When Steve asked me to marry him, he proudly put a one point something carat diamond on my left hand, kneeling in Rockefeller Center on Christmas Eve. I was facing away from Steve looking at the tree and the ice skaters when he got on bended knee. After he called my name and gently tugged on the corner of my coat, I turned to face him. I thought he had slipped and fallen. I started to kneel on that cold pavement to help him to his feet when I realized he hadn't fallen to his knee... he was on bended knee.
The only part I can remember of what he said that night was "I've waited for you my entire life..." After that all I hear in my memory is the inner dialog of "ohmygawd. ohmygawd. ohmygawd."
We chose simple, plain, gold wedding bands. I'd heard horror stories of wedding bands slipping off in the ocean, never to be seen again. If that ever happened to us I wanted to only mourn the emotional loss of the ring, not the financial.
I wore those rings up until about six months ago.
When Steve died, I put his pinky ring, which he received as a gift for his confirmation and wore every day of his life, along with his wedding band on a chain with a cross, which he also received for his confirmation and wore every day of his life. It was a rather large clump of metal to bang between my breasts. Kinda made my chest feel like some sort of jingly bongo drum set. After a week I took the cross off the necklace, along with the pinky ring, leaving just his wedding band to bounce over my heart.
And that's where it stayed until about seven months ago, when I started dating. Even after I started dating I wore it more often than not. Even now I'll still swing it over my neck for no apparent reason except I like the comfort of the weight.
For Christmas in 2011, my second set of holidays without Steve but my first set of holidays without my father, I had best gift I could have received. I was invited to New York to spend Christmas with my in-laws. I spent a few days alone in the city (and if you need to ask which city, get a life. There's only one city in New York referred to as THE city) visiting some of our favorite spots before heading up to join the family. I tried to take a picture or two of places that meant something to us. I stayed at the same hotel we stayed at during our last visit. I visited the house he grew up in, his cousin kept me company via text the entire time, dropped in on Sister Flora who has been such a God send to the family.
And I did a bit of shopping.
I stopped in to Tiffany & Co., where Steve bought my first piece of jewelry not related to our marriage. It was a Christmas gift that I still wear on my right hand thumb to this day. Now Steve gave me many sparkly jewels over the years, and each means something different to me. But there was something special about receiving that little blue box with the white bow. So on the 23rd of December in 2011, I walked into Tiffany's completely out of my mind thinking I'd be able to see anything, let alone buy something. And yet, the first counter I walked up to, I found exactly what I didn't even know I was looking for. It's two rings, one in yellow gold, one in white gold, intertwined so they can't be separated but still swing freely of each other. I knew I needed it for that day in future when I was ready to take my wedding band and engagement ring off, but didn't want an empty finger. I wanted a ring that would hold some meaning while I transitioned from married to widowed. A ring that I could, even later, move to another finger and still like it. What better than a ring that looks like two entwined wedding bands?
I know the exact day I took off my wedding band. I was in Rome for what would have been our tenth wedding anniversary. At dinner on our anniversary, overlooking the Forum Boarium, Steve's ring in my hand, letting the necklace slip through my fingers like flowing water, it occurred to me to place my band on the chain along with his. The rings naturally fell in together forming a smaller circle inside a larger circle. And all the sudden, it made sense to me. I slipped the necklace over my head, took my new double band ring I had been wearing on my right hand in the meanwhile, and placed it on my newly naked left ring finger. When I walked out of that restaurant I felt a little emptier. I felt a little lighter. I felt a little giddy. I was ready for something new.
By March of this year, I had moved that double band back to my right hand and was wearing a big chunky thing on the middle finger of my left hand. I even went back to New York to experience the city not immersed in memories but to help show them off, give vision to the words I'd been speaking. I even managed a picture, which says more than all these words put together can say.
Cause you see, a little over a week ago, I got a surprise parade just for me. An entire bagpipe band marched down my street. Two of the most amazing, heart-stealing, little girls held signs expressing love. My piper got on bended knee in my front yard and asked me to marry him.
And as Doug placed the one carat blue sapphire ring on my left ring finger... I replied with a resounding yes.
Friday, April 19, 2013
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Fate Can Eat Me
Fate, you fickle bitch, you made me fearless when you took everything from me... but we're good now.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Life Is but a Dream
"There's no drum roll or trumpet that goes off when you make the biggest decisions in your life. Sometimes you don't even know that you've made 'em."- "Beyonce: Life Is but a Dream"
Monday, January 28, 2013
Love and Other Drugs
"But there are good things. You have to understand that you're still yourself. You're still there and life goes on and life is beautiful."- "Love and Other Drugs"
Saturday, January 26, 2013
One Fewer Steve DeRose on Facebook
(Written by Steve on Facebook three and a half years ago.)
If you search for Steve DeRose on Facebook, there are 17 of us and clearly I am the most handsome although the one in Cincinnati is cute enough to be gay. There’s a Steve DeRose leaning against a wooden fence with his significant other that seems nice, but his friends look a little creepy. I swear I saw one of them on last night’s episode of “Gangland”.
Steve DeRose from Washington DC is on Facebook, and if you Bing or Google Steve DeRose he comes up. He’s one of the inventors of xml and he’s a brilliant computer guy. Like me. I’ve often wondered if any old friends ever look for me and find him. I wonder if they think “Jeeeeesus, Steve lost a ton of weight”. He also has the derose.net domain, but I have stevederose.com. One of these days I’m going to do something with that darn domain.
There’s a Steven DeRose in Ft. Wayne, IN where my wife’s grandfather lives. If I ever meet my grandfatherinlaw I wonder if that will freak him out. I’d say “Hi Grandpa Kendall, I’m Steve DeRose” and he’d say “No you’re not!”. Then I’d show him my driver’s license and he’d go “Jeeeeesus, you’ve put on a ton of weight”. Hmm, better not go to Ft. Wayne.
Steve DeRoses are global: There’s one in London and one in France, and there’s one in Ontario and one studying at ITI Guglielmo Marconi in Italy. And then there’s one Steve DeRose whose facebook picture is his eyeball. Steve DeRoses are a creative artistic lot.
Stephen DeRose from Medford Oregon spells his name exactly like I do: StePHen. However I’m certain we have nothing in common. He looks a little like a meth dealer and I look like… what exactly the hell do I look like? Many years ago my best friend in High School said I looked like a smiling tomato so I’ll go with that. Except now I look like a smiling tomato with a goatee and a balding head. Come to think of it, I did look like a smiling tomato, as opposed to my best friend in High School who looked like the Puerto Rican version of Mark Spitz, only chubbier.
I did something last month I never thought I'd do when Steve died. I had his Facebook account deleted.
I had been contemplating it for over a year. After the first year mark passed, I was the only person posting on his wall. I was the only person still tagging him in pictures. It was like I was the only person still remembering him.
I know that isn't true. I know many people still thought about him. Maybe even often. But they weren't sharing it with me. And after a year where his name wasn't mentioned during holiday phone calls (which rarely even took place on the holiday), where no one called me on the day of our wedding anniversary, his birthday, or the one year marking of his death, I was tired of walking around thinking about him alone. I wanted people to call me on those landmark days. I needed them to say his name and share some memories with me. Hopefully ones I had never heard before. I was tired of feeling like I was alone in grieving his absence. Alone in being his memory-keeper.
So, it was a year after Steve died when I first started thinking about deleting his Facebook page.
I didn't want to be hasty, though. I didn't want to make an irreversible decision as a knee-jerk emotional reaction. I started talking to friends and asking for their thoughts. I received a range of comments from "People grieve differently" to "They just don't know what to say to you" to "You're too sensitive."
I understood all of it. People DO grieve differently. I've learned that just by talking to other widows. People DON'T know what to say to me. The smart ones fessed up they don't know what to say but most people walked away thinking I have plenty of other support, not realizing that everyone else around me was thinking and doing the exact same as them. And, yes, I WAS too sensitive. I felt as though my skin had been flayed off and every passing breeze was torture. It didn't help that my father died just after the one year anniversary of Steve's death, throwing me back into the depths of depression.
But there was one thing no one had the courage to say to me. The one thing I secretly knew anyway. That mostly, people had moved on and weren't thinking of Steve very often. It was right, and normal, and the way life progresses. Doesn't mean it wasn't difficult to know that while everyone else could go about their lives, I was still struggling to get through each day without the man I married next to me.
I kept his Facebook page up for another year and a half. I checked his page every day, posted on his page occasionally, tagged him in pictures regularly. Because, though it pained me to see no one else doing those things, I still needed to do them.
Something changed for me this past year as the holidays approached. I started getting angry. Not at Steve. At the people in my life. At the people in Steve's life. At all the people who had been uncomfortable in my presence because they didn't know what to say. At the people who thought I was an interesting freak show to watch up close and personal. At the people who saw my weakness and tried to take advantage of me. At myself. Myself, for bending over backwards trying to help them feel comfortable when it should have been the other way around. Myself, for not having the strength to tell the freak show watchers and advantage takers takers to fuck off; instead just walking away from them and hoping they'd disappear. Myself, for wanting to stretch out my time with a dead man by hearing about him from the mouths of others.
That's when I stopped, took stock, and realized: I'm not alone. Steve is imbedded in my very being. I can quit hoping people will share memories of Steve with me, cause I have my own to keep me company. And I will share those memories freely cause I no longer care if people are uncomfortable. And I will tell indiscreet people to fuck off cause my strength has returned to me. I can let go of checking Steve's Facebook page every day cause I carry him with me everywhere I go.
And that's the day I decided to delete his Facebook page. But not before checking, one last time, that I had downloaded his page in it's entirety. I'm angry, not stupid.
(P.S. For those looking for information about memorializing a Facebook account, I wrote a post about it here: Memorializing a Facebook Account.)
All the Steve DeRoses on Facebook - September 8, 2009
If you search for Steve DeRose on Facebook, there are 17 of us and clearly I am the most handsome although the one in Cincinnati is cute enough to be gay. There’s a Steve DeRose leaning against a wooden fence with his significant other that seems nice, but his friends look a little creepy. I swear I saw one of them on last night’s episode of “Gangland”.
Steve DeRose from Washington DC is on Facebook, and if you Bing or Google Steve DeRose he comes up. He’s one of the inventors of xml and he’s a brilliant computer guy. Like me. I’ve often wondered if any old friends ever look for me and find him. I wonder if they think “Jeeeeesus, Steve lost a ton of weight”. He also has the derose.net domain, but I have stevederose.com. One of these days I’m going to do something with that darn domain.
There’s a Steven DeRose in Ft. Wayne, IN where my wife’s grandfather lives. If I ever meet my grandfatherinlaw I wonder if that will freak him out. I’d say “Hi Grandpa Kendall, I’m Steve DeRose” and he’d say “No you’re not!”. Then I’d show him my driver’s license and he’d go “Jeeeeesus, you’ve put on a ton of weight”. Hmm, better not go to Ft. Wayne.
Steve DeRoses are global: There’s one in London and one in France, and there’s one in Ontario and one studying at ITI Guglielmo Marconi in Italy. And then there’s one Steve DeRose whose facebook picture is his eyeball. Steve DeRoses are a creative artistic lot.
Stephen DeRose from Medford Oregon spells his name exactly like I do: StePHen. However I’m certain we have nothing in common. He looks a little like a meth dealer and I look like… what exactly the hell do I look like? Many years ago my best friend in High School said I looked like a smiling tomato so I’ll go with that. Except now I look like a smiling tomato with a goatee and a balding head. Come to think of it, I did look like a smiling tomato, as opposed to my best friend in High School who looked like the Puerto Rican version of Mark Spitz, only chubbier.
--------------------------------------------------------
I did something last month I never thought I'd do when Steve died. I had his Facebook account deleted.
I had been contemplating it for over a year. After the first year mark passed, I was the only person posting on his wall. I was the only person still tagging him in pictures. It was like I was the only person still remembering him.
I know that isn't true. I know many people still thought about him. Maybe even often. But they weren't sharing it with me. And after a year where his name wasn't mentioned during holiday phone calls (which rarely even took place on the holiday), where no one called me on the day of our wedding anniversary, his birthday, or the one year marking of his death, I was tired of walking around thinking about him alone. I wanted people to call me on those landmark days. I needed them to say his name and share some memories with me. Hopefully ones I had never heard before. I was tired of feeling like I was alone in grieving his absence. Alone in being his memory-keeper.
So, it was a year after Steve died when I first started thinking about deleting his Facebook page.
I didn't want to be hasty, though. I didn't want to make an irreversible decision as a knee-jerk emotional reaction. I started talking to friends and asking for their thoughts. I received a range of comments from "People grieve differently" to "They just don't know what to say to you" to "You're too sensitive."
I understood all of it. People DO grieve differently. I've learned that just by talking to other widows. People DON'T know what to say to me. The smart ones fessed up they don't know what to say but most people walked away thinking I have plenty of other support, not realizing that everyone else around me was thinking and doing the exact same as them. And, yes, I WAS too sensitive. I felt as though my skin had been flayed off and every passing breeze was torture. It didn't help that my father died just after the one year anniversary of Steve's death, throwing me back into the depths of depression.
But there was one thing no one had the courage to say to me. The one thing I secretly knew anyway. That mostly, people had moved on and weren't thinking of Steve very often. It was right, and normal, and the way life progresses. Doesn't mean it wasn't difficult to know that while everyone else could go about their lives, I was still struggling to get through each day without the man I married next to me.
I kept his Facebook page up for another year and a half. I checked his page every day, posted on his page occasionally, tagged him in pictures regularly. Because, though it pained me to see no one else doing those things, I still needed to do them.
Something changed for me this past year as the holidays approached. I started getting angry. Not at Steve. At the people in my life. At the people in Steve's life. At all the people who had been uncomfortable in my presence because they didn't know what to say. At the people who thought I was an interesting freak show to watch up close and personal. At the people who saw my weakness and tried to take advantage of me. At myself. Myself, for bending over backwards trying to help them feel comfortable when it should have been the other way around. Myself, for not having the strength to tell the freak show watchers and advantage takers takers to fuck off; instead just walking away from them and hoping they'd disappear. Myself, for wanting to stretch out my time with a dead man by hearing about him from the mouths of others.
That's when I stopped, took stock, and realized: I'm not alone. Steve is imbedded in my very being. I can quit hoping people will share memories of Steve with me, cause I have my own to keep me company. And I will share those memories freely cause I no longer care if people are uncomfortable. And I will tell indiscreet people to fuck off cause my strength has returned to me. I can let go of checking Steve's Facebook page every day cause I carry him with me everywhere I go.
And that's the day I decided to delete his Facebook page. But not before checking, one last time, that I had downloaded his page in it's entirety. I'm angry, not stupid.
(P.S. For those looking for information about memorializing a Facebook account, I wrote a post about it here: Memorializing a Facebook Account.)
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Mrs. Harris
Jean: I didn't know who I was, and it didn't seem to matter.
Joel: It mattered to you, didn't it?
Jean: I was a person sitting in an empty chair, Joel. I can't describe it any better.
- "Mrs. Harris"
Joel: It mattered to you, didn't it?
Jean: I was a person sitting in an empty chair, Joel. I can't describe it any better.
- "Mrs. Harris"
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Holidaze
My first holidays without Steve started a mere four months after he died. My generous friends and family showed up for me in the ways they could, but I spent Thanksgiving pushed beyond my limits and Christmas day alone. What I remember is blurry and full of darkness. Along the way I was made to feel a failure because I couldn't manage to help cook in
my own house and because I kept slipping off to do my crying in private.
I was called selfish for wanting to spend Christmas at our home. I was told "he's dead, he isn't coming back, get over it," a week before Christmas. I was chastised and scolded for upsetting family with what I thought would be a welcome written message from Steve. Though I tried to focus on the positive, I look back and wonder how I ever managed to make it through. No wonder the following three months were the worst of my grieving.
My second set of holidays started off promising enough. Maybe I had a little Post Traumatic Stress from the holidays before, cause though I was invited out for Thanksgiving, my panic attacks grew worse and more frequent over the three days I was away from home. Watching a young family starting out in life, full of hopes and dreams and possibilities was beautiful. As I stood on a staircase landing listening to their plans for the future, I suddenly realized that my family's hope and dreams weren't going to be realized. We got the time we were meant to have and it was over. At thirty-seven I was a bit old to start over entirely, no young children for me, my life is half over already. In that moment I realized there are opportunities lost to me that I will never regain.
Christmas was better. I spent it back in New York, where it all began. I spent a few days in the city and then Christmas with his cousin, who we had stayed with exactly ten years earlier. Ten years prior when Steve asked me to marry him. Steve was born and raised in New York so every street corner held memories. I visited some of our old haunts, his old neighborhood, places we wanted to go together but never got around to visiting. Beautiful memories. And they kept me warm on those blustery winter streets.
Christmas with Steve's family was bittersweet. I kept expecting him to pop from around a corner at any moment. I saw how much the children had grown since we had last seen them. Marveled at his cousin's new house in Steve's place. Saw his twinkling eyes in his family's faces, heard his laughter emanate from his family's mouths, watched his gestures from his family's hands. And though he was rarely mentioned, we all acknowledged his presence. I felt as though I was there in his place; to see, and hear, and support those he loved most. That was my gift to Steve, my gift to his family, my gift to myself.
This is my third set of holidays since Steve died. There are a whole new set of complications this year. This year I'm spending the holidays with my boyfriend and his children. Two beautiful young girls who keep me laughing, and guessing, and completely in the moment. A man who makes me happy, worries about stepping on memories of Steve, never allows me to cry alone, and puts the biggest smile on my face when he walks into the room.
I spent the night before Thanksgiving looking around my house, imagining what it would look like if Steve were alive. What it looked like in years past as we prepared to host another feast. I thought about the past two Thanksgivings since Steve died. I wondered how I managed to survive this long without him when I never believed I could make it a day. And I got the crying out of my system. I spent Thanksgiving day navigating new traditions, navigating youthful meltdowns and jubilations, navigating the complications and the joys of a new life.
This is my third holiday season without Steve. Each year it hurts. Each year it hurts differently. But each year it gets a little easier. This year, it's finally getting to be a life. My life. My life after Steve.
My second set of holidays started off promising enough. Maybe I had a little Post Traumatic Stress from the holidays before, cause though I was invited out for Thanksgiving, my panic attacks grew worse and more frequent over the three days I was away from home. Watching a young family starting out in life, full of hopes and dreams and possibilities was beautiful. As I stood on a staircase landing listening to their plans for the future, I suddenly realized that my family's hope and dreams weren't going to be realized. We got the time we were meant to have and it was over. At thirty-seven I was a bit old to start over entirely, no young children for me, my life is half over already. In that moment I realized there are opportunities lost to me that I will never regain.
Christmas was better. I spent it back in New York, where it all began. I spent a few days in the city and then Christmas with his cousin, who we had stayed with exactly ten years earlier. Ten years prior when Steve asked me to marry him. Steve was born and raised in New York so every street corner held memories. I visited some of our old haunts, his old neighborhood, places we wanted to go together but never got around to visiting. Beautiful memories. And they kept me warm on those blustery winter streets.
Christmas with Steve's family was bittersweet. I kept expecting him to pop from around a corner at any moment. I saw how much the children had grown since we had last seen them. Marveled at his cousin's new house in Steve's place. Saw his twinkling eyes in his family's faces, heard his laughter emanate from his family's mouths, watched his gestures from his family's hands. And though he was rarely mentioned, we all acknowledged his presence. I felt as though I was there in his place; to see, and hear, and support those he loved most. That was my gift to Steve, my gift to his family, my gift to myself.
This is my third set of holidays since Steve died. There are a whole new set of complications this year. This year I'm spending the holidays with my boyfriend and his children. Two beautiful young girls who keep me laughing, and guessing, and completely in the moment. A man who makes me happy, worries about stepping on memories of Steve, never allows me to cry alone, and puts the biggest smile on my face when he walks into the room.
I spent the night before Thanksgiving looking around my house, imagining what it would look like if Steve were alive. What it looked like in years past as we prepared to host another feast. I thought about the past two Thanksgivings since Steve died. I wondered how I managed to survive this long without him when I never believed I could make it a day. And I got the crying out of my system. I spent Thanksgiving day navigating new traditions, navigating youthful meltdowns and jubilations, navigating the complications and the joys of a new life.
This is my third holiday season without Steve. Each year it hurts. Each year it hurts differently. But each year it gets a little easier. This year, it's finally getting to be a life. My life. My life after Steve.
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Today's post is part of a monthly blog-hop (first Wednesday of each
month). It's a way to find other widow/er bloggers to read, interact
with, discuss, and follow. Feel free to leave comments, send e-mails,
share and interact. The following links are to other blogs participating
in this month's hop. Hope you find someone and something new that helps
you.
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