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