"The story is simple. A man lives.... and dies. How he dies, that's easy. The who and the why is the complex part, the human part, the only part worth... knowing."Oz - Augustus Hill
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Oz
Monday, March 28, 2011
Knock, Knock
Tracy: "I've never felt this alone in the world. And I'm used to feeling alone, I know what that's like, and now I find out there's this whole new level. Why do people have to die?"Six Feet Under
Nate: "To make life important. None of us know how long we've got, which is why we have to make each day matter."
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
The Eyes Have It
I wear disposable contacts that are supposed to last me three months. I usually manage to stretch them out to six or even nine months. And I'm very lazy when it comes to taking care of them. I never take them out, I never clean them, and I most certainly never do that protein treatment thing. My ophthalmologist hates me.
It's taken me eight months and about four pair of contacts to figure out I can't do that anymore. Suddenly, after Steve died, I was throwing out contacts after two months, one month shy of how long they're supposed to last. I'm throwing them out after they make my eyes turn angry red, forcing me to wear glasses for a week before I dare to insert a new set. What was happening? What changed?
Well, I'll tell you. I cry. I cry a lot. I cry so much I've asked my investor dudes to buy stock in Kleenex cause that's the brand I use. I told them I'll give a heads up when I start feeling better so they know to sell off the stock. (You only think I'm joking, don't ya?)
Evidently all that crying causes protein to build up on the lenses a heckuva lot faster than normal. Which would irritate my eyes making me throw them out. Forget my ophthalmologist - now I'm not happy.
So here's a head's up to widow(er)s or anyone who has an inkling they're going to spend weeks upon weeks upon months crying: Be prepared to do that protein treatment thing. I nearly said more frequently but that would imply I was doing it to begin with. If you are doing the protein treatment, I suggest doing it at least once a week or risk throwing out your contacts faster. Probably you'll still have to throw those contacts out sooner but at least now you'll have a heads up as to why.
It's taken me eight months and about four pair of contacts to figure out I can't do that anymore. Suddenly, after Steve died, I was throwing out contacts after two months, one month shy of how long they're supposed to last. I'm throwing them out after they make my eyes turn angry red, forcing me to wear glasses for a week before I dare to insert a new set. What was happening? What changed?
Well, I'll tell you. I cry. I cry a lot. I cry so much I've asked my investor dudes to buy stock in Kleenex cause that's the brand I use. I told them I'll give a heads up when I start feeling better so they know to sell off the stock. (You only think I'm joking, don't ya?)
Evidently all that crying causes protein to build up on the lenses a heckuva lot faster than normal. Which would irritate my eyes making me throw them out. Forget my ophthalmologist - now I'm not happy.
So here's a head's up to widow(er)s or anyone who has an inkling they're going to spend weeks upon weeks upon months crying: Be prepared to do that protein treatment thing. I nearly said more frequently but that would imply I was doing it to begin with. If you are doing the protein treatment, I suggest doing it at least once a week or risk throwing out your contacts faster. Probably you'll still have to throw those contacts out sooner but at least now you'll have a heads up as to why.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Valuable Reminders
I decided, shortly after Steve died, the only way I'd be able to face sorting through his things is if I sorted through all our things. The hope being that I wouldn't feel so overwhelmed with feelings of loss if I approached it as a chance to distribute items in general as opposed to only distributing Steve's items. Last night, meaning to go through some of my clothes, I sidetracked myself by sorting through my jewelry box and giving every piece a good cleaning.
When Steve and I had just started dating he told me a story about an ex-girlfriend. More than anything, she wanted a diamond tennis bracelet. So he saved up and bought one for Christmas. Instead of being ecstatic she complained continuously how, for the same amount of money, he could have gotten another carat worth of diamonds by shopping at a different store. I was appalled. I was taught to say thank you. And to mean it. Which is exactly what I told him. Steve said she wasn't worth the carat of diamonds he bought her.
Which lead to a discussion of jewelry in general. When Steve asked what I would want, in a perfect world with no boundaries, all I could come up with was a simple pair of pearl stud earrings to wear with the pearl necklace my mother had passed down to me a few years earlier. I couldn't fathom spending large amounts of imaginary money on sparkly diamonds. It seemed such a waste of resources. Imaginary resources.
It's important to know that Steve and I dated by phone for five months before we ever met face to face. Since he lived in New York and I lived in Virginia, our first real date lasted three days. When he showed up at my doorstep after an eight hour drive, he didn't have flowers. He arrived with a little navy blue box containing pearl stud earrings. I wore them at our wedding.
The next piece of jewelry Steve gave me was my engagement ring. Years later I found out Steve had cashed in part of his 401K to buy my ring. Whenever we spoke of our retirement savings, after I learned his little secret, I'd raise my hand in the air and wangle my finger. And though I gave him a hard time for how he financed the ring, I couldn't give him too hard a time because I also knew of his pride in having placed a beautiful ring on my finger.
The night before our wedding we snuck away from the crowd of family and friends for a little time to ourselves. In those quiet moments we exchanged our gifts to each other. I gave him a watch, a symbol to show I wanted to spend all my time with him. I still have his watch. I had some links removed and now wear it myself, since I don't have a watch of my own. He gave me diamond tennis bracelet. As he clasped it around my wrist he told me it was twice the carats of my ring. He also told me I'd better get used to diamonds because I was worth nothing less than their brilliant sparkle. In the years since our wedding Steve continued to buy me beautiful jewelry. Each time he gave it with a look of satisfaction on his face.
Like most women, I swap out my jewelry to match my mood and outfit. I have a lot of trendy little things I pick up at Target or Macy's that I like to mix in with the nice pieces Steve bought me. Since Steve died, I haven't worn the pieces passed down to me from my grandmother or mother, or even the little trinket pieces I've picked up for myself. In the past eight months I have only worn the jewelry Steve bought me. Steve spent ten years decorating me with golden reminders of how valuable he considered me. In the difficult moments, in those bleak winter months when I thought I couldn't make it through, his gifts prod me to keep moving forward. Sometimes I get so consumed in the pain and loss my love for him creates that I forget he loved me, too. Such sparkling reminders of his love.
When Steve and I had just started dating he told me a story about an ex-girlfriend. More than anything, she wanted a diamond tennis bracelet. So he saved up and bought one for Christmas. Instead of being ecstatic she complained continuously how, for the same amount of money, he could have gotten another carat worth of diamonds by shopping at a different store. I was appalled. I was taught to say thank you. And to mean it. Which is exactly what I told him. Steve said she wasn't worth the carat of diamonds he bought her.
Which lead to a discussion of jewelry in general. When Steve asked what I would want, in a perfect world with no boundaries, all I could come up with was a simple pair of pearl stud earrings to wear with the pearl necklace my mother had passed down to me a few years earlier. I couldn't fathom spending large amounts of imaginary money on sparkly diamonds. It seemed such a waste of resources. Imaginary resources.
It's important to know that Steve and I dated by phone for five months before we ever met face to face. Since he lived in New York and I lived in Virginia, our first real date lasted three days. When he showed up at my doorstep after an eight hour drive, he didn't have flowers. He arrived with a little navy blue box containing pearl stud earrings. I wore them at our wedding.
The next piece of jewelry Steve gave me was my engagement ring. Years later I found out Steve had cashed in part of his 401K to buy my ring. Whenever we spoke of our retirement savings, after I learned his little secret, I'd raise my hand in the air and wangle my finger. And though I gave him a hard time for how he financed the ring, I couldn't give him too hard a time because I also knew of his pride in having placed a beautiful ring on my finger.
The night before our wedding we snuck away from the crowd of family and friends for a little time to ourselves. In those quiet moments we exchanged our gifts to each other. I gave him a watch, a symbol to show I wanted to spend all my time with him. I still have his watch. I had some links removed and now wear it myself, since I don't have a watch of my own. He gave me diamond tennis bracelet. As he clasped it around my wrist he told me it was twice the carats of my ring. He also told me I'd better get used to diamonds because I was worth nothing less than their brilliant sparkle. In the years since our wedding Steve continued to buy me beautiful jewelry. Each time he gave it with a look of satisfaction on his face.
Like most women, I swap out my jewelry to match my mood and outfit. I have a lot of trendy little things I pick up at Target or Macy's that I like to mix in with the nice pieces Steve bought me. Since Steve died, I haven't worn the pieces passed down to me from my grandmother or mother, or even the little trinket pieces I've picked up for myself. In the past eight months I have only worn the jewelry Steve bought me. Steve spent ten years decorating me with golden reminders of how valuable he considered me. In the difficult moments, in those bleak winter months when I thought I couldn't make it through, his gifts prod me to keep moving forward. Sometimes I get so consumed in the pain and loss my love for him creates that I forget he loved me, too. Such sparkling reminders of his love.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
March 13th
There are few days anymore where I know what Steve and I would be doing if he were alive. The most I can figure any given week would be his normal work schedule: drive up to DC on Sunday night around nine PM and drive home on Thursday night getting home around eight PM. If a Packer game is on I can bet we'd be home, Steve would have cooked a big spread, and we'd watch the game. Outside of that I have to lean on major holidays like Christmas, birthdays, Super Bowl Sunday.
Today is a birthday. It's my father's seventy-sixth birthday and the day is gorgeous. We'd have driven out to dad's house in the convertible with the top down, cause it's just that warm out, and Stevie would have cooked something special. Matter of fact, this may have even been the first top-down-on-the-convertible day for the year.
Last year was a big birthday for dad, seventy-five. We managed to throw a surprise party with guests coming in all the way from Florida and North Carolina. Steve and I had wanted to get his band over to dad's house to play a personal birthday gig for him. I'm sorry we never got to do that; when Steve died the band had never played anywhere outside practice. Instead, Steve had to be in Seattle for Microsoft training for three weeks. Steve hated being away for dad's landmark birthday but we knew postponing that training could have put a serious crimp in his career over the next year. We didn't know Steve had a ticking time bomb in his chest with a countdown remaining of only four months.
Dad's health has been bad the last few years. Matter of fact, Steve and I thought there was a real possibility that dad wouldn't make it to his seventy-sixth birthday. Which made Steve not being here for the landmark year even more difficult. I know that Steve would have made as big a deal of this birthday as possible to make up for having missed last year's. This year, maybe, he would have even gotten the band to come out and play. As it turns out, today would have been a gorgeous day for it.
There are few days anymore where I can walk this earth and have any certainty of where my husband would be and what he'd be doing if he were still walking the earth. So please excuse me while I cry into my coffee trying to create happy pictures of what might have been.
Today is a birthday. It's my father's seventy-sixth birthday and the day is gorgeous. We'd have driven out to dad's house in the convertible with the top down, cause it's just that warm out, and Stevie would have cooked something special. Matter of fact, this may have even been the first top-down-on-the-convertible day for the year.
Last year was a big birthday for dad, seventy-five. We managed to throw a surprise party with guests coming in all the way from Florida and North Carolina. Steve and I had wanted to get his band over to dad's house to play a personal birthday gig for him. I'm sorry we never got to do that; when Steve died the band had never played anywhere outside practice. Instead, Steve had to be in Seattle for Microsoft training for three weeks. Steve hated being away for dad's landmark birthday but we knew postponing that training could have put a serious crimp in his career over the next year. We didn't know Steve had a ticking time bomb in his chest with a countdown remaining of only four months.
Dad's health has been bad the last few years. Matter of fact, Steve and I thought there was a real possibility that dad wouldn't make it to his seventy-sixth birthday. Which made Steve not being here for the landmark year even more difficult. I know that Steve would have made as big a deal of this birthday as possible to make up for having missed last year's. This year, maybe, he would have even gotten the band to come out and play. As it turns out, today would have been a gorgeous day for it.
There are few days anymore where I can walk this earth and have any certainty of where my husband would be and what he'd be doing if he were still walking the earth. So please excuse me while I cry into my coffee trying to create happy pictures of what might have been.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Legacy
Steve and I both felt very strongly about organ and tissue donation. I was lucky we had spoken about it because in the hours after his death I had to make a decision. You see, they didn't look at the back of his driver's license, which would have shown he wanted to donate. And evidently, even if they had, I could have stopped them. It is a decision that the next of kin legally has to approve.
Sitting on the phone with a social worker at midnight, knowing I wasn't going to get any sleep but still wanting to feel like I could accomplish something, I fulfilled my husband's desires to help others by approving his tissue donation.
Every few weeks I get something in the mail from Washington Regional Transplant Community. Sometimes it's a flier about grieving the loss of a loved one, sometimes it's an invite to attend a special remembrance ceremony, sometimes it's specific to Steve. Today's mail contained a letter from a recipient who has benefited from Steve's donations.
The handwriting is shaky and cramped, reminding me of letters from Great Aunt's and Grandmother's I've received over the years, and so I've decided the writer is a little old lady. Whoever it was didn't sign their name. They didn't specifically say what they had done or what they received from my husband. But she did write about a pond where she walks her little dog and say her morning prayers. She says that because of my husband's donation she will be able to continue to do this.
I imagine my grandmother or Steve's mother when I picture this woman. In my mind's eye I see a small white dog with a smiling face, happy to be with it's mistress again, happy to be walking the familiar path around a small pond. And I cry to know my Stevie lives on by helping others.
Mistress, wherever you are, thank you for thanking me. This image brings me such peace. Such hope. Such joy.
Sitting on the phone with a social worker at midnight, knowing I wasn't going to get any sleep but still wanting to feel like I could accomplish something, I fulfilled my husband's desires to help others by approving his tissue donation.
Every few weeks I get something in the mail from Washington Regional Transplant Community. Sometimes it's a flier about grieving the loss of a loved one, sometimes it's an invite to attend a special remembrance ceremony, sometimes it's specific to Steve. Today's mail contained a letter from a recipient who has benefited from Steve's donations.
The handwriting is shaky and cramped, reminding me of letters from Great Aunt's and Grandmother's I've received over the years, and so I've decided the writer is a little old lady. Whoever it was didn't sign their name. They didn't specifically say what they had done or what they received from my husband. But she did write about a pond where she walks her little dog and say her morning prayers. She says that because of my husband's donation she will be able to continue to do this.
I imagine my grandmother or Steve's mother when I picture this woman. In my mind's eye I see a small white dog with a smiling face, happy to be with it's mistress again, happy to be walking the familiar path around a small pond. And I cry to know my Stevie lives on by helping others.
Mistress, wherever you are, thank you for thanking me. This image brings me such peace. Such hope. Such joy.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Oz
"You're dreaming, you're deep into rem sleep, and someone walks in, someone who's dead, someone you love, a father, a mother, a friend, and you're happy to see that person alive and well, happy to have a conversation to say the things you never got a chance to say. But then you wake up, and the person you love is still dead, and you get to mourn all over again."Oz - Augustus Hill
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