holiday season was supposed to be for us, but it sneaks in. It was supposed to be so beautiful. It was supposed to be the happiest holiday season of our lives. And as I walked into stores today, holiday jingles chirping and evergreen candles casting out their nostalgic 'Oh what a wonderful time of year!' scent, I felt constricted with grief and emptiness.
I had a dream with you in it last night. I was snuggled up with you on a chair. We were arm-in-arm and my legs were draped over your lap. I asked you if you had any idea where we would be one-year from now. You said you didn't. You said, "I know where we will be ten years from now, but I do not know where we will be in one year." Then, I remembered that you were dead. I wrapped myself around you, started to cry, and begged you not to leave. Your skin changed to a grey color and you became cold and hard as I held you. You were gone. I wept as I embraced your stone body.
I do not know where I will be in one year. I do not know where I will be in ten years. And it is so hard, because just weeks ago, I KNEW. I knew where we were headed. I knew how beautiful it had all become, and that it was only getting more beautiful. We both shared with each other often that we felt that we deserved it – we deserved to finally be so happy. With you, I felt complete. I felt held. I felt loved. I felt whole. I felt fearless. I felt secure. I felt accepted. I felt creative. I felt nurtured. And for the first time in my life, I felt ready. And now, I feel none of that. I feel empty. I feel lost. I feel bewildered. And I feel lonely.
Black Friday – the day when Americans rise at the crack of dawn to stampede over one another for a flat screen TV – twelve hours after giving thanks for what they already have. I slept in and avoided the crowds. I tried to keep the thanks that abounded yesterday present in my spirit – but a gratitude hangover kept creeping in. The high (a very relative high) of being with family, loved ones, and surrounded by comfort had worn off – and a low set in. The aching, deep sadness welled up in my body and heart spilled out all day.
I took my grandma to her doctor's appointment. Walking into the clinic was incredibly hard. The smell of the waiting room brought back the trauma of the emergency room. The forms made me recall that night when they wouldn't tell me what was happening with your condition but they were asking me for IDs, co-pays, and insurance cards. Sitting in a doctor's office with that bed, different, but still so similar. I watched my grandma get her blood pressure tested and I knew my own was through the roof. I could hear my heartbeat in my temples. Deep breaths, I told myself.
Last spring, we went out for sushi with Chris and Cassie. I hadn't been feeling very well for a couple days, my stomach had been upset. After polishing off a boatload (literally) of sushi between the four of us, you and I left to go home. On the way home my stomach began to cramp like crazy. I lowered the passenger seat all-the-way back and moaned the whole drive home. You began to get very concerned. By the time we got home, the cramps had gotten unbearable. I had work to do and was dedicated to completing my deadline versus resting. My steadfast focus on work always drove you nuts, but especially in that moment. I laid in bed, gripped my stomach, cried, and laid out pages for my magazine in between running to the bathroom to vomit.
You were beside yourself with concern. I was convinced that I would be OK and tried to keep working. You wouldn't take no for an answer. You nearly dragged me to the car to head to the Emergency Room. I asked if I could bring my computer so I could continue working, you wouldn't hear of it. You were convinced it was appendicitis.
I had never seen you drive so fast. You were going seventy MPH down the strict thirty-five MPH zone on Broadway in Boulder. I joked, "You're going to kill us just getting there! Is this how you're going to drive when I'm in labor someday?" You looked at me and I saw that you had tears streaming down your cheeks. "Sami. This is not a joke, I don't know what I would do if something happened to you," you were dead serious. That was one of the moments when I realized how much you loved me and how you couldn't imagine life without me.
After ninety minutes in the ER, an IV, various failed attempts to hit a vein to insert said IV, a CT-scan, and a urinalysis – the diagnosis was in – it was a bad urinary tract infection and a sushi overdose. I left the ER at 2 am with a bunch of cranberry pills, a mild antibiotic, strict instructions to pee after sex, and a $10,000 bill (not an exaggeration).
As I slowly paid my bill off each month, I would remind you about your paranoia that night, about how you thought something was so wrong and it had been minor. Every time, you would insist that we had done the right thing. You would launch into a long explanation about how you wouldn't know how to go on without me, you had never been so scared in your life, and about how I was your everything. Despite the bill, I agreed with you. We had done the right thing. I would wrap my arms around you and promise that I would never leave you.
When the tables turned the night of your death, I acted in the exact same way that you did. The instant something seemed off, I called 911 – three numbers I had never dialed consecutively before. Three numbers I never, in my worst nightmare, expected I'd have to dial. Before panic set in, adrenaline filled my veins and I acted to the best of my ability. Except adrenaline and action weren't enough. We didn't get off lucky. We got off horribly, horribly wrong. And now, I am learning what life is like without you. And it's not OK. I am not OK. And in moments of sheer devastation, I scream at the sky, "How could you leave me? You said you would never leave me!"
Today, after my grandma's appointment, we went to a restaurant in Perrysburg to grab a salad. As my mom, grandma, and myself sat in a booth – we noticed some commotion behind us near the door. An elderly man had slipped and hit his head. He was passed out and a crowd of people were gathering around. Sheer panic began to fill my body, my hair stood up on my skin. "We already called 911!" I heard someone shout. I turned to my mom and said, "This is not going to be OK for me."
Within a few minutes (not sixteen...) I saw emergency lights flashing against the brick walls of the restaurant. "Do not turn around," my mom instructed. I turned around. EMTs filled the front of the restaurant responding to the man's needs. "He is going to be OK. He conscious," my mom said. I didn't turn around again. I gripped the booth with my fingernails, trying to ground myself. I took more deep breaths. I sat in that booth, quivered, and sobbed silent tears for the next ten minutes until the man left. He was OK. 'Why him. Why was he OK and Ted wasn't? He's an old, frail man and Teddy was only 34. Ted still had his whole life to live!' I tried not to think about it. After the commotion died down, I stood up to refill my coffee. My legs felt like jello. I thought, 'Oh great, now I'm going to pass out and they're going to have to come back for me.' The thought of myself in an ambulance made me snap out of it. I let it go.
The reaction of the trauma is nothing compared to the loss. But together, the pain and stress continue to snowball. I try to go on with my days, but they feel so empty. I try to put out of my mind what this holiday season was supposed to be for us, but it sneaks in. It was supposed to be so beautiful. It was supposed to be the happiest holiday season of our lives. And as I walked into stores today, holiday jingles chirping and evergreen candles casting out their nostalgic 'Oh what a wonderful time of year!' scent, I felt constricted with grief and emptiness.
I had a dream with you in it last night. I was snuggled up with you on a chair. We were arm-in-arm and my legs were draped over your lap. I asked you if you had any idea where we would be one-year from now. You said you didn't. You said, "I know where we will be ten years from now, but I do not know where we will be in one year." Then, I remembered that you were dead. I wrapped myself around you, started to cry, and begged you not to leave. Your skin changed to a grey color and you became cold and hard as I held you. You were gone. I wept as I embraced your stone body.
I do not know where I will be in one year. I do not know where I will be in ten years. And it is so hard, because just weeks ago, I KNEW. I knew where we were headed. I knew how beautiful it had all become, and that it was only getting more beautiful. We both shared with each other often that we felt that we deserved it – we deserved to finally be so happy. With you, I felt complete. I felt held. I felt loved. I felt whole. I felt fearless. I felt secure. I felt accepted. I felt creative. I felt nurtured. And for the first time in my life, I felt ready. And now, I feel none of that. I feel empty. I feel lost. I feel bewildered. And I feel lonely.
I Will Not Be Strong (Guest Blog by Hopie Welles Jernagan)
By Hopie Welles Jernagan (Teddy's sister)
Over
the last two and a half weeks since my brother died, people have said
to me, “you need to be strong.” Or complemented me: “Wow, you are so
strong.” They say it as they see me doing the things required of
me—taking my children to school, picking up groceries, organizing the
house, calling my parents and my sister, Berkley, to check in.
But strong is not what I want to be right now.
Ted
was my brother. He was my lifelong companion. Besides my parents, he
knew me the longest and the most completely. In high school, when people
asked me to name my best friend, I said Ted. He was there on every
family vacation, every Christmas, every family dinner. He was my bridesman at my wedding. He and Berkley are a part of me like no one else will ever be.
I
will not be strong because losing a brother should completely wreck
you. It should send you to your knees over and over again. It should
make you fall to pieces on your bedroom floor, force tears from your
eyes in the middle of a fitness class. It should make you cry every time
you drive to the grocery store and once inside the store, you will dry
your tears and you will tell yourself you can do this, you can do this, when all you’re trying to do is buy cereal. This grief should make you wonder if you will ever be okay again.
Weak with grief is what I want to be because that is what the loss of this relationship deserves.
In
tragic times, we assume that we need someone to stay strong so that
everyone else around them can fall apart. This time, it will not be me.
The truth is, I don’t think there needs to be a strong one. The most
supported I’ve felt in the last few weeks is when Sami, Berkley and I
laid on my Aunt Ginny’s bed the day that Ted died. We were a heap of
tears, hair, blankets and sobs. No one was being the strong one. We
cried together, shoulders shaking, tears flowing—there were no words of
comfort, no strong one to hold us together. Because this kind of loss
should make you completely fall apart.
I
understand why they say it—they want to see strength so they can be
assured that we will survive this. They need not worry. We will survive.
Sami, Berkley, my parents, friends: we will even thrive.
Someday,
I will have to choose strength. Maybe in a month. Maybe in a year. Or
maybe I will choose strength for an hour or two a day. Strength will
come and healing will come—people who I trust have told me this. But for
now, I will be weak with grief. Because I lost Ted. I lost my brother.
And my weakness is my best and boldest tribute to who he was and what we
had.
Formaldehyde
I still woke up today. The sun still rose, flirting with the edges of the blinds, peeking in to let me know that despite the darkness in my heart, it was still casting red to pink to iridescent white light over the tops of the mountains. I got up, and made our bed again. I washed my hair for the first time in 4 days. What's the point? You can't run your fingers through it. The shower is so lonely without you.
We would bathe together nearly daily, each under our own shower head, admiring one another naked and taunting each other with our unique soaps. "Have I ever told you that you have the BEST breasts in the world?" You'd repeat daily, always the boob guy, despite my barely-Bs... making me blush and smile. "Nope! Never," I'd say. I'd reach over and swat you gently with my lavender Dr. Bronner'ed puff. Then you'd rear out of the way and bonk my head with your eucalyptus scented one. We'd comment on how long it takes the hot water to make it up to our bedroom from the well. You'd remind me that the new hot water heater would fix that problem. You were very relieved we wouldn't have to waste 4 minutes of water while we waited to shower each day.
You would noticing me washing my hair with my purple shampoo. Always so cautious, you'd ask to see the ingredients. I'd made a promise to you when we moved in together that I would switch to all natural products – and makeup and body products were the big contenders for you. "You put that on your skin everyday," you'd say. Citing the latest article you'd received from one of your many health newsletters, you'd say, "Do you know how terrible parabens are for you? They cause breast cancer." "Yes, love," I'd smile, "I know." You'd told me before. "Look!" I'd show you the bottle, "Paraben-free. Sulfate-free. Not tested on animals. And even VEGAN!" We cringed. "No bacon?!" You'd joke, horrified. "No, we should probably add some though. I bet it's very moisturizing," I'd quip. "Well anyway, I'm glad you're being smart about it. This is the mother of my future children we're talking about," you'd say. I'd reach over to you to make a pass, with devilish eyes, the ones you always immediately recognized my ulterior motives through, "Well, we better get to it!" You'd giggle and rub me dry with a towel, "But seriously, some of that stuff even has formaldehyde in it!" Always the teacher. Do you know when I kissed your lips when you laid lifeless in the casket, you tasted like formaldehyde?
As I came downstairs today to make my coffee this morning my phone buzzed with a Facebook message, one of many people inquiring about the details of your death. I thought of myself pulling up to a terrible wreck a few weeks ago, rubbernecking. "I wonder what happened," horrified, alarmed... excited. "I hope everyone's OK," I muttered, not really thinking about it too deeply, more just wanting to know the details. One thing you always told me Ted was that 'what other people think is none of my business'. It's a really freeing realization, it certainly lightens the load. But as I've been in conversation about your death nearly constantly over the past 10 days, I've realized the rumor mill is churning out stories about what happened, and I want to protect you. But what would YOU want?
Before your death I was the only coffee drinker in the house. You and our roommate Kevin drink tea. You were intensely affected by caffeine. You would drink half a yerba mate before going on stage for a show for a zing. "I hope I'll be able to sleep tonight," you'd say. I'd roll my eyes, and laugh. So many other rockstars would dive into a variety of other perilous stimulants, but you generally kept it in check.
My dad, now living here, drinks coffee all day. I make the coffee, one breath at a time. Scoop: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Grind: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Fill basin. Pour water. Press "On". I look at the clock: 6:59 am. I hear your voice, "You are taking a drug before 7 am, Sami! You are putting a stimulant into your body." You'd say it as a very gentle warning, but not condescending, because you were never pushy. I'd hear you doling out your vitamins. Magnesium for your bones. Vitamin D for your skin. Vitamin B for stress. Sam-E and St. John's Wart for your mood. Ashwaganda and triphala to balance your doshas. A multivitamin in case you hadn't gotten enough of everything else. What about something for your heart, my love?
We don't know the details of Ted's death. The autopsy will take 6-8 weeks. Ted had not had any alcohol for 6 days prior to his death. Ted was not a big drinker at all, especially considering his career as a musician. Ted's death was absolutely not a suicide, he was the happiest he had ever been. Ted was not taking a recreational drug or 'getting high'. Ted had not taken prescription pills of any kind, in fact even Aleve was a last resort for Ted when he was in pain. Ted had taken a natural plant medicine that he'd purchased from the internet, something that wasn't FDA-approved. I don't feel comfortable giving out any more information because Ted would never want to incriminate anyone and the privacy beyond this point belongs to his family. It appears as though Ted may have had a heart condition that reacted with the medicine causing cardiac arrest. But I do not know this. All I know is what I witnessed, which was death - which is more than I ever needed to see.
We would bathe together nearly daily, each under our own shower head, admiring one another naked and taunting each other with our unique soaps. "Have I ever told you that you have the BEST breasts in the world?" You'd repeat daily, always the boob guy, despite my barely-Bs... making me blush and smile. "Nope! Never," I'd say. I'd reach over and swat you gently with my lavender Dr. Bronner'ed puff. Then you'd rear out of the way and bonk my head with your eucalyptus scented one. We'd comment on how long it takes the hot water to make it up to our bedroom from the well. You'd remind me that the new hot water heater would fix that problem. You were very relieved we wouldn't have to waste 4 minutes of water while we waited to shower each day.
You would noticing me washing my hair with my purple shampoo. Always so cautious, you'd ask to see the ingredients. I'd made a promise to you when we moved in together that I would switch to all natural products – and makeup and body products were the big contenders for you. "You put that on your skin everyday," you'd say. Citing the latest article you'd received from one of your many health newsletters, you'd say, "Do you know how terrible parabens are for you? They cause breast cancer." "Yes, love," I'd smile, "I know." You'd told me before. "Look!" I'd show you the bottle, "Paraben-free. Sulfate-free. Not tested on animals. And even VEGAN!" We cringed. "No bacon?!" You'd joke, horrified. "No, we should probably add some though. I bet it's very moisturizing," I'd quip. "Well anyway, I'm glad you're being smart about it. This is the mother of my future children we're talking about," you'd say. I'd reach over to you to make a pass, with devilish eyes, the ones you always immediately recognized my ulterior motives through, "Well, we better get to it!" You'd giggle and rub me dry with a towel, "But seriously, some of that stuff even has formaldehyde in it!" Always the teacher. Do you know when I kissed your lips when you laid lifeless in the casket, you tasted like formaldehyde?
As I came downstairs today to make my coffee this morning my phone buzzed with a Facebook message, one of many people inquiring about the details of your death. I thought of myself pulling up to a terrible wreck a few weeks ago, rubbernecking. "I wonder what happened," horrified, alarmed... excited. "I hope everyone's OK," I muttered, not really thinking about it too deeply, more just wanting to know the details. One thing you always told me Ted was that 'what other people think is none of my business'. It's a really freeing realization, it certainly lightens the load. But as I've been in conversation about your death nearly constantly over the past 10 days, I've realized the rumor mill is churning out stories about what happened, and I want to protect you. But what would YOU want?
Before your death I was the only coffee drinker in the house. You and our roommate Kevin drink tea. You were intensely affected by caffeine. You would drink half a yerba mate before going on stage for a show for a zing. "I hope I'll be able to sleep tonight," you'd say. I'd roll my eyes, and laugh. So many other rockstars would dive into a variety of other perilous stimulants, but you generally kept it in check.
My dad, now living here, drinks coffee all day. I make the coffee, one breath at a time. Scoop: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Grind: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. Fill basin. Pour water. Press "On". I look at the clock: 6:59 am. I hear your voice, "You are taking a drug before 7 am, Sami! You are putting a stimulant into your body." You'd say it as a very gentle warning, but not condescending, because you were never pushy. I'd hear you doling out your vitamins. Magnesium for your bones. Vitamin D for your skin. Vitamin B for stress. Sam-E and St. John's Wart for your mood. Ashwaganda and triphala to balance your doshas. A multivitamin in case you hadn't gotten enough of everything else. What about something for your heart, my love?
We don't know the details of Ted's death. The autopsy will take 6-8 weeks. Ted had not had any alcohol for 6 days prior to his death. Ted was not a big drinker at all, especially considering his career as a musician. Ted's death was absolutely not a suicide, he was the happiest he had ever been. Ted was not taking a recreational drug or 'getting high'. Ted had not taken prescription pills of any kind, in fact even Aleve was a last resort for Ted when he was in pain. Ted had taken a natural plant medicine that he'd purchased from the internet, something that wasn't FDA-approved. I don't feel comfortable giving out any more information because Ted would never want to incriminate anyone and the privacy beyond this point belongs to his family. It appears as though Ted may have had a heart condition that reacted with the medicine causing cardiac arrest. But I do not know this. All I know is what I witnessed, which was death - which is more than I ever needed to see.
Daylight savings
It was daylight savings time this weekend. Now I'm waking up an hour earlier than we did: 6:30, naturally. You would have loved it. An extra hour in the morning, our favorite time of day together. We would be able to lay in bed, sharing and journaling our dreams, as we did nearly daily. We would be able to call Kira & Beats onto the bed, laughing about how Beats rules the roost as she would hiss a warning at Kira, who is only interested in loving her. We would kiss and embrace and maybe make gentle love. We would open the blinds and look outside, being thankful for the beautiful day, our scenic view. We would hear the wild turkeys and Beats would go on high alert. You would gently laugh as I struggled with the automatic blinds which were designed to be simple to operate.
We'd see that it snowed a bit last night. I would immediately recognize an excitement in your eye because you would be thinking about ski-season. "We need to get those ski-passes!" I'd say. We'd planning to 'do it today' for weeks. I would look at you, and smile, imagining your grace on the mountain, effortlessly dancing down the slopes, soaring over jumps, avoiding ski-school kids without a blink of the eye while still taking the time to softly shout out a compliment to them "good move, kiddo!". We used to laugh about how adorable little kids in ski clothes are, all puffy coat and mittens, eyes hardly exposed, fearless. That's how I thought you looked too!
You would glide into the trees and disappear, loving the thrill of having to choose your lines in-the-moment. You said it was when you felt the most present in life, the most alive. I would be haphazardly making my way down behind you: a danger to many others on the mountain, but "improving so quickly!" you'd say. We would get to the bottom. You would stop with Olympic-ease. I would make a pizza-shape with my tips, potentially crossing them and tumbling to a halt. You would offer a tip, but just one – as to not be overbearing and you'd offer it as a yoga metaphor, one I understand. We would laugh. "I am to yoga what you are to skiing," we'd agree.
I actually made the bed this morning. My dad told me I should try to do it everyday. As I put on each throw pillow, noticing it was taking twice as long because we would always do it together, I wondered "What's the point?" I decided that at least I was getting rid of the evidence that only one person had slept in it, alone. Tossing and turning, trying to makeshift the pillows into a semblance of your body. When I wake up these mornings, I'm so confused. How did you just disappear? You were JUST here. Where are you?
I dreamt of you last night. It was the first time since your passing, except for the night of terrible nightmares. You and I stood in our bathroom. You had died, but somehow I was able to see you and talk to you. We were talking about the house and the renovations. Just 10 days ago, we were choosing a temporary house to move to while our house-renovations were to be made. The permits had come in. Every single decision had been made together: every faucet, every mirror, every light fixture, every stain, every doorstop. We had gone and picked out each specific tile, the exact pieces of marble. We made sure we would both fit in the big, soaking tub. We were so grateful for the team of architects that had helped us. "They totally get us!" we'd say. We were taking this beautiful house and making it our dream home, together. I would often say, "I just can't imagine it all being done! This dream-home actually being ours to live in!" We planned to be here forever. Although sometimes you'd poke fun at the excess, claiming "if I ever walk out the door with a bowl and spoon, you'll know where I'm off to!" Your own modern-day Siddhartha, just as gratified living in a tent. In the dream, I spoke of how the renovations were no longer going to happen. "I'm living in a tomb," I told you. You and I had a conversation about what I should still try to update, and what could be put off. "You need to fix the leak in the jacuzzi, so at least you can take a bath," you said. "I guess radiant-heat floors are no longer necessary," I responded; an item that was always high on your list, but not so much on mine.
That's all I remember of the dream. It was sad. But I got to see you, so that was peaceful.
My dad has moved in indefinitely. You would have loved that. You love my dad. You would remind me constantly, "Your parents are so cool!" "I know, I know. They're cooler than I am, that's for sure," I'd say. My dad made me an omelet for breakfast. There's avocado on the side. It's the first time I've eaten avocado since you left, I can only have a bite. He didn't use the avocado slicer. He probably doesn't know what it is. I'll have to show him. I'll have to let him know it needs to be cleaned immediately, so it doesn't rust. He asked me for some jam. I went and found the jam we bought together in Maine last summer. It's almost gone now. We bought it on our way to the airport in Portland when we stopped to have our 7th meal of lobster in 5 days. We were so proud. The line at the Red's in Wiscassit was so long that we opted to go to the no-name place across the street instead with no line. We wandered into the booth selling jam while we waited for our name to be called. We tasted salsas and jellies on stale Ritz crackers. I bought the blueberry rhubarb jam, knowing I would eat most of it because jam was too sweet for you in the mornings.
We ended up arriving to the airport in Portland when a storm hit. Flights were stopped all across the East coast. We were horrified and stuck. I was panicked, but you reminded me that it would be ok, and that at least we were together. We ate lobster again, in the airport. Eventually, after our flight was officially cancelled, we ended up renting a car and driving to Boston. You rebooked flights so you would be able to get home in time for rehearsal the next day. We stayed with my cousins in Boston and were treated to an amazing dinner at his restaurant. We were so thankful for the star treatment, but so exhausted. You reached across the table, eyes tired but belly-full of foie-gras and pork belly and uni, you wrapped your long, graceful fingers around mine, looked into my eyes, and said, "Let's go home."
We'd see that it snowed a bit last night. I would immediately recognize an excitement in your eye because you would be thinking about ski-season. "We need to get those ski-passes!" I'd say. We'd planning to 'do it today' for weeks. I would look at you, and smile, imagining your grace on the mountain, effortlessly dancing down the slopes, soaring over jumps, avoiding ski-school kids without a blink of the eye while still taking the time to softly shout out a compliment to them "good move, kiddo!". We used to laugh about how adorable little kids in ski clothes are, all puffy coat and mittens, eyes hardly exposed, fearless. That's how I thought you looked too!
You would glide into the trees and disappear, loving the thrill of having to choose your lines in-the-moment. You said it was when you felt the most present in life, the most alive. I would be haphazardly making my way down behind you: a danger to many others on the mountain, but "improving so quickly!" you'd say. We would get to the bottom. You would stop with Olympic-ease. I would make a pizza-shape with my tips, potentially crossing them and tumbling to a halt. You would offer a tip, but just one – as to not be overbearing and you'd offer it as a yoga metaphor, one I understand. We would laugh. "I am to yoga what you are to skiing," we'd agree.
I actually made the bed this morning. My dad told me I should try to do it everyday. As I put on each throw pillow, noticing it was taking twice as long because we would always do it together, I wondered "What's the point?" I decided that at least I was getting rid of the evidence that only one person had slept in it, alone. Tossing and turning, trying to makeshift the pillows into a semblance of your body. When I wake up these mornings, I'm so confused. How did you just disappear? You were JUST here. Where are you?
I dreamt of you last night. It was the first time since your passing, except for the night of terrible nightmares. You and I stood in our bathroom. You had died, but somehow I was able to see you and talk to you. We were talking about the house and the renovations. Just 10 days ago, we were choosing a temporary house to move to while our house-renovations were to be made. The permits had come in. Every single decision had been made together: every faucet, every mirror, every light fixture, every stain, every doorstop. We had gone and picked out each specific tile, the exact pieces of marble. We made sure we would both fit in the big, soaking tub. We were so grateful for the team of architects that had helped us. "They totally get us!" we'd say. We were taking this beautiful house and making it our dream home, together. I would often say, "I just can't imagine it all being done! This dream-home actually being ours to live in!" We planned to be here forever. Although sometimes you'd poke fun at the excess, claiming "if I ever walk out the door with a bowl and spoon, you'll know where I'm off to!" Your own modern-day Siddhartha, just as gratified living in a tent. In the dream, I spoke of how the renovations were no longer going to happen. "I'm living in a tomb," I told you. You and I had a conversation about what I should still try to update, and what could be put off. "You need to fix the leak in the jacuzzi, so at least you can take a bath," you said. "I guess radiant-heat floors are no longer necessary," I responded; an item that was always high on your list, but not so much on mine.
That's all I remember of the dream. It was sad. But I got to see you, so that was peaceful.
My dad has moved in indefinitely. You would have loved that. You love my dad. You would remind me constantly, "Your parents are so cool!" "I know, I know. They're cooler than I am, that's for sure," I'd say. My dad made me an omelet for breakfast. There's avocado on the side. It's the first time I've eaten avocado since you left, I can only have a bite. He didn't use the avocado slicer. He probably doesn't know what it is. I'll have to show him. I'll have to let him know it needs to be cleaned immediately, so it doesn't rust. He asked me for some jam. I went and found the jam we bought together in Maine last summer. It's almost gone now. We bought it on our way to the airport in Portland when we stopped to have our 7th meal of lobster in 5 days. We were so proud. The line at the Red's in Wiscassit was so long that we opted to go to the no-name place across the street instead with no line. We wandered into the booth selling jam while we waited for our name to be called. We tasted salsas and jellies on stale Ritz crackers. I bought the blueberry rhubarb jam, knowing I would eat most of it because jam was too sweet for you in the mornings.
We ended up arriving to the airport in Portland when a storm hit. Flights were stopped all across the East coast. We were horrified and stuck. I was panicked, but you reminded me that it would be ok, and that at least we were together. We ate lobster again, in the airport. Eventually, after our flight was officially cancelled, we ended up renting a car and driving to Boston. You rebooked flights so you would be able to get home in time for rehearsal the next day. We stayed with my cousins in Boston and were treated to an amazing dinner at his restaurant. We were so thankful for the star treatment, but so exhausted. You reached across the table, eyes tired but belly-full of foie-gras and pork belly and uni, you wrapped your long, graceful fingers around mine, looked into my eyes, and said, "Let's go home."
Breath by breath
Never before has the importance of being in the present felt so desperately important to me. I teach the importance of presence in my yoga classes; but until now, actually living from breath to breath, has never felt so intensely necessary. Focusing steadfastly on just.this.breath. has allowed over a week to pass since my soulmate tragically died in my arms. It's allowed me to wake up in the middle of the night, use the restroom, and go back to sleep without my mind darting to what was, and what was to be. It's allowed me to make it through a yoga class, completely dripping with grief and a sadness I never knew humanly possible. It's allowed me to eat, a bit, focusing on just chewing this one bite and keeping it down. It's allowed me to meditate on the Earth's beauty around me, the cycles still going on, even though my heart feels like its stopped. The sunrise is still beautiful, in fact, more beautiful than I ever noticed. The hair on my legs still grows, even though I don't understand why, and I wish it didn't. When I focus on each breath, my gaze moves more slowly. My eyes catch onto something they wouldn't have even noticed 10 days ago: a rainbow on the wall, a particularly fluffy cloud, a spider making its journey across the floor. There's a gentleness in my being where there used to be a rush. I want to know how the rainbow got there, where the cloud will go next, and help the spider complete his journey safely. Ted, you always told me to slow down. Now, you have it.
Yesterday, I couldn't do it. I was not breath to breath. I could hardly get out of bed. My mom dragged me out, literally dressing me as if I was a toddler who hadn't yet learned how. We went to the farmer's market to pick up a few things. We had only gone to the market together a couple times but immediately I was slapped by the memories. The same girl was at the cheese booth. Handing out samples to anxious customers. I was one of those customers just a few weeks ago – impatient to try the new goat's milk cheese and purchase it for our dinner guests. The man at the pickled-things booth. My mind raced to all of the jars of pickled calendula, sauerkraut, cucumbers, beets, garlic, olives in our fridge: your favorite snack or daily salad topper. We went into the food-court area. It was just a couple weeks ago we'd shared the Thai Salad. I was hungover, you ate most of it.
The most painful part yet: My eyes glanced at a man who was gingerly reaching across the table to his beloved's hand. He softly rubbed her hand and smiled peacefully at her across the table without words. No! That's how you grab my hand, Teddy. That's our look. That's our peace, and our love, and our gentleness. Fuck! Where are you!?
I'm seated, as far as possible from the smiling couple, trying to eat a crepe that's full of powerfully rich ingredients: smoked salmon, cream, capers, even bacon, I think. The richness disgusts me, it tastes too delectable for my grey insides. I pick at it then push it aside, realizing I'll need to rework my food choices. A little boy, playing with a cardboard sword leftover from his Halloween costume approaches my mother and I. He's slicing away at imaginary bad-guys in space just as I'm desperately looking for my man in the same invisible space. His eyes meet mine with that pure, all-knowing, yet completely innocent gaze of a child. I immediately weep. I think of the boy we were to create, Teddy. Half you, half me. "I hope they'll have your long legs!" I always joked. "Your good teeth and blonde hair," you would respond. "You have blonde hair too!" I would always argue. "My hair is BROWN!" you would say. We would laugh and you'd slide your hand across the picnic table, absentmindedly, to wrap your long, gentle fingers in mine. Both of us, silently and mischievously smiling as we imagined the brightness of the future we knew we deserved and had finally found. "Until then, we'll just practice, A LOT," we'd joke. Tears streamed down my face as the reality of this crushed future faced me through the innocent eyes of the boy with the sword.
Last Wednesday, your family proposed to me on your behalf, Teddy. Your mom, dad, sisters & brothers-in-law took me down to a little sitting area next to your Aunt Ginny's lake. They all held me and cried as your mom opened a ring-box, containing the most breath-taking diamond on Earth, and asked for my hand for you, and more importantly, for us - your family and I. I accepted, of course. The ring fit perfectly, the sparkle unavoidable. If your spirit were to exist in a diamond, it would be this one.
I learned of it containing diamonds from your grandparent's 50-year anniversary broach. I learned that you were going to propose to me any day. A morning, your mom told me, when I wouldn't expect it because it would be first thing, and then we'd have the whole day to celebrate and to plan our future. Now as a look at my ring-finger and see it dripping in sparkle, I think back on how much our proposal meant to me just 9 days ago. I wanted that SO badly. I wanted that guarantee of our future. I want to be able to hold up my hand in pride and not even have to say, "look how much he loves me!" Now, I look down and the sadness resurfaces, again, and again. An engagement with no celebration, no parties, no registries, no wedding, no first kiss, no wedding-night. Did the Universe know this was going to happen when you chose a diamond shaped like a teardrop?
Now the whole desire for that beautiful engagement seems so trivial. All I want is you. No jewels or rings or promises, it's all fucking worthless without you. Without your laugh and the boyish glimmer in your eye when you do it. Your soft and inviting voice, always full of love. Your touch, knowing that sometimes there are no words needed, just a hug. Your humor, quite dirty, but still no match for mine. Your wit, always looking for a deeper lesson within. I will try to embody all of those beautiful elements of yours. I will continue to pick myself off the ground, breath by breath, moment by moment. I will try not to let my obsessive thoughts of the past and broken-future control me. I will try to modulate this sadness, one step at a time. I will recognize that grief is shattering to linear thought, it's not a disappearing act and it will come in waves. And I know, that there will never be a moment in my life when I think of you without being grateful for the pureness of our love, more pure than even this gorgeous stone on my hand.
I love you, Ted.
Yesterday, I couldn't do it. I was not breath to breath. I could hardly get out of bed. My mom dragged me out, literally dressing me as if I was a toddler who hadn't yet learned how. We went to the farmer's market to pick up a few things. We had only gone to the market together a couple times but immediately I was slapped by the memories. The same girl was at the cheese booth. Handing out samples to anxious customers. I was one of those customers just a few weeks ago – impatient to try the new goat's milk cheese and purchase it for our dinner guests. The man at the pickled-things booth. My mind raced to all of the jars of pickled calendula, sauerkraut, cucumbers, beets, garlic, olives in our fridge: your favorite snack or daily salad topper. We went into the food-court area. It was just a couple weeks ago we'd shared the Thai Salad. I was hungover, you ate most of it.
The most painful part yet: My eyes glanced at a man who was gingerly reaching across the table to his beloved's hand. He softly rubbed her hand and smiled peacefully at her across the table without words. No! That's how you grab my hand, Teddy. That's our look. That's our peace, and our love, and our gentleness. Fuck! Where are you!?
I'm seated, as far as possible from the smiling couple, trying to eat a crepe that's full of powerfully rich ingredients: smoked salmon, cream, capers, even bacon, I think. The richness disgusts me, it tastes too delectable for my grey insides. I pick at it then push it aside, realizing I'll need to rework my food choices. A little boy, playing with a cardboard sword leftover from his Halloween costume approaches my mother and I. He's slicing away at imaginary bad-guys in space just as I'm desperately looking for my man in the same invisible space. His eyes meet mine with that pure, all-knowing, yet completely innocent gaze of a child. I immediately weep. I think of the boy we were to create, Teddy. Half you, half me. "I hope they'll have your long legs!" I always joked. "Your good teeth and blonde hair," you would respond. "You have blonde hair too!" I would always argue. "My hair is BROWN!" you would say. We would laugh and you'd slide your hand across the picnic table, absentmindedly, to wrap your long, gentle fingers in mine. Both of us, silently and mischievously smiling as we imagined the brightness of the future we knew we deserved and had finally found. "Until then, we'll just practice, A LOT," we'd joke. Tears streamed down my face as the reality of this crushed future faced me through the innocent eyes of the boy with the sword.
Last Wednesday, your family proposed to me on your behalf, Teddy. Your mom, dad, sisters & brothers-in-law took me down to a little sitting area next to your Aunt Ginny's lake. They all held me and cried as your mom opened a ring-box, containing the most breath-taking diamond on Earth, and asked for my hand for you, and more importantly, for us - your family and I. I accepted, of course. The ring fit perfectly, the sparkle unavoidable. If your spirit were to exist in a diamond, it would be this one.
I learned of it containing diamonds from your grandparent's 50-year anniversary broach. I learned that you were going to propose to me any day. A morning, your mom told me, when I wouldn't expect it because it would be first thing, and then we'd have the whole day to celebrate and to plan our future. Now as a look at my ring-finger and see it dripping in sparkle, I think back on how much our proposal meant to me just 9 days ago. I wanted that SO badly. I wanted that guarantee of our future. I want to be able to hold up my hand in pride and not even have to say, "look how much he loves me!" Now, I look down and the sadness resurfaces, again, and again. An engagement with no celebration, no parties, no registries, no wedding, no first kiss, no wedding-night. Did the Universe know this was going to happen when you chose a diamond shaped like a teardrop?
Now the whole desire for that beautiful engagement seems so trivial. All I want is you. No jewels or rings or promises, it's all fucking worthless without you. Without your laugh and the boyish glimmer in your eye when you do it. Your soft and inviting voice, always full of love. Your touch, knowing that sometimes there are no words needed, just a hug. Your humor, quite dirty, but still no match for mine. Your wit, always looking for a deeper lesson within. I will try to embody all of those beautiful elements of yours. I will continue to pick myself off the ground, breath by breath, moment by moment. I will try not to let my obsessive thoughts of the past and broken-future control me. I will try to modulate this sadness, one step at a time. I will recognize that grief is shattering to linear thought, it's not a disappearing act and it will come in waves. And I know, that there will never be a moment in my life when I think of you without being grateful for the pureness of our love, more pure than even this gorgeous stone on my hand.
I love you, Ted.
One week
November 1, 2014
Somehow I've had the courage the past few days to muster the strength to stay busy and to stay surrounded by your friends and family. Last night, I put on my favorite fuzzy hat of yours (a bear!) and dressed up for Halloween. I went to The Motet show, who we wanted to play at our wedding. While their dedication of their set to you and the solace of all of love and hugs imaginable was truly moving, nothing can compare to the huge vast hole of your absence.
The pain grows intensely. It's like there is a miner stationed near my heart. Constantly digging, and tossing away all plans, our future, all the love we still had to make. Every morning we still had to wake up together, our family we were to build, so many laughs I'll never have. My desperation for you is unfathomable, my love.
I can't believe it's been a week. A week since your heart stopped in my own fucking arms and I couldn't bring you back. A week from the horror of sirens and ambulances and holding your body for hours on a gurney after your spirit had gone. And over a week since I woke up to your beautiful cheer, your positive light that you had for every morning, every new day and moment we got to create together: our little sculpture to mold.
Somehow I've had the courage the past few days to muster the strength to stay busy and to stay surrounded by your friends and family. Last night, I put on my favorite fuzzy hat of yours (a bear!) and dressed up for Halloween. I went to The Motet show, who we wanted to play at our wedding. While their dedication of their set to you and the solace of all of love and hugs imaginable was truly moving, nothing can compare to the huge vast hole of your absence.
The pain grows intensely. It's like there is a miner stationed near my heart. Constantly digging, and tossing away all plans, our future, all the love we still had to make. Every morning we still had to wake up together, our family we were to build, so many laughs I'll never have. My desperation for you is unfathomable, my love.
I can't believe it's been a week. A week since your heart stopped in my own fucking arms and I couldn't bring you back. A week from the horror of sirens and ambulances and holding your body for hours on a gurney after your spirit had gone. And over a week since I woke up to your beautiful cheer, your positive light that you had for every morning, every new day and moment we got to create together: our little sculpture to mold.
October 25, 2014
The universe lost it's most perfect earthangel this morning. I don't even remember how to breathe without you Teddy. Please come back to me. I have so much more love to give you.
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