I’ve been packing and organizing and purging — the more I do now, the less I have to do when I actually begin escrow on a place. I had 2 entire boxes of unsorted planner/notebook stuff. Now fortunately, I know B. will want some of it, particularly the wedding themed scrapbooking bits. But a lot of these planners are dated to the year, so they can’t be useful anymore. As I skim through them to find the pages you actually filled in, I’m always amazed at how you can take something so mundane and bring it to joyful life with your creativity. And reading these entries certainly makes me remember just how lovingly devoted you were to me, and I to you.
Yet there is such sadness and regret in these pages. Because so many of them… SO, so many of them… are empty. The searing irony — these are “Life Planners”, after all. And your life, cut short, likewise leaves so many unfilled pages of potential. Such volumes of unwritten, un-lived words of unspeakable love and laughter, pain and pleasure, happiness and heartache, tears and triumphs. If only I had known. Had come back to you in time to rush you to the ER or to call 911 before it was too late. But it was. It is. Gut-wrenchingly late.
Occasional other reminders jump out as well. Adult coloring books with merely a few pages partway done. A random quote or journal blurb. Dozens of shanghai score-pad pages with stars and hearts over the winner’s initials. Haphazard bundles of coloring pens and markers. Thankfully some of this stuff can be donated and go to a good second home, while other bits can even go to one of our nieces for her artistic pursuits.
When I posted a particularly poignant bit about you not having a baby, J. called you her superhero. That made my heart warm again. Yet cold in quick succession, reminding me that you, and perhaps by some extension, I, will never have that chance. I still say that raising kids in this pandemically-induced-quasi-apocalyptic society would be chaos, and that in a very small and somewhat selfish way, I’m glad that we didn’t, but my heart aches for you that you didn’t. If that makes any sense at all.
I wish things made sense. They still don’t. I loved you. Goodnight sweet angel.
I’m not bitter. Let’s just get that straight. I was blessed for 10 years. More than blessed. And now I’m trying to make peace with the fact that I may never be that loved again.
K. was the best Valentine’s Day giver in the world. Creative, adorable, spontaneous, funny, and always incredibly heartfelt. She made a WHOLE WEEK of it, one year. Actually more than once. Every day for seven days in a row, a little love note and a cute gift. And always the best, warmest, sweetest hugs and kisses. I’ll try to find the photo book she made one year and post pictures.
It was incredible. It was so much more than I deserved. She was so much more than I deserved. That is the realization I’ve had to come to. It is, perhaps, a bit of idolizing that many grievers do out of necessity — we put our deceased loved ones upon a pedestal and ignore their shortcomings and faults, focusing exclusively on their positive and endearing qualities, sometimes to the point of magnifying them beyond reality. But that is in our nature. We romanticize our lost loves because it’s far easier to do so, than to dwell on the imperfections and the errs of their humanity.
And yet. Yet. I will hold steadfast to this. That she was the most incredibly kindhearted, loving, creative, caring, romantic soul that I’ve yet had the privilege of being bonded with.
So what’s my point? To brag about what I had only to wallow in the misery that it was taken away, so suddenly and irrevocably? No. To remind you, my fair reader, that life is short, and we are not guaranteed tomorrow. So BASK in your lover’s arms, in your partner’s romantic gestures and demonstrations of devotion. MAKE time to express your love in nauseatingly adorable ways. Because I guarantee you, you will not regret one moment of your life spent in making your soulmate smile.
It is now 2020. The start of the first decade which you were meant to see, which we were meant to live through together, yet you did not, and we will not. Is this as momentous as it seems? Time is still so strange. I wake from a dream of you, feeling like you were just here with me yesterday. Yet I feel a thousand days pass by each night I don’t come home to you waiting in bed for me. There are people and moments that find you but a distant memory, while other people and more moments carry the raw, searing loss of immediate heartbreak. I suppose the truth is somewhere in between.
Life does go on. Our nieces keep growing, our dog keeps acting goofy. My job is steady, my friends are supportive. Our families are healthy, mostly. There will always be a missing piece, though, won’t there? Always a void, a space or a word or a thought or a smell, where YOU were supposed to be. Should be. Can’t be. Will never be again.
Sometimes we try to fill that void with something else, or someone else. Other times we weep. We scream at the universe and ask why. We stare blankly into the bleak long dark, hoping that somewhere along the way you found the light. Knowing that you did. That you now sparkle with the burning brightness of a million suns in the glory of Heaven. That you ask us not to weep, or to scream, or to stare. But you ask us to live, to love, to give of ourselves. To put forth into THIS world that little sliver of luminescence, that bit of spark, that flake of glitter, which your soul left behind in ours.
And that is difficult, to say the least. It’s hard to find the time, the energy, the motivation, the inspiration, to do that which you truly would ask of us. But we try.
Oh God, I try.
I loved you.
You are forever in our hearts. To the final dying beat.
I cracked the laptop screen on vacation. The one that we got for you special, the Macbook Pro with all the upgrades. I was so disappointed with myself. It happened near the end, too. It’s a hairline fracture. Noticeable, but not productivity-hampering. Just enough to really irk me that I let it happen.
We finally gave away the rest of your clothes. I mean, all of the stuff that was worth saving but not brand-new/like-new-that-might-be-sellable-LuLaRoe stuff. Most of it went to J & M up in Oregon. They absolutely loved it, it was like early Christmas for them. There were some things that didn’t fit their style or size, so I returned home with a small bag of clothes to donate to wherever. I left it sitting in the closet, not on the floor but near floor-level.
Keira, while I was gone recording the podcast (@RARCpodcast | iTunes | Google), got into this bag of your clothes and pulled out a shirt. She didn’t chew or bit or otherwise maim it, she just pulled it out of the bag and left it there on the floor nearby. As if she’d smelled your scent, faint though it must have been, for a brief moment, investigated, and found that you were not there.
If only I could tell her how many times I’ve done that. Not literally, of course, but figuratively, metaphorically. Spiritually even.
I saw you last night in my dreams. More clear and close than I have in over a year. I felt your hand squeeze mine, for the very briefest of moments. I tried to capture that moment, to hold on longer, to curl up into a ball of warm memories, a puddle of desperate longing. It almost worked.
I saw your eyes. Your big, beautiful, blue-green eyes. They were closed for a blink, but they opened up and looked back at me. For the very briefest of moments. I knew that moment was fleeting. Light and time were already beckoning me to wake. Just a little longer, I beg. But no.
I heard your voice. Your sweet, strong, comforting voice. We had an argument that passed just as quickly as the dream itself. Even in that, the pangs of familiarity pulled at my heart. And we reconciled, and became as one. And it was gone.
You were sitting across from me, listening to me talk about something that was about to happen, as if it already had. You had no words, only your loving and knowing eyes. Are you still with me? Do you keep vigil on these lonesome roads and dark nights? Do you still love me?
Today is.. would have been.. our 9th wedding anniversary. That day was a whirlwind! We didn’t spend the night apart like many couples do; we didn’t feel the need to. We forgot to bring our wedding favors — our customized M&M’s. But we distributed them later at a family gathering. Your mom burned her hand on a curling iron. You got so anxious you couldn’t eat. We trekked all over the University of Redlands for pictures. And you in your 5-inch zebra heels. We almost forgot to pay the photographer! I had to borrow a check from your aunt and pay them back later.
Nine years ago, you said ‘I do’ and made me the happiest man in the world. We planned, prepared, and set everything in place as best we could. We celebrated the beginning of a new life, together with our family and friends.
And almost one year ago, minus a week or so, you suddenly and inexplicably left this world. There was no warning, no preparation, no setting, and no goodbye. And we mourned the loss of your life, alone and apart.
Til death do us part.
When a bride and groom say those words, they don’t actually think that they’ll truly become reality. At least not before they grow old and frail. That’s way far off in the future, not something anybody should worry about anytime soon. Living will? Death folder? Life insurance? PAH! Nonsense. A problem for future selves.
Let alone the emotional, physical, and mental implications. When you do this right, your spouse becomes your WORLD. And don’t get me wrong, you can and should retain some of your independent interests and person-hood; but by and large, you become intertwined together as one new entity, as ‘US’. So then to suddenly lose that half (or at least, large part) of your life, your “new self” that was/is ‘US’, is quite literally devastating. It’s like violently tearing apart a zipper that’s been stuck together for years and years, happily rusted together at nearly every turn — it’s gonna hurt like hell, and you’re gonna lose some pieces.
Hold every memory.
We made so many memories in our relatively short time as US. Disneyland, beach days, Halloween parties, Christmas light tours, snow days, County fairs, occasional vacation trips, surprise Valentine scrapbooks, lazy stay-in-bed-all-days, steamy and wonderfully passionate nights… I will never forget any of them. Yet even as I say that, I know some of those memories are fading. Thank god, despite my protests and eye-rolls, you always insisted on taking plenty of pictures. I will always cherish them. And, as you know from my occasional zealous need to organize things, I will probably continue to find some excuse to sort and sift through them every so often.
Those scrapbooks, in particular, will continue to be some of my most beloved possessions. The time and thoughtfulness you dedicated to them was unparalleled. Your creativity was a marvel to me, unmatched in my eyes by anything but your love and devotion. I cannot thank you enough for these treasures, even as I mourn the loss of never seeing any more of them in my future.
I tried to do them justice when I constructed your memorial video and music playlist. I’m sure that I fell far short of potential. Yet who even thinks they’ll ever need to undertake such a task? Surely, again, not until you’re 80. And then it should have been our children’s job. Not mine, nor yours.
Here’s to Us.
As the song goes, from P!nk’s Beautiful Trauma album:
What about us? What about all the times you said you had the answer? What about us? What about all the broken happy-ever-afters? What about us? What about all the plans that ended in disaster? What about love? What about trust? What about us?
We thought we had the answers. We thought we had our happy-ever-after. We had plans. And indeed, it ended in disaster. You were taken from this world, from us, from your family, from me. And we don’t get to be ‘US’, anymore.
But when we were… Oh, it was beautiful. You gave me purpose, life, beauty, laughter, tears, joy, happiness, heartache, inspiration, passion, ecstasy, agony, purity, drive, desire, wholeness, openness, and most of all, love.
The greatest of these is Love.
Today, as I have every year since that first time I saw you in that perfect white dress, with your curled blond hair and your ruby lips and your ocean eyes, I say thank you. For all of it. Everything you did for me, everything you made me, everything you gave me. For richer or poorer. In sickness and in health. Through hard times and happy times. As long as we both shall live lived.
And though you live no longer, in this world, know that you will always live on in my heart. I may or may not find love again; yet even if I do, it will never be the same. You were, are, and always will be, my soulmate. And I will see you again in Paradise.
Since I forgot to prepare something for Friday, these are few random tidbits from my grief journal about little things that remind me of her, sometimes catching me off-guard. I hope that you may find some solace in knowing that they happen to every griever, in a million unexpected ways.
I found myself talking back to a movie like we used to do. It was Shooter, with your boyfriend Marky-Mark (Wahlberg). Such a fantastic movie. But as I was talking to it, I caught myself in a moment as if you were with me. Then it faded just as quickly. We won’t ever do that together again.
This sunburn spot below my neck is driving me insane. You would have reminded me to put on sunscreen for the snow. I miss your reminders. I love you.
After they leave, I gather my strength for one last clean sweep of the old apartment. I purge a little more, I stow the rest in the pickup, sweep and sweep, and finally say goodbye. There is no emotion nor attachment left to this place. You are gone from it; you are with me, but above me, like the subtle hint of rainbows spilling across the sky yet touching the ground somewhere undefined. I know that no matter how close I come to the source, I will not find it again.
As I’m sifting through our old gadgets, I reminisce about our early days. There was that infamous call from the peak of Mount Lassen when I went camping the summer of 2008, just after we’d started talking – the “smile ten-miles wide”. I can still recall that first ten-mile-wide smile on your warm inviting face, those deep steel-blue eyes, that sunny blond hair and sun-kissed California skin. Life began that day. And ended the day you passed away. Nothing in this world will ever be as beautiful as you.
This will likely be the final ‘official’ entry from my grief journal. The number seven has some special significance, so it seems a good place to put the final post. I will of course continue to journal privately, and to work on other forms of writing, such as stories and anecdotes. For those of you who have read this far, thank you. I hope that it has helped you in some small way. Love and light to you.
Family gathers at B’s house afterwards. I eat something, a relatively bland sandwich. I wish someone would have brilliantly thought to bring in La Costa, but I supposed that could be expensive. Still, it would have been nice to have some of their chips and salsa at least. Oh well. Someone from my mom’s side of the family snuck in Fireball whiskey. Yeesh.
The flowers are still so pretty; we all brought them over from the funeral. Your mom is going to make some kind of smaller arrangements and things with them, perhaps even something involving dried petals, so I overheard.
My side of the family decides to head out to a local bar, and makes sure that I know they want me to come along. So I stay with yours for a while at B’s, then head over to State Bar in Redlands. It proves a bit difficult to find, mostly due to the parking situation and the fact that today is Thursday, Farmer’s Market day, which I totally forgot. But I find them anyway with K’s help. They shove food and some alcohol at me when I get there. Which is probably a good thing, considering how little I’ve eaten recently. Although I do get pretty bloated later.
I drive myself & Z home. K decides we need more alcohol. So we run to the store to pick up that plus a few snacky things. Then we play Shanghai. I may have won. Time is so strange now. It seems like it should be hours later than it is, but the days get lost or skipped in my brain.
The remembrance cards are so pretty. I love that your mom did those all herself. With D’s help maybe? You were such a graphic designer, I’m sure you could put ours to shame. I know that you’d be highly disappointed with my slideshows just for the lack of collages and variety (and general picture quality, perhaps). What could we do? You were taken away from us without warning.
The Days After the Memorial
Now the days get worse. I ache, I feel unrested. Parents try to make a nice breakfast but I can’t eat too much. Still, I try.
Sleeping, actually doing better now. The dogs still wake us all up at 6 or 7, but at least I can go back to sleep without a second pill. The house gets warmer than I’d like but I still have to have your Unicorn blanket on me.
Saturday morning I decide to join the parents in their ritual of Starbucks and Great Harvest, with their dogs. We don’t take Keira because of how nervous and stressed she’s been. She stays at the house and just pines for me while I’m away, apparently. It’s okay, she’ll get used to things. The sandwiches are really good. You probably would have liked them. And this odd thing I tried from Starbucks, an “almond protein infused cold brew”. Which is actually blended like a frapp, just without whipped cream and stuff.
Then I head up to Corona after stopping by on the cats. Your dad seems to be hanging in there. We do have to talk about the whole living and moving situation sometime soon. He starts but he knows I have to get going.
My stomach is horribly bloated today, it seems. I just feel icky. Before I left the parents, I took Keira on a little jog through the maintenance road behind the houses. I think she did okay, but I was terribly out of shape. My lungs were the problem, I think, which is what K said; not my legs or feet. Even though I did just wear those Vans, since I don’t have actual exercise shoes. Do you think I should start exercising more? I guess so. You wanted to, a long time ago, before you just kept getting sicker and more hurt.
I’m so sorry my baby. I wish I could have helped you more.
Corona is all happy to see us. Keira does great today, even better than before, and everybody is pretty chill. I think running her beforehand helped.
Today is almost over. I still don’t feel good. My stomach is still knotty. Your mom gave me ranitidine and some other tummy pill. Hopefully it helps. But then I got so hungry again before bed that I had to have of their homemade coleslaw and pasta salad. And a tiny sliver of cheesecake. I probably shouldn’t have done the cheesecake. We both had this problem sometimes, didn’t we? Our eyes bigger than our stomachs. In your case almost literally.
I love you my angel. I know you don’t sleep anymore, that you don’t dream because Heaven is beyond even our best and most wonderful dreams. But please help us rest tonight and please help my tummy feel better.
The Week After the Service
Trying to spend more time with family. We play lots of cards. J&M come over one more time on Sunday and we play a large game of Spicy Farkle. It’s a bit of a loud dice game but it can be kinda entertaining. Keira is still doing well and I take her for a jog again, with K, and we both have trouble making our lungs work the last leg.
Dad helps arrange some trucks and help for “storage emptying day”, which is Monday. B comes with his truck and his fake leg, which he is more than happy to tell not one but three stories about taking it off and waving it at people for one reason or another. You would have loved that. We empty the storage unit in one trip and head back to the condo to stack it all in the living room. It’s a bit overwhelming but I’ll work on it slowly.
Finally, tonight, your dad comes over for dinner. I’m proud of him. Dad grills some really delicious ribeye steaks. I make Mom make the powdered instant potatoes the way you did for that extra fluffiness. Of course your dad talks about old times and the usual, but it’s good for him. I drive him home and then come back to hang out with the siblings for the last time, with another game of, obviously, Shanghai. Then I actually drive home for good, to try to sleep..
My first night back in our bed.
It’s difficult, to say the least.
Keira is obviously missing you too; she sleeps on your side of the bed all night. I wake up at least 3 times. But we get through it. Then your mom actually arrives early Tuesday morning to start cleaning the room and taking clothes home. We have a calm morning organizing things, and then I head out to meet Z for lunch before he goes home. I wanted to stay longer but Mom says she is feeling more connected with you by doing this stuff all day, so I leave her to it.
I was going to come back before dinner but the parents already have it planned, so I check with her before staying, and she’s happy. We play some Starcraft before dinner. Then we have one last card game. I drive home again to get an early bedtime, since I am going into work tomorrow.
The past few days, there’s been an almost overwhelming sense of moving on. Not that I ever will, but it feels that there’s this pressure. Not from people, specifically, but just the universe I guess. It’s hard to explain. I am starting to feel less discomfort and pain, and more of a willingness to get back to work and try to get back into some normal routines.
For the second day in a row, your mom’s cleanup work at home is absolutely stunning. Clothes are almost all gone; bedroom, bathroom, kitchen are all organized; even the dining table is clear! It’s so amazing of her to do this all. I don’t know how she’s doing it, honestly, but it’s either helping her cope or it’s pure adrenaline fumes.
Bed time again. I get Keira up on the bed with me, which I want to keep doing. She was finally able to eat something after I mixed in some beef broth and canned food with her kibble. Hopefully she can continue to get better. She misses you so much. I miss you.
I need you here with me. I keep watching our honeymoon videos on repeat. I need you with me on my upcoming road trip for the tech conference. I need you with me as I fall asleep, as I wake up and get ready for work. But mostly I need your laugh, your smile, your kiss, your embrace. I love you. I loved you.
Apologies for the lack of posting last week. Busy schedule. Appropriately, this entry in the journal also comes after a longer pause than usual. It’s about the memorial service. Of all the posts so far, this was the most difficult to re-read and edit.
Week of the Memorial
I have not journaled since last Sunday. We have all tried to keep ourselves super busy, especially me. Mom and I looked at tons of pictures and she helped me pick out her favorites. I had the apparently good idea to share everything with Google Drive. Which meant she needed to log in to her account, but she got it.
Monday I spent with your family again. We finalized some plans after meeting with the funeral director. His name is Bob; he’s very nice. He explains the whole process. I treat it very business-like for some reason. I guess I still don’t believe you’re gone. There’s a lot of moving parts to this thing. Not too many to handle, but enough. Why do I have to do all of this? You are my helper, my person to makes sure I don’t say too much or too little. Fortunately your mom takes on that role for now.
We are happy that she thought of this idea to go to Redlands. Your main home was here. You were always excited to come back here for Cuca’s or Baker’s or La Costa. Or ‘ghetto pizza’, which we pass several times as we navigate to and from the mortuary. “Mortuary” is a strange word right now. I never say the word “funeral” either, during this time. It’s not that I don’t know or understand, I just subconsciously can’t get past the word.
But we are trying to make you proud. The flower shop remembers you and mom and everybody from Soroptimists. They’re very sweet, and D makes sure they have zebra ribbon for your arrangements. Mom sheds some more tears. I know you want us to be okay but we can’t yet. It’s too soon.
I try spending the night in Corona with Keira. She does pretty well at night now, sleeping by me the whole time. I still need a fan on me to sleep. This time I open the window too, which helps make it cooler. It’s still hard without you. I can’t reach over and snuggle you.
Now it’s time to head home to actually start working on your memorial music and slides and things. For realsies. Mom and D are making the cards fully custom, and going to Costco to get a large portrait of you printed. It’s the same picture that I’ve had on my phone background ever since that night. I still can’t say it. You’re coming back. No, you’re in a better place. But I can’t say the D-word.
Keira is happy to be back at the parent’s. She still doesn’t eat; she didn’t eat at all in Corona. But at least here she knows where to bathroom and doesn’t get stressed. I’m still going to take her back up to Corona too. She needs to get used to them.
I stay up way too late. Aunt H and the two Texas girls are out for you, so we have dinner and cards. B&L bring over this super delicious Hawaiian food. I think you would have liked it; it was flavorful but not at all spicy. But the reason I stay up so late is to work on your video. Mom and I painstakingly picked out these songs and pictures. We want to honor you in the best way possible. I’ve been fighting with the technology aspect for too long. You would have told me to stick with one thing and make it work, rather than trying to bounce around between systems. You were always making sure to help me even when I didn’t admit that I needed it.
I drive up to Redlands with K and we listen to music and talk. Some about you, also about me and how we’re handling things. It’s been difficult to open up to some people depending on the subject. She loved you so much, and you know how her attitude has always been. It’s refreshing. Then we get to the mortuary to pay and test the audio and video stuff. It seems to work well. I want your pictures to show on the screens, and your music to play, while people are arriving. Even while we’re seeing you for the last time.
That part is upsetting. We knew that they would prepare your body and make you look nice with the clothes that Mom & D picked out. They did. But you’re so cold. So stiff and cold. I know you’re not here, but I have to say goodbye still. And how much I loved you. I still love you. I will always love you.
After coming back home, I finish making DVD and CD copies. Then I promise everybody I will get some sleep. I try. It’s a little easier tonight, after being done with tech-y things. But still not solid. Keira is sleeping very well though. You would be proud of here, being able to adjust so well here. I worry about here being in her crate all day for the service itself.
Thursday morning, I get up a little early. It feels ephemeral, as if I’m about to go somewhere and do something that can’t possibly be real. But it is very real. I actually need to finish writing my own memorial speech. I guess that’s not the right word. None of this is right. But I use a real pen and your real notebook. I know you were telling me to do it this way, not by typing into the computer and printing something. You knew it would help solidify the words and the fact that you’re gone.
I have to meet in Corona first to change. They say I look nice, and I remember how to tie my tie. I don’t know if you wanted me to wear one but I felt that I wanted to. I decide to drive myself to Redlands, to listen to your music again and prepare myself. I may get there before them, but I sit in the car and gather things up before going in. It looks like Mom & D arrived before me, or at least before I go in. They warn me that you’re there. No, that your body is there, at the front, in the casket. The chapel is lovely, the flowers are so beautiful. You would have loved them. Roses and lilies with zebra ribbon. A few are not coordinated because some family didn’t know of the florist or weren’t told in time.
You still look so beautiful. But you’re cold. And a little waxy. It’s so strange. I’ve never done this before. Even with grandparents, I may have stepped up and seen them but I don’t remember touching them. I kiss your head and hold your hand for a while. We’re all so upset and distraught. I think it did help to see that you were clearly gone. Can I say it yet? I can’t.
I have to keep busy now. Setting up your penguin light-ups and your coloring page [[She colored a beautiful fairy portrait]]. And we try to get the chapel’s sound system to play the music CD I made for you. Music was such a huge part of your life and personality. I feel that you speak to me through it sometimes. I hope you do. The CD player doesn’t seem to be working right; it just keeps repeating the same track. I try to help them fix it, then wonder if some cousin would be available to work it manually. That would suck. Thankfully, I hear they fix it a few minutes later.
Your dad is extremely upset, as is your brother. They know that you’re gone and that there’s nothing left to do, but they loved you so much. We all did. More family starts arriving and we try to hold onto each other to make sure we can pull through. People laugh and cry at our pictures. Especially J, when you’re with S [[her daughter, our niece]], which is often. There are some silly ones too, but thank God nobody found your infamous clown outfit one from Halloween.
The actual service is nice. I feel like we prepared for it, but that we did so in your honor. I don’t want people to acknowledge my work, I want them to see your beautiful face and know how happy you were. You still are. I know you’re up there and so much happier, filled with joy and light and love. But we’re stuck down here, and it’s not fair. Is that selfish? We need your sparkle back in our lives. Nobody in this room will ever forget you, you know that. You touched so many people for the better.
Most of all, me. If not for you, I would never have started writing, nor been blessed with an amazing career move, nor have known your wonderful family, nor developed any sense of fashion or pop culture or pragmatism or generosity. You brought so much positive things to my life, even if you didn’t remember it all. You were never a burden. You were always my person, my heart, my soulmate, my love. I don’t understand why you’re gone.
People tell me I spoke well and I “did great”. Whatever that means. I didn’t start sobbing during my memorial reading, I guess, is what they’re talking about. I did that before. When I was writing to you. You know that, you saw. I just wanted them to see how wonderful you were, how touching your life was, and how sad we all are that it was cut short. Truly before your time. It does not make sense.
We do get one last goodbye with you, just me and your mom. She gently reclaims that cute little gold wine bottle necklace. It’s now a family heirloom. Perhaps it may even have a little bit of you inside it, if it’s an actual container. If not, well, Mom or Barb will always wear it to think of you. But it’s even more apparent that you’re not here. You’ve told us to go on, to be with family, to remember you and to ease our hurt together, to try shedding less tears. Yet each day we are without you, a little piece of us dies again.
Today’s post, since I have no guests this week and I’m off-kilter due to being in Portland much longer than anticipated, is again on the topic of the loss of a loved one. However, I hope that this will be uplifting and positive in a way, a sort of homage to the sparkle of life that K always brought to those around her.
This is inspired by a Facebook post in one of the grief groups I joined. I’ve noticed that, like the person posting, I too have adopted a more humble, generous, kind, patient attitude toward many things, especially other people, particularly friends and family. But also life in general. “Life is too short”, I will find myself saying. To not love fiercely, to not experience wonder, to not bring joy to those you care for.
How can I do this with such a broken heart? K was my everything. The very purpose of my being who I am. Who I was. I am now someone else. But I am still me. What has changed? Well obviously. I mean, what has changed within me that could make me this way? I have a theory.
My heart still loves, still outpours daily with compassion and longing and the desire to bring her happiness. But she is not here to receive it. She knows and watches, from above, of course. And she surely receives a small measure of that love from her place in Heaven. Yet I am an earthly being; thus, my feelings, and by consequence the object of said feelings, are earth-bound. I am also a spiritual being; thus, as I said, some part of that energy does make its way into that realm. But I think not the majority.
Instead, I find myself trying to give outwardly toward others. To be kind to a stranger. To be patient and encouraging with a service worker when they’re having a horrible day. To be less hurried in traffic, and drive at a more leisurely pace. To make sure our families are well taken-care-of, when I have the means to do so. And I feel that this honors K’s memory and spirit. More than that, though, I feel it helps my heart to heal.
K’s imagination was truly boundless, as embodied by her consistently vivid and wild dreams. She was such a self-critic, she had trouble putting things into words. But I know her spirit had just barely begun to venture out beyond the man-made walls and trappings of this mortal comfort-zone. She wanted so badly to be a force of light and joy, and an embodiment of love, for her family and friends. Many times her body and pain held her back. Yet in certain small ways she has been able to be so. In her nieces, the little girls she could not have herself while on this earth, yet who continue to amaze us and warm our hearts every day.
And, I would like to think, in me. By allowing me to become more humble, kind, generous, patient, and loving, towards others. Because the focus point of all of that effort, from me, is now at peace, and soaring through the stars, beyond our wildest imagination, beyond even the inkling of what our most wondrous dreams can touch. Thus, I am allowed to NOT focus on just one point, one person, but on many.
Does this betray or dishonor my love, my beautiful angel, my soulmate, my everything? Hardly. I still grieve for her every day. And she tells me, “I hear you. I love you too. I want you to be happy again. I want you to be the sparkle in their lives now that I cannot be. I will always be with you. I will see you again; but until I do, you must live. For I did die, but you did not. Your time is not yet come, and you have much to do.”
Being a widow/widower is gut-wrenching, heart-breaking, soul-crushing, and inconsolable. However, our loved ones do not want us to dwell in those states of mind and of being. They want to see us become an EVEN BETTER version of ourselves than the amazing version that THEY helped MAKE us! I’ve said it, and it’s been echoed by our loved ones — K made me into the man that I am. And I am truly forever grateful for that. I was blessed to have her for 10 years. It was not nearly enough.
Even now, she wants me to try and be better. I will fail at times; I will stumble and fall. That’s what being human means. But I will try. And she will see, and she will clap, laugh, dance, cry, and sing, from her wondrous place among God’s glorious hosts. And when my time comes, she will be waiting to welcome me with open arms, to say, “I saw you try. And you have honored me.”