Breath Me

Ouch, I have lost myself again
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found
Yeah, I think that I might break
Lost myself again and I feel unsafe

- Sia

My favorite Christmas gift

Steve's oldest brother, Butch, has been a Godsend to me since my husband died. He has called me once or twice a week, every week. He has held my hand over the long distance wire as I have cried and screamed, he has made me laugh til my face hurts, he has made phone calls on my behalf to credit card companies. He has let me know that I'll always be a DeRose.

Butch and I are  both a little old school. My old school shows up in choosing to wear black for the first year after Steve's death. Since so many people wear black all the time I don't know if my choice is really noticed. Unless you know I like wearing bright and funky colors, you just see me and think 'there goes an aging goth chick'. Butch, as a sign of respect to his brother's life, has decided to go even more old school. He forewent Christmas. No cards, no decorations, no special meal, no saying Merry Christmas. But he's been worried about me and my first Christmas without Steve. And though he wouldn't call it a Christmas gift, on Christmas day he e-mailed me a photograph of him and Steve as a baby. It's the first baby picture I've ever seen of Steve. And it's the best damn Christmas gift I didn't get this year.

And knowing that Butch cares enough to break his rule for me - that gift of love is priceless.

"Christmas greetings!" from Steve

Steve wrote this on Christmas day in 2005 and posted it on his sports blog, which he shared with another guy also named Steve. They each took a type of beer as their last name, my Stevie adopting Samichlaus as his. Which explains why, if you know my husband and me, you may be greatly confused about who the Samichlaus’s are – they’re us. I thought of switching in our actual last name but am loath to change even a mistype in his writings. So here it is, five years later, and I thought I’d share a Christmas greeting to all from the one I love the most.

Christmas greetings! – December 25, 2005

Christmas is a time for family and fun in the Samichlaus house. It’s also the time for our yearly visit to church for midnight service. I hesitate to call it midnight mass (which by its sheer alliteration sounds better) because evidentially the non-Catholic denominations don’t call it “Mass”. In retrospect, that’s probably a good idea. I’m not sure what a “mass” is, except for a heinous growth somewhere on your body that should be removed immediately. Just like Catholicism now that I think about it.

So for Christmas Eve Mrs. Samichlaus and I headed down to the local Methodist church and were ready to enjoy a good hour of prayer and reflection. Things were going well until we got to the singing. Specifically it was the second verse of “What Child is This?” where the whole evening began to go south. As we sang the line “Why lies he in such mean estate where ox and ass are feeding?” Mrs. Claus and I simultaneously started to giggle like we were two twelve year olds. It was then that the giggle shifted to laughter, compounded by my sudden inspiration to make the universal symbol for “flying asshole” and pretend that it was feeding on Mrs. Claus’s sleeve.

After that everything seemed funny to us. When the pastor told how Jesus was laid in the manger I thought “See, he DID get laid”. And when the angel appeared to the shepards in their fields to proclaim that “Unto this day a savior is born in the city of David”, I imagined that the shepards reaction was not “We must go to this city”, but rather “WHAT the FUCK was THAT?” This became a dialogue between two shepards. Pick up the scene after the choir of angels have finished their Hosannas and have left. The shepards are walking home.

Don: Holy fucknuts, I shit my tunic. You ever see anything like that?
Phil: No fuckin way. Fuck! I pissed my sandals.
Don: Shit Phil, didn’t Deb just pick those up for you?
Phil: Yep. They were brand new. Fuck. Look, tomorrow I need to go to Wal-Mart in the city of David to pick up new sandals. You want to go? Maybe there’s something to this savior thing. We could check it out.
Don: Sure, what the fuck, but I’ll put on some “Depends” just in case.
Phil: Good call.

Mrs. Samichlaus came up with the pissing on the sandals.

Happy holidays to all!

Trying for a bright Christmas

This year for Christmas the only thing I wanted to get done was the decorations. I didn't care if I mailed Christmas cards, bought and exchanged gifts, or even cooked a meal on Christmas day. All I wanted was to get the tree up, the lights outside, and buy two poinsettias for the coffee table. Everything else was moot.

I didn't do it all on my own, though. I had amazing help. Dan helped me with the outside lights over two days. Climbing trees like a monkey man in temperatures that kept me running inside to "check on something" every five minutes, When we pulled the lights for outside, every string that Steve and I had used in previous years, every single string, was burnt out. Luckily, a couple of years ago I went out and bought every surplus set of stringed lights I could get my hands on at seventy-five percent off. By the time that particular price point came around, all that was available were red lights. My house doesn't quiet look like a Christmas whore house but it's a near miss.

A few days later Holly came over to help me get the tree set up. It's a giant task because when Steve finally caved to the fact that live trees give me hives, he bought the best fake tree he could find. It comes in three pieces, has fiber optics and came pre-strung with thousands of multi-colored lights. Guess what happened after putting it together and plugging it in? Yep. Nearly every string was burnt out. So we pulled off all the lights, I went out the the garage to grab more surplus lights, and now my inside tree is red too.

It's truly starting to look like a hoochie house around here.

If Dan hadn't been with me when I realized all the outside lights were burnt out, I would have cried, given up and gone back inside. If Holly hadn't been with me three days later when I realized the same about my Christmas tree I'd still be curled in a ball rocking and humming to myself while hiding under the bed. Instead, I laughed. I laughed and blamed my husband.

Christmas was Steve's favorite holiday. He liked it bright, tacky, and loads of fun. He liked it so damn much he took my freaking Christmas lights with him. And maybe he was sending me a message: time to do something new for Christmas. So on Christmas day, while everyone else is unwrapping gifts, watching the kids get hopped up on sugar and eating their special meal; I'll be working at the local soup kitchen handing out gifts and new coats. It's a little scary switching things up like this, but these days everything is scary. I've gotten this far because of all the wonderful people in my life - it's time I give back.

----------------------------------------------------

Just a few pictures from the Christmas tree this year. Everything looks pink because of the red lights on the tree. Don't blame me. Blame Steve. He's the one who stole my lights.

A gift for our first Christmas from Steve's brother Butch. I keep the card he and his wife sent with this ornament in it's box. Every year it was the first ornament on the tree - after the placing of our two dozen small disco balls, that is.

Since Elvis drove us to and sang at our wedding, I bought a little Elvis to hang on the tree for our first Christmas. This Elvis looks a little girly to my eyes but I figure it's only fair. The Elvis that worked our wedding wore more makeup than all the woman there put together.

We picked this little pink monkey up during our trip to China. I've always been known as the monkey in my family and Steve got a great kick out of trying to increase my collection. Funny. Now when I look at monkeys I think of Steve.

 

For several years I cross stitched ornaments for the family. One year I made little stockings. All of them had a rose theme - a play off their last name. This one I made specifically for Steve. He loved all my creations and took great pride that I had learned needlework at my grandmother's knee.

Steve bought me donkey because he's a scooch. And I love any fellow scooch I can find.

This little white bird I bought a week ago for my Steve. He liked birds, had a couple as pets as a child. Our tree in the backyard is covered in bird feeders. We enjoyed sitting on the back deck and watching them go at it. I think of them as Steve's birds. I guess I think of Steve whenever I see a bird. Looks like I have something new to collect. My house is going to look like the wild kingdom.

What do you do all day?

Yesterday I woke to the first snow without my Steve. It was beautiful covering the ground and blanketing the branches. All of Steve's feathered friends were more visible at the hanging feeders against the background of sparkling white. The dog, perhaps remembering we brought her home with snow everywhere, excitedly ran giant figure eights in the yard. And it made me cry to not be able to share all of this with Steve.

I've written about how difficult it is to face a "first" without Steve. I said the grief cuts through me like a hot knife. Most of the time I know when a first is coming up, like for a holiday or needing to take the car in for inspection. Those I can build up to over a course of days or weeks if needed. Sometimes they sneak up on me, like waking to snow on the ground. These "firsts" emotionally drain me to to such an extent that I'm physically drained as well. It's difficult to walk around for the rest of the day after experiencing the cutting pain of grief, after crying so hard it's easier to wash your face and reapply makeup rather than touch it up. After facing a "first" I consider it an accomplishment not to go to sleep for 12 hours straight. Usually I manage to stay out of bed, but I won't be tackling anything more difficult than washing dishes for the rest of the day. I need that time to recover.

There are plenty of days where I don't experience a "first". Days when nothing is planned and I don't wake to snow. Days when I have the emotional strength to do something brave like clean out his sock drawer or clear off the nightstand on his side of the bed. Those days can be just as draining. Every time I pick something up to put it away, to throw it out, to pack it up; I have to say goodbye. Goodbye to my husband. Goodbye to the object. Goodbye to the usefulness it once had in his or our lives. Most everything is simply getting shuffled around. It's the decion making and the goodbyes that drain.

Here's an example using the nightstand on his side of the bed.

First just walking over there knowing what I'm about to do jumps my heart rate and breathing. I sit and kinda touch everything on the nightstand, tears leaking down my face. I pick up each item and inspect it. I want to see and feel what he saw and felt. Knowing his was the last hands to touch these things. I sob. I say goodbye to my husband again, to the life we had, to the future we planned. This is the moment where I may break. I might be okay and move on to the decision making or I may scream at the top of my lungs. I may need to have a miniature break down at the unfairness of having him gone. I may go through half a box of kleenex and not have a voice later. That's okay. It's part of the process.

 

Eventually I start making decisions. 

 

I riffle through the books trying decide if I want to keep them. Will I care to read this much about the Civil War? They are good history books with lots of research and documentation behind them. These aren't the crappy Civil War books with bad grammar, run on sentences and no reference list at the back. I'll keep these. I may read them. I probably will. They were his and I like learning what he knew. But now I feel compelled to see where he stopped reading. More tears leak down the face. No more breakdowns though. I already got the big one out of the way. Now I'm just sad. I run my hand down the page, wondering what was the last sentence he read. I leave his bookmarks in place, close the books, and go find space for them on the bookshelf in the living room.

 

I pick up his sleep mask. He wore this because I read in bed later than he did and my light kept him awake. I put it over my head, covering my eyes. It's too big and falls around my neck. I can hear his voice saying "my big pumpkin head". He always referred to his head that way. It was difficult find hats, sunglasses and even sleep masks to fit him. It was a challenge I enjoyed and frequently won. It's not enough to get me to laugh but it gets a wain smile from me. The mask is old and worn. It was long past time he threw it out and got one of the backups I had stashed in the linen closet for him. Woops. That was my job. Guess I fell down on that wifely duty. I throw the mask away feeling like I was a bad wife.

 

Now his c-pap machine. When I unpacked his suitcase I didn't know what to do with it so I put it where it belongs, on his side of the bed. This time a decision has to be made. It's paid for, this much I know. I won't throw it out when someone could use it. Lots of people have sleep apnea but their insurance won't cover the purchase of a c pap. Maybe I can Craiglist it, find a way to help someone else. I turn it over in my hands. Feel the heft of it, think of all the times I carefully packed it so it wouldn't break. Shake my head and place it in a bag sitting by the front door. I'll finish with that one another time.

 

Once I have the table cleared off, I dust it down, move it away from the wall and clean behind it. I'm getting a lot of spring cleaning done these days but only in spots. Now I have to refill his nightstand. An empty nightstand is just going to make me leak about the eyes every time I see it. So, I wander around the house looking for friendly objects. I find a framed picture of us. That's going in. A three monkey statue we picked up in China Town early in our marriage was already on his nightstand and it stays. As does the alarm clock. I bring in my stack of books I'm reading. The ones on grief and getting through difficult times. Hmmmm.... I should move that box of tissues over here closer to where I can reach them for those midnight cries. Getting up each night and walking to the dresser doesn't always happen and I don't enjoy sleeping in snot covered sheets. I need one more thing to fill the space. I bring in my needlework. I was cross stitching something for Steve for Christmas this year. It's about half completed. I haven't touched it since he died but I do want to finish it eventually. It's part of a larger project that I still plan on completing for him.

 

There. The night stand is done. My past is there with the monkeys, the picture and the cross stitch. The present is there with the tissues and the books. My future is there with the books and the cross stitch. I'm going to get through this. But I'm exhausted. And once again I won't be tackling anything more difficult than washing dishes for the rest of the day. I need that time to recover.

I've talked about the days where I experience a "first", the days where I'm brave and tackle a Steve-task, but there's one more type of day. The ordinary day. These are days I pay the bills, wash the clothes, or even have an actual weekend with just movies and friends. I need these days like air. They keep me going. I need a ratio of three ordinary days to every "first" or Steve-task days. Why so many? Because even my ordinary days aren't ordinary. Even those regular living days are draining.

It's winter now and the air is drier. Know how you walk through a room with carpet, shuffling your feet, reach out to the doorknob and get a little shock? Static electricity. I get those all day long. Emotional static shock (ESS). I get them with everything I touch and everything I do. Let's walk through an ordinary morning.

Get up, eyes crusted over from crying in my sleep again. After five months you'd think I'd be use to it by now but I'm always surprised I have to pry my eyelashes apart. (ESS)

Shuffle into the bathroom. Morning pee. Dog comes in and rests her head on my knee. I was working on training her out of this before Steve died but I kinda like the company now. I kinda need it. (ESS)

Wash my hands. Wonder if Steve would like the new scent of hand soap I bought. I always made certain not to get girly scents. A home may be a woman's domain but it is also a man's castle. (ESS)

Go turn off the house alarm so I can let the dog out. I just had the system installed a couple of weeks ago. We don't really have bad crime around here but when I have panic attacks they generally occur at night. I figured a security system might help alleviate some of that. (ESS)

The dog runs outside and immediately circles the tree looking for squirrels to chase. Squirrels are always there because Steve's bird feeders are there. I keep them well stocked and think of them as Steve's birds and Steve's squirrels, though we both enjoyed watching the wildlife. But I really am keeping everything stocked for him. (ESS)

Go pour a glass of orange juice. I used to never keep OJ in the house as Steve was diabetic. House rule was if Steve couldn't partake in the food, it didn't come in the house. I've gotten in the habit of drinking it while I brew the coffee. I'm usually dehydrated in the mornings from all the crying in bed the night before. (ESS)

Brew the coffee. This coffee maker Steve drooled over for a year before I finally broke down and bought it as a Christmas gift two years ago. It grinds the beans and then brews the coffee all at once. He loved this stupid thing which is weird cause I was always the java girl. (ESS)

The beans we buy for this coffee machine? Took Steve a year to find a bean we both liked. When he died I panicked because I couldn't remember what it was. Luckily he had written it on the bag. I've had to go a stock up once already, a twenty minute drive. It's time to go stock up on it again. Jamaican Blue Mountain Blend, in case you were wondering. I won't ever forget again. (ESS)

Look, I'm ten minutes into my day, we're already at eight emotional electric shocks and I haven't even poured the coffee yet. Each of those thoughts may not be as fully formed as I've expressed here, but the emotional reaction is exactly the same. This is why it's so draining to get through a relatively "normal" day. This is why it takes me twice as long to do anything compared to before Steve's death. This is why I can't keep a fully formed thought in my head - my head is already full with a running dialog of Steve.

When I'm asked what I do all day what I want to say is "as much as I can stand". It doesn't look like much but trust me, it is all I can do.

"Shea Goodbye" from Steve

This post was originally written by my husband in 2008 and posted on his sports blog. Recently I’ve been reading over some of his older stuff both off and on-line. He could always make me laugh – I totally love that about him. This is one of my top favorites because he writes about his family and his childhood. I think it’s only fair to share a little about the man who made me love him – from his own fingertips.

Shea Goodbye - October 1, 2008

Todd Pratt, a big, sweet, dumb as a box of rocks former catcher for the Mets used to say to his teammates upon returning home to Shea Stadium from a road trip "It's not much boys, but it's home". And I think that's the best way to describe "Big Shea", once a state of the art multi-purpose stadium, reduced to a proverbial shit hole. Shea was home to a lot of memories for me, and this week my family and I got to say goodbye on Sunday from row O in the Mezzanine just along the third base side, not too far from the first seats I ever sat in at Shea.

My first ballgame at Shea was in 1968. My big brother (Butch...I have several big brothers) took me, and we sat in the Mezzanine in a box seat. I remember this for two reasons: first, the metal crossbar that defined the box of seats was eye level to my 5 year old head effectively obstructing my view. Second, during a Mets rally my brother let out a yell that startled me so much I banged my head into the aforementioned cross bar. I couldn't see, right? So I was peering under the cross bar and that's how I banged my head. Oh, and the Mets lost, but that was OK. I had the time of my life.

As I got older, my friends and I would make the trek to the big ball park on our own. I lived three blocks from the 7 train so getting to Shea was easy. In 1974 I saw my first tit on one of these treks: a woman was running up the stairs at 74th street and Roosevelt Ave. and as she leapt on to the 7, her tit popped out of her shirt. I was with my best friend, Joe Peters, and we were mesmerized. The woman looked at us, looked down at her tit, and calmly tucked it back into her shirt. Joe and I talked about that tit for weeks. You know, the braless 1970's was a good time to be a young horny kid.

I saw Tom Seaver pitch, Willie Mays play center, I saw great hopes named Mike Vail and Roy Staiger fall short of expectations. I saw Dave Kingman hit a ball out of the stadium and into the parking lot, where it struck a parked car on it's hood. It was the greatest homerun I ever saw. I saw amazing pitchers named Koosman and Matlack, and McGraw and Lockwood, and even Mickey Lolich...

Lolich was a fat pitcher the Mets aquired in a trade with Detroit. They gave up Rusty Staub, one of the great hitters in all of baseball to get Lolich, and my friend Joe would sing this song: "LoLICH, you fat sonofabitch". Everybody hated Lolich, mostly because he wasn't Rusty Staub but to make matters worse, my friends took to calling me "Mickey" because I was a fat pitcher as well. So for years I carried Lolich's baseball card in my wallet as a reminder of all the little bastards that were still stuck in that fucking neighborhood.

I digress....

In 1977 the Mets traded Tom Seaver to Cincinnati, and when the Reds came to play the Mets I was at Shea to see him pitch. It was the only time I openly rooted against the Mets and I wasn't alone. Seaver and the Reds won that day and the crowd let him know exactly how much he was loved.

By the way, in return for the greatest pitcher in baseball history the Mets got, and I quote: Pat Zachary, Doug Flynn, Steve Henderson, and Dan Norman, and no I didn't have to look it up. I saw Steve Henderson win a ballgame once with a walk-off home run, and that made me cheer. Zachary was a decent pitcher, and Flynn was a decent second baseman. Dan Norman didn't amount to anything.

When Seaver returned to the Mets in 1983, I was at the first game he pitched sitting in the Field Box on the first base side. The crowd chanted "Seaver! Seaver!" as he walked in to pitch the first inning. He won, 2-0.

In the 1980s I saw a lot of ball games. I saw Lenny Dykstra win a NLCS game against Houston with a walk-off homer, and I was there for "Strawberry Sunday", when we all got free Carvel ice cream in honor of Darryl Strawberry. I saw Doc Gooden pitch before the drugs fucked him up. I saw Keith Hernandez play, the best first baseman I have ever seen.

Of course, the 1980's were highlighted by the acquisition of what we called "Tud Tickets". FYI, that word you just read rhymes with "good". My uncle Tud worked for a greeting card company called Alfred Mainzer. They had seats on the first base side, second row. My cousin Frank and I saw many a game from those seats, but the best part was how we'd get in touch. Tud would call my Mom and say "I've got the tickets". Mom in turn would call me, and I in turn would call Frank. If I got his voice mail, I'd leave a message consisting of two words: "Tud Tickets". Then I would go into a ritualistic trance and try to contact him using psychic powers. I'd repeat in my mind "Tud Tickets" and "Check your voice mail". Remember, this was the 1980's and we didn't have cell phones yet. About an hour later I'd get a call from my cousin. "HOLY SHIT!!! I SWEAR, SOMETHING TOLD ME TO CHECK MY VOICE MAIL!!! HOLY SHIT!!!"

By the time the 1990's came around, a lot of things changed. The Yankees had become the fashionable team, my cousin had gotten married to a beautiful girl named Lisa who loved the Mets as much as he did, and Uncle Tud dropped dead effectively cutting off my supply of good seats. I don't remember the last time I visited Shea, honestly.

Last February I got a call from Butch. "I've got a plan!" he announced, and proceeded to explain how the Mets were having a lottery for tickets to the last game at Shea. The plan was we would both enter the lottery and try to win the opportunity to buy tickets, and if we won we'd meet in New York in the fall. Well, I won, which amused my brother to no end. "The only time this family ever wins something", laughed Butch, "is the opportunity to pay someone money". According to the rules I was allowed to purchase up to 6 tickets, and I did: one for Butch, two for his friend Billy (Billy brought his son Will), one for my wife and one for my cousin.

And then my wife thought about the game. "You know, I'd like to go" she said, "but it would mean more to Lisa, don't you think?" My wife remembered that once, in passing, I mentioned that Frank and Lisa watched about 150 games a year. That's how good my wife is. "We'll make it a Christmas present".

Sunday's game, like so many games this season, was a heart breaker. We all cheered and hoped, and in the end the bull pen blew a lead, and the Mets couldn't score enough runs. But the ceremony after the game made it all worthwhile. All of the Mets greats and some of the not so greats returned. Dave Kingman got a huge hand, as did John Franco, who I feared was going to get booed simply because he might be perceived as the symbol of lousy bullpens. George Foster was there, and some people booed him. I just groaned. Cleon Jones and Ron Hunt and Ed Kranepool and Ron Swoboda reminded me of how I felt when I first became aware of this game and this team that I loved. Felix Millian and Doug Flynn and Stork Theodore and Craig Swan reminded me of my best childhood friend Joe Peters, who passed away several years ago from pancreatic cancer. That's why I wanted to write about him today. The guys from 1986, Lenny Dykstra, Keith Hernandez, Ron Darling, Doc Gooden, and Darryl Strawberry reminded me what it was like to be in my 20's in New York in the 1980s. Mike Piazza and Robin Ventura and Todd Zeiel got huge ovations, and that reminded me that a new generation of Mets fans had come to take my place when I left New York.

And in the end, Tom Seaver pitching to Mike Piazza was the perfect ending. They walked off the field together, arm in arm, and closed Shea Stadium once and for all.

After the game we all said goodbye in the parking lot. Lisa gave me a great hug and said "Thank you so much, this is the greatest Christmas present ever... and please thank Karen for giving up her ticket. I know this was all her doing".

Thanks Shea. Thanks for the best 44 years of my life.

Shape of You - Jewel

How You Can Help Me

There is a letter I keep seeing on various widow websites and blogs. Composed for family and friends to let them know how they can help or even what to expect. I've seen so many versions that I close my eyes and imagine widows all over the world adjusting and tweaking it before sending it on it's way. I suppose it's what is called a living document. Always in flux, always evolving.

Instead of simply posting one of the many versions I've come across, I thought I'd write my own. It is, obviously, based off all the other versions. I've even stolen a line here or there. I don't imagine all the other widows will mind, though. I'm splitting my version into two posts, though. This one and one about what you should know about this time in my life. (As if this blog isn't enough.)

How You Can Help Me:

Please don’t leave me alone with my grief. Maybe you’re afraid you’ll say the wrong thing but I can decipher the intent behind your words. I’m grieving, not stupid. Being isolated and ignored is much worse than having a loved one say the wrong thing on accident. If you don’t know what to say, you can always say exactly that. I will appreciate that you are here with me.

“Call me if you need anything” doesn’t work. I won’t call because I don’t know what I need and I don’t want to be a burden. Trying to figure out what you could do for me takes more energy than I have available. But here are some ideas of what you can physically do to help me:

• Ask me to join you at a movie, for a meal, to go bowling. Bring food or a movie over to watch. My days and nights are filled with lonely emptiness. Help me fill some of that time with smiling faces.
• Offer to do some specific household chores. I now have sole responsibility for the upkeep on my home and can’t get it all done. Mowing the lawn, fixing the computer, even washing the dishes allows me the space and time to tackle something I wouldn’t have gotten around to doing otherwise.
• Send a card or call on special holidays so I know you miss Steve and that I’m not alone. Holidays are extremely painful and isolating for me.

I need to talk about my husband, my grief and my pain. I know you don’t know what to say. It’s okay. You can hold my hand, give me a hug, tell me “this sucks, let it all out” or just silently listen. You should know that I feel that I’m a burden for asking you to listen. I know you are grieving too, that you feel inept at comforting me and you take my pain in as your own. I know it is emotionally draining to listen to me. If I am talking to you it means I feel you are a safe person with whom to express my grief. The biggest gift you can give me is to help me talk things through.

If you have anecdotes or memories that fit into even a normal conversation, I’d like to hear them. It may feel awkward to talk about Steve at first but I hate being the only one who tells stories about him. Too often it feels like we’re pretending he never existed. And I can’t forget the last ten years of my life. Though I may tear up when you tell a story about Steve, I love hearing how others remember him as a good or funny or kind man.

One last thing you should know: unless you are spending time with me in person, on the phone, or sending long e-mails; telling me in two sentences that you are thinking of me feels like an afterthought. Facebook and text messages are the McDonald’s drive-thru of communication when I’m in dire need of a five course home cooked meal. Please don’t let me starve.

Culled from an airline magazine

"But that's what we all get in our rediscovery of ourselves - something has to be sacrificed."

- Danny Boyle (Film Director)

Tinsel & Tears

As the holidays approach, there is great pressure to be here, go there, do this, that, something-or-other-else. Some widows want to go away for the holidays, spend it anywhere but home. I understand. I've gone on two trips since Steve died and those were the only times I felt I outside the pressure cooker. I still cried but only because I miss my husband. Not because I don't know how to do something or can't find something he put away or stumbled across something I wasn't expecting. There's a relief in being able to mourn the death of my husband without the everyday frustrations of him being gone to work through as well.

There are others, like me, who want to be home with our familiar surroundings. I feel closest to Steve in our home because I have so many memories of us celebrating Thanksgiving and Christmas around our table. It scares the crap outta me to stay home for the holidays. So much so I've nearly picked up the phone to say "yes, book the ticket, I'll come to you".

I have already faced a lot of firsts since Steve died. The first trip to the grocery store without Steve, the first overnight stay away from home without Steve, the first party without Steve. Each time I face a 'first' the pain cuts through me like a hot knife. This will be the first Christmas. I could go away and celebrate out of town, but next year or the year after, I'll have to be home for Christmas. Without my husband. That would be another important first. I would rather combine the first Christmas without Steve and the first Christmas at home without Steve into one year. This year.

Just think of me as a pull-the-band-aid-off-quickly kinda gal.

The other part of being where Steve has been, everywhere that holds a memory of Steve is a good memory. It brings me huge comfort to, say, see a dollar we hung on a ceiling and know I can come back and see it again in another five years or watch him play his guitar once more. The comfort of my memories with Steve gets me through the hot knife moments.

So, yes, this year I'll be home for Christmas. I have a couple of firsts to knock off my list. Trust that I have fabulous memories to keep me company.

Cabbage Key 2010

, originally uploaded by Kiki Marcus.

I found the dollar Steve and I left on Cabbage Key in April of 2009. When I finally laid eyes on it I started crying, laughing then clapped my hands and jumped up and down in place like Steve used to when he was extremely pleased. Guess a few idiosyncrasies tend to be exchanged between a husband and wife. And as promised, I left a new dollar, two actually, behind.

The trip out to Cabbage Key and back was rather joyful. I didn't spend the entire time talking about Steve but everything I did or saw reminded me of being there with him. And every memory brought a smile to my face. A few brought tears to my eyes but the wind on the boat quickly whisked them away.

If you've never been to the restaurant on Cabbage Key, you need to know the story of why the place is covered in dollar bills. Evidently, back in the day, when the fishermen finished on the water they'd stop in for a beer on the way home. If it was a good catch day, they'd leave some money pinned up behind the bar with their name written on it for beer money on the days when they had a bad catch day. Tourism being what it is, and fishermen finding new places to stop in for beers, when people come for a meal you tape up your own dollar after having decorated it. Everything that falls to the floor (and eventually it all falls to the floor) goes to charity.

Which was why I was so nervous to find our dollar. The tape they give to use is not very good and it had been a year and half since our visit.

I have to thank Paul, a wonderful friend of my mother, who managed to convince the staff at the restaurant to do something out of the ordinary: allow me to use a stapler. I don't know how he did it, I'm afraid to ask, but I know they have a strict no stapler rule. I wanted to make sure they'd be there in five years when I return. Somehow, knowing they'll hang on that ceiling waiting for me delivers a small measure of peace to my heart.

And I will take any measure of peace I can get.

Blue on Black - Kenny Wayne Shepherd

Little Bee

Whenever I need to stop and remind myself how much I once loved [my husband], I only need to think about this. That the ocean covers seven tenths of the earth's surface, and yet my husband could make me not notice it. That is how big he was for me.

Little Bee - Chris Cleave

Steve and Cabbage Key

Steve and Cabbage Key, originally uploaded by Kiki Marcus.

This is one of my favorite pictures of Steve - I always told him it captured exactly the way I see him everyday - as a rock star. He enjoyed hearing that.

It was after taking this particular picture with a borrowed Canon 10D that I decided: yes, I need a better camera. I need something that at least has the possibilities of capturing what it is I see - even if I'm not capable of capturing what I see. Between my lack of skill and the hopped up ability of the camera - I certainly held out a better chance of getting the pictures I'm striving to create.

Last year for Christmas Steve surprised me with a Canon 50D. It's the one I've been carrying around with me the past few days while in Ft. Myers, Sanibel and Captiva. The places Steve and I were when I took that picture in April of 2009.

Actually, tomorrow I'm going back to Cabbage Key. I'm going back to the restaurant where I took this picture. I'm going to see if our dollar bill is still hanging from the ceiling. I plan to add a new one while I'm there.

Links Page

I've added a new tab across the top of this blog, Links. It is a list of websites I have found useful as I search for ways to cope after the death of my husband. It is not a complete list, firstly because I am still looking and secondly because I am only listing sites I find useful - not everything that is available. If you know of a site, or maintain a site of your own and would like to suggest it, please do so. You may leave a comment on any posting or e-mail me kikimarcus @ gmail (dot) com.

There is no such thing as too much support.

Why would you say that to me?

When the headhunter called asking for my husband to see if he was happy where he was working, I had to explain that Steve died and please take his resume out of their files. At the end of the call, the woman wanted to know where Steve had been working.

Why? Think there's a job opening you can try and fill?

I've had many family members and friends ask me if I'm alright financially. Did Steve have life insurance? Will I need to go to work right away? It's a difficult set of questions for them to ask, wanting to check up on me without prying. I'm thankful that they do. I rely on them to be my back up brain for when mine isn't working. But I've also heard: "How much are you getting from life insurance?"

Why? Think you deserve some of it? Want to know how much money you should try and con out of me? Are you trying to decide if you suddenly have more time for me?

Today at the bank, a lady looked his death certificate over and asked "Did he know he had diabetes?".

Excuse me? How does that affect me closing out an account?

The next lady at the bank was confused because his death certificate was issued in Washington DC and we live in Richmond. I had to point out that people can die away from home. I understand that isn't a detail people think about, so I was fine pointing out the obvious. But the multiple follow up questions wanting to know all the difficulties an out of state death adds to the family, is prying. It is inappropriate. It is thoughtless. And it is heartless.

When my voice cracks and waivers, my eyes fill up with tears, when I have to look off into the middle distance and take a deep breath before saying that my husband recently died - it is not an act. I am not putting on a night club floor show for you. The simple act of telling a stranger that my husband is dead is enough to flush my day down the toilet. I guarantee I will spend the rest of the day fighting every impulse to simply sleep for the next 12 hours. I will spend that night reminding myself that drinking a glass (or three) of wine while depressed sets a bad precedent. I will yell unjustly at the dog and then hug her for half an hour out of guilt. I will have every intention of doing some small household chore and be unable to get up off the couch. That is what happens on the days when I have to tell someone my husband is dead.

On days when people are thoughtless enough to think they've just stepped into a movie of the week, that they are watching a real life version of Hilary Swank in P.S. I Love You, my day gets even worse.Today when I got home I DID go to sleep for five hours. When I go back to bed I imagine it will be for another eight to ten. I AM drinking that glass of wine. And I damn well may have three more. I also cried. I cried through half a box of tissue. I blew my nose so much it's red and sore. And I screamed. I screamed so loud and so frequently that my voice is shot. It may be recovered by tomorrow.

I am not here to entertain you. The tears. Are real. The pain. Is physical.

I understand we live in a Jerry Springer world. Everyone wants their fifteen minutes and then wants to Twitter it into thirty minutes more. They want to be the center of attention telling the story of the widow and her breakdown in front of them. What I need you to understand is you aren't going to get to see that breakdown. I do it at home and in private. And I won't share those gory intimate details of my husband's death with you. You aren't worthy of knowing about my private pain.

But I may just bitch smack your thoughtless cruel ass with a two by four.

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

 

- William Henley

"Sex and Candy" from Steve

Sex and Candy, originally uploaded by Kiki Marcus.

I broke my computer last week. Got a nasty new virus that took my overworked laptop out of commission for about 5 days. While I waited for a good friend of ours to have an evening free to clean my computer - I borrowed Steve's. I hadn't turned his laptop on since I brought it home from DC.

I was thrilled to find a few videos that Steve had recorded. They're mostly him playing guitar and singing - which I love. It makes me cry to watch these videos, but it's a good kind of crying. And if I'm going to cry, a good kind of crying beats the hell outta the crazy kind of crying.

Fifteen Weeks

I've asked around and I've read around. Guess it's pretty normal to feel alone, abandoned, ostracized. It comes hard at so many levels and at so many times.

After the funeral, when everyone except my mother and brother headed home, when the phone quit ringing off the hook, when I was no longer pulled in thirty-seven directions; I got scared. What was going to happen when everyone had to leave? I still had family with me and my main support group of friends who never left my side. But I started to understand that at some point, I was going to be left alone with this grief. And I knew the grief was only going to settle in and get deeper as the shock wore off.

The day I drove my mother to airport, my brother having left a couple days earlier, was panic inducing. I sobbed the entire drive home. I walked in the door and tried not to scream. It was the first moment I had been alone in our home since I heard the news of my husband's death. My neighbors showed up later and brought Chinese to eat on the porch. They stayed up with me until I could go inside to sleep. And for weeks, my little support troupe traded me off, one to another, never leaving me alone for more than a few hours at a time.

I knew at some point these wonderful people who are my main support, people I saw daily, would have to pick their lives back up and I'd start seeing less of them. I'm so thankful for all they gave up to spend each day with me, make sure I was eating, stay up all night with me until I could sleep, take me grocery shopping because I hated to cry in the market isle like a common housewife. They stood beside me for every first I had to do without my Steve. The second and third usually, too. And they're still here. I can call at any hour; they'll come running full tilt boogie. I try and save those calls for when I can't last another minute without a person sitting next to me, just to lay eyes on another living human. They've given so much to me already, I hate to ask for more.

So I started looking around for others with which to spend a little time. Distraction with dinner, a movie, pedicures. Anything. I'm not good at asking for help. But I knew I couldn't spend too much time alone and it was unfair to continue to rely so much on those around me - they needed a break. So I started making a few tentative calls, sent out a few e-mails, a text here or there. A few people said they wanted to get together but were never able to pull the trigger on setting a date. I quit calling them. To be fair, I never specifically said "I need this. I need some human interaction or I may just disappear in all this grief." It felt too much like begging.

A couple of people have managed to set dates. Sometimes they aren't available for more than a week out. I don't mind; it's something to look forward to. I get the sense they are looking forward to seeing me - if not as much as I am to see them, at least they aren't avoiding me. I don't feel like they're scared my widowhood will rub off on them. But there are an amazingly short supply of people who feel comfortable spending time with me, even if it's just over the phone.

Then there's the real reason I'm alone. My husband is dead. I know he didn't want to leave me, he had no choice in that matter, he would've fought or bought his way out of leaving me if he could. It doesn't change the fact that he's gone. And at some most basic level, I am so very hurt by him that he's not here. As if it were his choice. As if he packed his bags and walked out on our marriage. As if he could change his mind at any moment and come back home. And it just hurts so. damn. much.

I've tried on several occasions to explain "I just need a little contact. Talk about celebrity gossip, tell fart jokes, read the telephone book to me, it doesn't matter. I just need to feel a little human contact now and again." I've tried explaining "It doesn't matter if you say the wrong thing, I'll decipher the true meaning of the sentiment. I'm grieving, not stupid." I've tried hard not to break down or crack in front of anyone except my nearest and dearest. I don't want to make people feel uncomfortable. In the end, I can't make people show up and I've had to quit trying to figure out the why of it.

Instead, I decided it's time to go out and start getting that new life. That after-Steve-life. So I'm going to yoga twice a week. The goal is three times a week. I may not meet people but I feel more centered afterward. I feel cleansed. I've been invited to join a quiz night with a group of people at a local pub on Wednesday nights. It's one less dinner I have to cook and it turns out I know a few weird pieces of information. Eventually I may learn how to interact like a normal person again, but they don't seem to mind I'm a little off in the head. And I enjoy their company.

It isn't much, but I'm getting out the door a little more often now. I have the people who return my calls, the ones who are happy to spend a little time with me. I am learning to be more thankful every day. And, maybe, just a little more tuned in to what's going on around me; a little less absorbed in my own small world. A reason to be even more thankful.

Bags of clothes

Resting on the floor on my side of the bed I keep a plastic bag full of Steve's dirty clothes. Most of them are the clothes he took up to DC for his work week but a few are from the weekend before he left. I keep them in a plastic bag to hold in his smell. The only problem is that, for the most part, his clothes mostly smell like plastic bag. I spent hours crying the day I realized his clothes smelled not of him but of plastic. Then I wadded everything back up and stuffed it back into the bag. The bag still sits next to our bed. I can't bring myself to wash those clothes.

There is a second plastic bag. This plastic bag contains one pair of black shoes, one pair of black socks, one black belt, one black suit, one black tie, one blue button down shirt and one pair of blue underwear. These are the clothes Steve was wearing when he died. I know that not because I saw him that morning but because this plastic bag is the one I received from the hospital the day after he died.

I went through that bag once. Very quickly. I went through it at the hospital when I realized his gold cross necklace, his Saint Christopher medallion (he always wore it when traveling), his pinkie ring and wedding ring were missing. They weren't in the plastic bag that contained all the items from his pockets. They weren't in his computer bag. There was only one other bag. The bag of clothes he had been wearing.

I searched the contents of that bag as quickly as possible. Not without noticing the pants, underwear and shirt had all been cut off him. But not his suit jacket. He must have removed that before he had his heart attack. It was a triple digit day, after all. And not without seeing that there was some blood staining his clothes. My husband died of a heart attack so where did this blood come from? I don't know the answer. I know that when my uncle died of a heart attack on his couch 3 years ago, there was a small pool of blood where the paramedics moved him to the floor to start CPR. Small like the size of a quarter. So I imagine a little blood always happens. But I don't know why or how or where it comes from.

When I couldn't find his jewelry, I panicked. I begged to be allowed to go into the Emergency room he had been in. I begged to speak with the staff. I begged to go to the morgue to see if his items were with his body. Then I waited. The staff reviewed his chart to see when and who had removed his jewelry. I paced the floor. The head of the ER was personally searching the room he had been in. I breathed deeply. They called down to the morgue. I ran outside and called my mother.

Eventually a nurse came out to speak with me. She had been on shift the night before when my husband was admitted. Seventeen hours later she was still on duty and she had my husband's missing items. She had held on to them, wanting to meet his family. Knowing that if I saw his watch with his belongings but not his wedding ring, I wouldn't leave until it had been found. She told me how hard they had worked on him. How long they had worked on him. How they did all they could. And then she told me she had waited all night for me to come. She had tried to break the security code to his phone so she could reach me. So I would know she was standing guard until I could arrive.

I don't remember the name of this nurse at George Washington University Hospital. I just remember the relief I felt when she brought me his rings and necklaces. The relief to know that even in his passing he had touched someone's life. The kindness of her reaching out to me at one of the hardest junctures ran through me so deep it made me weep. It makes me weep still.

I thought of that nurse today. Today, when I finally went through the bag of clothes he had been wearing his last day. I hugged his jacket to my chest and I cried. And I hope that wherever this nurse is, she can feel my loving gratitude.

Thank You

My tea's gone cold, I'm wondering why
I got out of bed at all
The morning rain clouds up my window
and I can't see at all
And even if I could it'd all be gray,
but your picture on my wall
It reminds me that it's not so bad

I want to thank you
for giving me the best day of my life
Oh just to be with you
is having the best day of my life

-Dido

One Flew Over theCuckoo's Nest

Because he knows you have to laugh at the things that hurt you just to keep yourself in balance, just to keep the world from running you plumb crazy. He knows there's a painful side... but he won't let the pain blot out the humor no more'n he'll let the humor blot out the pain.

- Ken Kesey

Top Ten Lists from Steve

Steve used to make up Top Ten Lists a la David Letterman. I used to print them out and keep them on the fridge. Eventually they got replaced by tons of pictures of us gallivanting around and having a life.When we were dating, these things kept me in stitches.

January 15, 2001.

The top ten reasons why I'm really into KiKi...

10: Cute nickname is helping me forget horrible memories of former Knicks great Kiki Vandeweigh.

9: That "Natural Born Killers" coincidence.

8: Lives in Richmond but is not actually a southerner.

7: Totally got the "Bugs Bunny stoned on ether" reference.

6: Evidently looks pretty damn good to drunks.

5: "Oy Vey!" no good. "Keister"... no problem.

4: Day 10 and she's already "slightly worried" about my penis.

3: Not a blond

2: Digs Shakespeare, but her special request song is "Papa Was A Rolling Stone"

...and the number one reason I'm really into KiKi....

1: "Theme Night" 'nuff said.

April 28, 2004

The TOP 10 reason why I STILL love Kiki!!!!!

10: 3 years 3 months and 25 days and she is now mightily concerned about my penis.

9: Actually has great taste in clothes.

8: Actually tastes great out of clothes.

7: Thinks she's hiding the fact that she agrees Favre should play at least another 3 or 4 seasons.

6: Has totally bought the "You'll look great in a Mustang, honey..." thing.

5: In a scientific feat that has rocked theologians and creationist worldwide, she summarily proved the theory of evolution by causing her husband to evolve from a Neanderthal to a Hetero-erectus. (Hell I ain't no Homo!)

4: Banana Bread. 'nuff said.

3: Hi daddy! SHUT THE FUCK UP RODENT DOG. Coffee daddy?

2: 100.5 lbs of babygirl is a hell of a lot better than, well, ANYTHING.

And last but not least, the number one reason why I STILL love Kiki....

1: She's the sweetest most beautiful wife: A friend, a lover and a soul mate with whom I want to share my life, love and adventures with always....

Happy anniversary, honey. I tried to make my own Top Ten list this year, but I find I haven't the creative juices for it. All I know to do is make every decision based on what you would want - you took such good care of me. So I sent myself flowers. And I'm getting a mani/pedi later. And I'm going out for a nice dinner and drinks tonight. But I missed you so much. Which is good because that means I have so much to miss.

I love you.

In the Face of Fear:

... Buddhist Wisdom for Challenging Times. That's the name of the book I'm currently reading. I bought four others.They're a bit on the thinking side. Something my brain isn't very good at these days. Thinking. Processing. Remembering. I'm having a difficult time with all those. Thank God for friends, family and blogs.

This book is an anthology of contemporary Buddhist teachers and writers, a collection of essays building one on another guiding to a new ways of looking at the world and processing the world around us. Or, as it says in the introduction:

We have the freedom to choose how we react to the world, and if we choose wisely, we can find joy, love and happiness even in difficult times. We can transform our world by transforming how we experience it.

I'm looking for a little of that transformation right now. I don't want the death of my husband to be the thing that changed my life in such a way that it shuts me down, that I shut others out, that I give up on experiencing life. That would not be a what Steve would want for me.

My life go better the day I met Steve. The day we joined our lives together it became better yet. He made me want to be a better woman. For him. For those around me. For myself. He enriched me in ways I may never be able to fully comprehend, let alone discuss. The only way I know how to truly honor him is to keep moving forward. Become that better woman. Find my joy in life again.

Tomorrow would have been our eight year wedding anniversary. I'm taking one friend out to dinner and another friend out for drinks. Both places we'll be going are places Steve and I frequented on special occasions. Places that require a tie, my best heels, reservations and that damn AmEx card. The people I'm taking have seen me through some of the roughest moments.

Jordan was here within an hour of the phone call that changed my life. She accompanied me the next day to gather Steve's belongings from DC, never once leaving my side. She didn't leave my side for weeks, actually. Putting her life, her husband, her five children on hold while I found the strength to stand again. She went with me to Venice. The last vacation my husband and I planned together. The one that fell on his birthday. The one that we had five different medications in case I had bad moments. Moments that never came because she was with me. And while I did cry, I also laughed. I laughed a lot. I imagine that week was a lot more work for her than she ever let on to me. I'm eternally grateful to have a friend who would give up so much at a time when I had so little. I can't think of anyone other than my husband who I'd rather get drunk with at a place as fancy as the Jefferson.

Dan is one of those nice Midwestern boys that remind me of my formative years growing up in Indiana. Steve and I took an inordinate amount of pleasure at making him blush. Dan listens to me prattle on, doesn't matter if I make sense or not. And those Midwestern sensibilities keeps him from ever letting me know when I've made a total ass of myself. Which isn't so good for me and future encounters with the general public - but helps me save face when I'm desperately trying to make sense of some new challenge or just trying to blow off steam from facing too many challenges in a row. He was home for the summer when Steve died but since coming back to Richmond I don't think there's been a week I haven't seen him. We get together for Packer games, dinner, or to keep me company as I pack for the trip I mentioned above. I must've been looking pretty rough that week; he showed up or made me go out at least three times. Dan may be a Midwesterner born and bred, but he's coming along just fine as a nice Southern gentleman and I can't think of anyone who has earned a steak dinner like he has.

These are just two people who have helped me reassemble my life. Gratitude for having them in my life doesn't do justice to what I feel. The thesaurus isn't helping much with that self expression, either.  But I am starting to "find joy, love and happiness even in difficult times" with people like this around me. I can't think of a better way to pay homage to my husband's life than to celebrate our marriage with those who also knew and loved him. People who love me, too.

Twelve Weeks

The first week after Steve's death was chaotic. I hardly slept, never ate, was constantly on the phone and/or had 3 people around me minimum. What I remember of that time comes to me in snapshots - most of them blurry. What I've been told is I behaved in a way that would have made Steve proud. I behaved like a lady. And in that first week, that's all I needed to get done.

At three weeks I had to tell people 'I know it looks like I'm functioning but I'm not.' I was still deep in the throws of shock. Everything I did was on automatic pilot. Process paperwork, shave my legs, have dinner with friends; just keep moving while attaching no intellect or emotion to any of it. But I kept doing whatever needed to be done.

At seven weeks the shock had worn off but I had lost hope. Hope and thankfulness and love. I wandered in a dark cloud trying to make sense of what was left. And I kept doing whatever needed to be done.

At nine weeks I was finally able to mourn my husband. I had to leave the country to do it. There was nothing else to be done, so I did nothing else.

Today I am functioning. Well, the shock is long gone. I have hope for some kind of future even if I can't envision it yet. I still mourn Steve. I cry every day. I didn't know a person could cry this much and not fall down with the dehydration. I keep doing what needs to be done. It's just now I can do it with intelligence, hope, love and thankfulness. Sometimes, though, I'm not a lady. Make no mistakes; my husband would totally get behind that idea.

Yoko Ono

A lot of phraseology is created between a couple. Those few words that can be said between two people in a crowded room to get an entire idea across. Families can have them as well. Things said between parents and children that become catch phrases. Things you keep saying to one another at Christmas gatherings years after those children have families of their own.

A new phrase was created shortly after the death of my husband that everyone in my circle, family and friends, grasped the immeidate concept as soon as they heard it.

"Don't Yoko Ono it."

I wear my husband's wedding ring, pinkie ring and cross around my neck.
"Don't Yoko Ono it."
They're afraid I'll never be able to take them off again. It's been a little over 11 weeks since my husband was taken from me and the only time I've removed his rings and cross was for his viewing. They promptly returned around my neck the day everyone left and I had to go write a very large check to a kind man dressed in a black suit. That was the same day I picked up my husband's ashes.

I only drive his car now. It makes me feel closer to him, as proud of that car as he was.
"Don't Yoko Ono it."
They want to know if I'm going to sell off my car. Why does a single woman need two well maintained Toyota's that are both less than 10 years old with less than 75K miles on the odometers? Except they're both paid off and I don't need the extra cash selling a car would bring in. Yet. Or maybe ever. I haven't quite figured that one out.

I still have Steve's dirty laundry sitting next to my bed. I keep his clothes in plastic bags to hold in his smell, though I realized they only hold the smell of the plastic bags now, his scent long gone.
"Don't Yoko Ono it."
What are they afraid of? I'll stuff his clothes full of towels, prop the fake Steve in bed and cuddle with it? Talk to it? Try and take it out to dinner on our 8th wedding anniversary which is quickly approaching?

Three weeks after my husband died I made it my mission to throw out just one thing. One thing just to prove to myself I wouldn't turn into Yoko Ono. So I decided to throw away my husband's underwear. I could donate his clothes, people will wear them. But not his underwear. I couldn't bear the thought of his underwear sitting at the Salvation Army, people walking by and laughing "who would buy used underwear?" while it sat there gathering dust. No one wants used underwear even if it's been washed. So I pulled them all out. Sat them all down. Looked them all over. Then gathered them all up in my arms and wandered the house crying for an hour. 

Underwear is such a personal thing. And for a wife, for this wife, the easiest way to boil down that the man I loved and cared for was truly gone. Every pair of underwear he had, I bought. I like the look of the boxer briefs. Boxer briefs with color and design - cause men should feel they look hot under their clothes too. Every week I washed his underwear. As I folded them, I checked for wear. I put them away. I packed them each week for his business trips. I unpacked them again when he got home. I started the entire process over from there. And my husband? He thanked me at every stage.
"Thank you for washing the clothes, baby."
"Thank you for putting everything away, sweetie."
"You're such a good wife for packing me up, darling. Thank you."
"I'm so happy to be home. Thank you for unpacking my suitcase."

I walked around that house with 20-plus pair of boxer briefs in my arms sobbing uncontrollably. I couldn't throw them away. I couldn't throw away my husband, throw away nine and a half good years with my husband, throw away the daily love and concern for my husband. I was totally gonna Yoko Ono this shit.

Until his brother called. Butch, the oldest and toughest of the four boys. The truly streetwise New Yorker who made his mark on Wall Street. The brother I thought never liked me and would be relieved to have me out of the family. The brother who calls me the most often, who verifies I have my bases covered, who tells me I'll always be a DeRose. The brother who listened to me that day sob and scream and beg for my husband to come home.

And then he got me laughing. That DeRose family trait of cry as much as you need, so long as you follow it up with gut busting laughter. One of the traits of Steve's family I've admired most. Butch did that for me. Thinking he was making a quick check-up call while running errands, Butch sat in a parking lot on his cell phone, and made me laugh. And while I'm certain I made his day, and perhaps even his week, all the harder for him; before we hung up I was able to throw away my husband's underwear. And I was ok with doing it.

With the help of family and friends, I'm so totally not going to Yoko Ono it.

Fahrenheit 451

And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn't crying for him at all, but for all the things he did. I cried because he would never do them again... He was part of us and when he died, all the actions stopped dead and there was no one to do them just the way he did... The world was bankrupted of ten million fine actions the night he passed on.

- Ray Bradbury

The Amber Spyglass

She wondered whether there would ever come an hour in her life when she didn't think of him - didn't speak to him in her head, didn't relive every moment they'd been together, didn't long for his voice and his hands and his love. ...She thought the tenderness it left in her heart was like a bruise that would never go ...away, but she would cherish forever.

- Philip Pullman