Sex and Candy, originally uploaded by Kiki Marcus.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
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.
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
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
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
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
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
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.
April 28, 2004
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.
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.
Monday, October 11, 2010
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:
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.
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.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
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.
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.
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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.