The Hardest Day

It wasn't the day I got the call that he was gone. 

It wasn't the day I saw his body. 

It wasn't the day of his funeral. 

It wasn't the day I picked up his ashes. 

It was my birthday. 

You see, as horrible as the first few days were, it wasn't real yet. It hadn't sunk in. The shock blurred the edges so the pain was dulled with confusion and a haze of unreality. The pain was diffused and unfocused. But now, it's slightly less horrible, but it's so very much more real. The pain is crisp and clear. It's sharp as a razor. Sharp as shards of shattered glass.

My family did their best to make my birthday as normal as possible. My sister and brother-in-law had us over last weekend for dinner and cake and presents. My daughter brought me coffee in bed. My son wished me happy birthday. My aunt and uncle called and sang to me. A few friends sent gifts. I got calls and texts and Facebook messages and emails from literally hundreds of friends and family. 

But it wasn't the same. There was no bouquet of roses, no homemade gourmet dinner with appetizers and wine and candlelight. There was no date night at the Melting Pot. There was no dressing up to the nines and taking selfies. There were no birthday kisses. 

It hit home, and it hit home HARD. I cried all day. Well, I cried all day until my kids came home from school. Then I pulled it together and put on a brave face for them. But when they left the room, I cried some more. When I drove my son to his trombone lesson, I cried silently in the darkness of the car all the way there. And I kept crying in the parking lot, wiping my face before he got back in the car. When I went to bed, I cried myself to sleep. 

It was the end of so many traditions of love and family and feeling special and being cherished. It was the closing of a chapter of my life that was so incredibly special, so incredibly wonderful, so incredibly a part of who I have become, that it felt like losing my entire identity, my entire purpose. 

But I can make it a beginning, as well. One chapter has ended, but there are other chapters waiting to be written. There are new traditions of love to begin. There are children on the cusp of adulthood to be loved and guided and celebrated and launched into lives of their own. There are opportunities to grow in new ways. There are other relationships to be developed, and cherished, and relied on. I still have an identity and a purpose, they're just different than they were. And that's hard to accept. I'm not good at change. I never have been. 

But change is inevitable, even when it's hard. Even when you have to be dragged, kicking and screaming and sobbing, into a new chapter, that new chapter will come. I don't have to like it, but I have to accept it, because I can't control it. 

What I can control, however, is how I deal with it. So I will choose to deal with it with grace, with courage, and with faith. I will choose to set an example for my children of how to deal with adversity. I will choose to make the best of what life has dealt me. I will choose to write this new chapter with my head held high and my eyes on the future and my heart open to a new way of life. I will choose to go on. 

But first, I think I'll have another good cry. 

Then I'll be ready to take on whatever the future holds. 

"For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord,
“plans to prosper you and not to harm you,
plans to give you hope and a future."

- Jeremiah 29:11

Bittersweet Endings

Yesterday, I went to see the final Downton Abbey movie. It was very bittersweet for me, not only because it was the end of a series I had thoroughly enjoyed, and the end of an interesting decades-long saga for the characters, but because it was the end of a journey I had begun with my husband and ended alone. 

My husband and I were surprisingly late to jump on the Downton Abbey train. I'm not sure why, but it took until his sister recommended it to him at the end of Season 1, and after watching the pilot episode, he announced excitedly that he knew I would love it (for the clothes, if nothing else), so we went back and watched the pilot together. And I was immediately hooked. 

The two of us didn't always have the same taste in shows and movies, although we loved finding things we could watch together. Most of the time, one of us loved a show and the other liked or at least tolerated it. 24, for example, was one of his favorites, and I thought it was just okay, but it was fun to watch together. The Great British Baking Show, on the other hand, was one that I loved and he thought was okay, but again, it was fun to watch together. Whenever we decided to watch a show together, each of us refrained from jumping ahead, waiting to watch an episode until we could do it together. Fortunately, we both loved Downton Abbey so much that we both eagerly watched each episode as soon as it was available. And when the series ended and the films were released, we went to see them together as soon as possible. Which meant that this final film was the only part of the series that I watched without him. 

It felt wrong. 

It didn't help that I went to a Tuesday matinee showing, which meant that the theater was nearly empty. I was as physically alone as I was emotionally alone. I was aware of every moment I would have leaned over and whispered a comment in his ear. I was very aware of every moment I would have put my hand on his knee. Near the end of the film, there is a lovely, tender moment between Lord and Lady Grantham where he tells her he loves her, and they reach for each other's hands, when I involuntarily lifted my hand to take his. But it wasn't there. He wasn't there. It was a moment of profound loneliness. 

And yet, it was also a moment of profound love, and of thankfulness that I had had the privilege of sharing so many years with someone who was touched by the moments that touched me, who actively sought out shared experiences, who was willing to spend time doing things he didn't love because I loved them. I saw some of us in every one of the beautiful love stories portrayed on the screen. 

I saw his loving tolerance of my awkwardness in Baxter's sweet smiles at Molesley. I saw his appreciation for my nudging him out of his occasional pigheadedness in Cora's standing her ground with Robert. I saw our romantic connection in Mary's memory of dancing with Matthew. I saw the sweetness of finding love at an older age in the relationships between Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes and between Mr. Mason and Mrs. Padmore. I remembered our early infatuation in the young love stage of Andy and Daisy. I thought of how I blossomed and developed confidence through our relationship as Edith stood up for opinions while Bertie stood back and watched with pride and affection. I thought of our hosting parties together as Cora managed things behind the scenes and Robert made a charming speech to their guests. 

And I saw myself in Mary, as she looked back at but memories of her past, recalling all the joyful moments she had spent in that house. And then the memories faded away, and she was left alone, facing the daunting task of managing Downton by herself. 

It was a bittersweet mix of happy memories and the pangs of loss. It was the ending of something we had begun together, but also the beginning of my learning to do things without him. I would rather have watched the movie with him, but I was still able to enjoy it alone. There are many things that I would rather be doing with him, but I am learning that I am able to do them alone. 

It's a bittersweet ending, but it's also a new beginning. Like the Downton characters, I can't see exactly where my future will lead, but I have confidence that things will somehow work out. I can look back and see all that I've overcome, and know that I can face whatever comes next. 

Even if I'm facing it alone.   

I Put It Away, Then I Got On With Things

Last Labor Day weekend marked the first event my husband and I participated in together as "Band Parents." Our son had joined the high school marching band, and they needed parents to volunteer at parades, competitions, and football games, to help with uniforms, serve as chaperones on the buses, and march alongside the band to help clear the way and provide water to the students. We dutifully showed up at the school and were given our official nametags and bright blue polo shirts with the band's logo on them.  

Today, I chaperoned solo. It occurred to me last night that I needed to find my polo shirt, which presumably had been hanging in my closet since the end of last marching season, and my nametag and lanyard, which....honestly, could have been anywhere. So when I got up this morning, I went through all the shirts in my closet and didn't find it. But occasionally clean laundry gets put away in the wrong closet, so I started going through my late husband's shirts, and I found his polo shirt hanging neatly, with his name lanyard carefully hooked around the same hanger. And I realized that he doesn't need it any more, so I should return it to the school. 

Doesn't sound like a big deal, right? And at first, it wasn't. But as I laid the hanger on the kitchen table with my purse so I wouldn't forget it, it suddenly hit me. Putting that shirt back in the uniform closet was a definitive statement that he was gone. He would never march in another parade, take another photo of his son in uniform, drum along with another cadence, ride another bus back to the school, pass out another water bottle. We would never again reminisce about our own marching band days or laugh at our nerdy high school selves. We wouldn't be going to band parent meetings together. I would be doing all of those things solo. 

None of those things are hard to do alone; I'm perfectly capable of doing all of them myself. I have done them all myself, on occasion. It's not the same as figuring out how to maintain the pool or who to call to turn off the irrigation system or mowing the lawn. It's the knowledge that part of the fun of all those activities was doing them together, and that part of my life is over. 

I will admit that tears were running down my face as I drove towards the school with his shirt and lanyard on a hanger next to me. When I parked the car, I took a moment to pull myself together, wiped my face, blew my nose, and brought the shirt inside. I hung it in the closet with the rest of the shirts, took his nametag out of the plastic sleeve, and returned the lanyard to the designated box. And then I took a deep breath, and marched out of the closet to start my pre-parade duties. I put it away, then I got on with things. 

It occurred to me later in the day that this could be a healthy way to deal with all of the reminders of him that I will come across over the coming weeks and months: cry over it, put it away, then get on with things. Dwelling on them isn't productive, hanging onto them only prolongs the pain, and life keeps moving along, so I'd better get on with it. 

Letting go of things isn't easy for me. I have definite packrat tendencies. But when I do finally let go of things, like weeding through my craft supplies or donating clothes that no longer fit or giving away toys that my kids have outgrown or tossing 200 of the 500 twist ties that have accumulated in the kitchen drawer, it feels really good. It feels like a weight has lifted from my shoulders. It feels like I can breathe a little more freely. 

Letting go of reminders of him will be a little harder. Okay, a lot harder. But I have the memories, so I don't need the stuff. The stuff just holds me back, keeping me in the past, in my grief. Maybe, just maybe, letting go of the stuff will let me move ahead to the future, out of the grief of loss and into the joy of memories. 

I just have to put it away, then get on with things. 

This Was Just a Moment in the Woods

Much to my husband's chagrin, I have always been a fan of Stephen Sondheim musicals. (He was...not.) I often find Sondheim's lyrics to be particularly moving and heartfelt. Some of my favorite lyrics are from the song "Any Moment/Moments in the Woods" from the musical Into the Woods. Here are some of my favorite passages:

Days are made of moments, all are worth exploring
Many kinds of moments, none is worth ignoring
All we have are moments, memories for storing

This was just a moment in the woods - Our moment
Shimmering and lovely and sad
Leave the moment, just be glad for the moment that we had
Every moment is a moment when you're in the woods...

Must it all be either less or more, either plain or grand?
Is it always "or"? Is it never "and"?

Just remembering you've had an "and" when you're back to "or"
Makes the "or" mean more than it did before

Life is, indeed, made of moments, some good and some bad. Grieving highlights those moments, emphasizing them, heightening them, and often flipping back and forth between good and bad with a speed that literally knocks the breath out of you. 

Yesterday I went shopping at Costco. This may sound like a routine, everyday event, and in some ways it is. Except that my husband and I frequently used Costco runs as an opportunity to spend some couple time together, like a daytime date. When he had a midday gap in his schedule, we'd take advantage of being able to shop during the quieter weekdays. In the car, we'd chat about his job, the kids, whatever was going on in our lives. We'd talk through vacation plans, catch up on news of extended family, review our weekly calendar. When we got there, he would grab a cart from the parking lot and "ride" it by jumping on the back and letting it careen, full-tilt, through the lot, often pretending to be out of control, flailing his arms and screaming comically to make me laugh. 

I'm at the point where that memory was able to make me smile, despite a little bittersweetness. It was a good moment. 

But then I got to the bakery section, and I saw that one of the employees was a long-time acquaintance. I didn't know if he'd heard about my husband's passing, and I couldn't bear to have him ask about him and have to tell him the bad news. I took the coward's way out and skipped that section. It was a bad moment. 

I bought a bag of birdseed - a 35-pound bag of birdseed. I never used to have to lift the heavy items; my job was to steady the cart while my husband did the heavy lifting. As I struggled to get the giant bag under the cart without the cart rolling away, I had another moment. Another bad moment. 

I was able to stay composed all the way until I got to the checkout, when I noticed the cashier in the next lane over. This particular employee bears a striking resemblance to actor JK Simmons, known for Broadway, television, films, voiceover work, and commercials, most notably commercials for Farmers Insurance. Whenever we saw him, we'd nudge each other and quietly sing the Farmers Insurance jingle: "We are Farmers, bum ba-dum bum, bum bum bum," and then we'd giggle. So without even thinking, I started to sing the jingle. And realized I was singing it alone. And that he would never be here to sing it with me again. 

I barely made it to the parking lot before I burst into tears. It was a bad moment. A very bad moment. 

But then I thought about the lyrics, "just be glad for the moment that we had," and "just remembering you've had an 'and' when you're back to 'or' makes the 'or' mean more than it did before." I tried to focus on not the loss, but the love. I tried to embrace the joyful memories of spending time together, of enjoying and celebrating even the mundane moments in life like shopping at Costco. 

What a gift it was to be a part of such a special "and." He and I, together, were the best "and" I could ever hope for or imagine. I had the gift of nearly 18 years of being part of the most wonderful "and." That is something to be celebrated. It was a time filled with so many good moments. 

Enough good moments, in fact, to carry me through the bad ones. "All we have are moments, memories for storing." I have stored many good moments in my memories, moments I can call on to remind me of the joy I had as an "and." 

The bad moments only exist because the good moments did. I couldn't miss our Costco trips if we'd never made them. I wouldn't miss having cocktails on the porch if we hadn't spent so many lovely evenings enjoying them together. 

I wouldn't feel a pang looking at our beautiful pool if it didn't evoke the joyous memories of designing it together and spending so many evenings relaxing next to it together. 

I wouldn't get a pang looking at his Scout hat if I hadn't seen him wearing it on so many trips with both of our kids, picturing his proud, beaming face under it. 

When I think ahead to my children's weddings and realize he won't be there to give away our daughter or pass on some fatherly advice to our son (bad moment), I can remember how joyful and proud he was to be part of his older daughter's wedding (incredibly good moment). 

When I have a bad moment, I will be glad for all the good moments that we had. And eventually, the "sad" will be outweighed by the "shimmering and lovely." But for now, there is still a lot of sad. 

And that's okay. Because it's still only a moment. And moments pass. 

Just be glad for the moment that we had.

The Fairies Don't Live Here Any More

The more time that goes by since my husband's death, the more I have become aware of all the small things he did that I never even had to think about. For example, I never thought about getting the oil changed in my car; whenever the display reached "15% oil life," a new Valvoline sticker would magically appear on my windshield and the display was back to "100% oil life." The Car Maintenance Fairies had apparently paid a visit. 

The Car Maintenance Fairies were always busy, handling tasks like filling the gas tank, renewing the inspection sticker, paying the excise tax, detailing the interior, having the car washed. I never had to ask about it, or even think about it, it just happened. But yesterday my car's dashboard flashed "KEY BATTERY LOW" every time I got in the car. In the past, the Car Maintenance Fairies would have taken care of it without my even having to say a word.

But the fairies don't live here any more.  

Now it's my responsibility to notice when something needs doing, to figure out how to do it, and then to actually do it. 

The Bill Paying Fairies don't live here any more. 

The Take Out the Trash Fairies don't live here any more. 

The Pool Maintenance Fairies don't live here any more. 

Neither do the Modem-Resetting Fairies, the Grill Master Fairies, the Furnace Maintenance Fairies, the Contractor Coordinating Fairies, the Vacation Planning Fairies, the Money Making Fairies, the Social Life Coordination Fairies, the Remote Battery Changing Fairies, the Christmas Light Hanging Fairies, the Irrigation Management Fairies, the Spam Detection Fairies, the IT Assistant Fairies, and any of a dozen other Fairies. 

I don't think I was really aware of quite how many fairies lived in my house. 

I mean, I knew my husband did a lot, and I was grateful for everything he did for me. But as Joni Mitchell sang, "...you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone." Even when you think you do. 

I miss the fairies. 

Losing Your Other Half: The Practical Problems

Imagine that you are interviewing for a job for which there are two open positions. They offer the two jobs to you and another person, but instead of giving you each your own job and your own job description, they leave it up to the two of you to divvy up the responsibilities of both jobs however you like. So you go through everything that needs to be done, each of you choosing tasks that you have experience and expertise in, each task going to the stronger candidate for that particular aspect of the job. They, an extrovert, take the cold calling and the door knocking runs, which make your introvert heart quake with dread. You take on answering complaint letters, using your natural peacemaking bent and tactful way with words that works better than their natural brusqueness and practicality. They're a tech whiz, so they rewrite the code for the company intranet, while your Luddite but artistic self designs the new company logo and branded clothing line. You're both organized, so they take on setting up an inventory system and you work on updating the customer database. And so on. 

And it all works out great, until suddenly they get an offer they can't refuse for a permanent position in darkest Peru, with no access to the outside world, effective immediately, and you are left to fill both positions with minimal documentation or records. Not only are you suddenly in charge of twice the work, but the second half of your workload involves tasks that you a) aren't good at, b) don't have the technical background for, c) haven't done in years, d) have no records, documentation, or starting point for, and/or e) aren't even aware of. 

That's what the practical aspect of losing a spouse is like. 

When my dad passed away at the age of 64, my mom was suddenly on her own for the first time in her life. She had lived in her parents' house until she went to college, lived in a dormitory for four years, then came back home for a few months before getting married. Her dad managed all the practical aspects of her life before she got married, and my dad managed all of them afterwards. Suddenly she had to figure out how to pay bills, do routine home maintenance and repair, figure out her taxes, get the car inspected, mow the lawn, turn on the furnace. God bless my dad, who, as soon as he was diagnosed with cancer, wrote up a "home maintenance" notebook for her, including information like where the water and gas emergency shutoffs were; who to call for plumbing or electrical work; where the key to the safe deposit box was and what was in it; account numbers for the bank, credit union, phone, utilities; and on and on.

Dad and Mom had a few months of notice that Mom would soon be alone. 

I did not. 

We had planned ahead in some ways: Our finances were carefully and deliberately set up as "his, hers, and ours" so neither one of us would be completely cut off from accessible cash if the worst happened. We each had life insurance policies in place. We each kept a physical file of important documents, like marriage and birth certificates, passports, tax records, diplomas, pay stubs. But in other ways, we were not prepared: We had begun but never finished drawing up our wills. Although we each knew some of the other's passwords, we didn't have access to a complete list, including our phones and PCs. I had never learned how to manage the pool or who to call about the irrigation system or having the driveway plowed. I don't know where the water cutoff valve is or how to turn off the radiant floors during the off-season. He wasn't looped in on a bunch of information on the kids' activities, like signups for track and band and drama and church youth events and the bus app and school lunch accounts. We didn't need all that information, because we each did our parts and it was always a team effort.

Until it wasn't.

And I was left trying to figure everything out. Twice the workload, minimal documentation. But really, more than twice the workload, because my half is smooth sailing, I know what I'm doing, everything I need is accessible; and his half is unfamiliar, difficult, I'm in over my head, I don't even know what I'm looking for. And on top of that, the person I always knew I could go to for advice, support, cheerleading, and reassurance isn't there. 

No wonder I'm overwhelmed.   

The first week after he died was a blur where it was all I could do to make sure my children and I were fed, bathed, and got some sleep, and even that was more done by family and friends than me. After I got through the funeral, the next weeks were a desperate race to access his computer and phone so I could keep paying the bills. I was terrified of missing a mortgage payment, bouncing a check, overdrawing an account. What expenses could we do without for now, and how could I cancel them? Even figuring out what services I could manage myself (house cleaning, yes; lawn mowing and pool service, maybe; snowplowing and trash removal, absolutely not) was sometimes too much for my still-foggy brain. 

I cannot even count the number of people who have offered to help, and I have accepted when I could, but I still don't even know everything I need help with, and there are a lot of things that only I can do. Someone else can probably help me compile a list of everyone I need to notify of his death once I finally get the official paperwork, but only I can go to the bank, the Social Security Office, the Registry of Motor Vehicles, the life insurance company. 

And let's be honest: There are some things that I'm embarrassed to ask. Shouldn't a competent adult know how to reset a modem, backwash a pool filter, use the thermostat in their own house? Maybe, maybe not. And in my head, I know that my friends would not think less of me for not knowing, and many of them would be more than glad to show me what I don't know. But it isn't easy to ask. And I'm stubborn, and socially awkward, which makes it even more difficult. I feel like doing all these tasks myself will prove to my children - and myself - that I can be both Mom and Dad. That I can fill the hole that he left behind. 

But I never can. And I never should. My husband was a remarkable person, and to think that I can become him as well as myself is arrogant and frankly, insulting to his memory. The best thing I can do is to be myself, doing the best I can, setting an example for my children of how to deal with adversity with humility and grace. Some of that includes admitting that my best is sometimes not enough. Some of that includes calling on others to fill in the gaps and the parts of their dad that I am not, and cannot be. That is not an easy thing. But it is a necessary thing. 

Life without him will never be the same. But with help, it can be enough. 

Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.
- Ecclesiastes 4:9-10

 Perfume and incense bring joy to the heart, and the pleasantness of a friend springs from their heartfelt advice.
- Proverbs 27:9

Carry each other's burdens, and in this way, you will fulfill the law of Christ.
- Galatians 6:2