loss

Power of Powder

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“It occurred to him now that people are defined much more by their association with death than by what they do in life. Poor thing, she’s a widow, they say. She lost her mother when she was ten to cancer. I’ve been immune to all this, he thought.”

I am currently reading An Association of Small Bombs by Karan Mahajan, and this passage, spoken by a father whose sons have recently died, rang true. 

As I was getting to know Patrick, the loss of his brother to cancer when Patrick was in high school was one of his defining characteristics. Losing my dad to a lung disease when I was only 27 set me apart from many of my peers. Like Patrick’s brother, my father had struggled with a progressive disease and failing health for many years, and Patrick and I connected in having lived in households cocooned by debilitating illness. Now as a young widow, I know that my closeness to Patrick’s death influences how people interact with me. With people I have just met, the death of my husband is the first thing on my mind when I’m filling in the basic “getting to know you” information. I find myself making an assessment of how much to divulge: “Do I want to get into that part of my story if I will never see this person again?” I prepare myself for the arresting effect it will have and the extra effort it requires to receive the awkward expression of a stranger’s sympathy. A few times, I have introduced myself to someone who knew Patrick but not me, and I have seen the light of recognition in their eyes: “Oh! This is his widow.” I am still not used to that term, widow, and it is in the reactions of strangers that I see it mirrored most starkly.

This past month has been a tough one. The darkness of winter, aching post-marathon joints, the national discourse, and preparing for the holidays in the absence of Patrick have left me feeling anxious, fatigued, and deeply sad. I can never seem to keep on top of the endless house chores, meal preparation, and the finding of misplaced but essential items that accompany child-rearing. This past Saturday, I had planned to drop CR off at her ski lesson and return home to clean, wrap presents, and have some time to myself. Fortunately, I was reprieved from all of that by an overnight snowfall of 19 inches!

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I scrapped the housekeeping in favor of skiing, and I’m so glad I did; I think it saved me! Saturday was a day that reminded me why I love skiing. The glorious sensation of floating through two feet of soft snow reverts serious, responsible adults to giddy, whooping kids. I skied with parents of kids in CR’s daycare program, none of whom I know beyond the pick-up and drop-off pleasantries. We had so much fun, reveled in the kinship of a shared adventure, and parted with hugs at the end of the day. When I went to meet CR in the late afternoon, her instructor informed me that she had made a huge leap and was turning and stopping on her own. CR was keen to take another run, and watching her ski in front of me, I felt as the Grinch must have when his heart trebled in size. I was the happiest I have been in a long time sharing that one ski run with my daughter. She, too, will be marked and defined by her father’s death, but CR can now add “skier” to her list of attributes.

Here’s to the redeeming power of powder and to many more ski days with CR.

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As I was getting ready to post this, I learned that the driver of a truck took the lives of at least nine people and injured many more at the Christmas market in Berlin. When I hear of the sudden, violent deaths happening daily around the world, I am reminded how tenuous human life truly is. We – those of us in a warm place with a computer (of all things!) – are blessed in so many ways, and I grieve with those who have lost loved ones today.

Backup. Move Forward.

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My home desktop computer is showing signs of age, and a couple of nights ago, I decided to deliberately backup all of our digital photos files. I got my first digital camera in 2005, and I averaged about a 1000 photos per year until the year CR was born: that year, the file burgeoned to over 4500 photos! We buried Patrick’s ashes this past weekend, and since we met in 2003, going through the pictures was a review of nearly our entire life together.

The past few months, I have been relatively happy: CR and I have established a better routine; I’m feeling much healthier as a result of running regularly; I’m enjoying my work. Having a burial plan in place, however, settled a bone-deep sadness on me again. Patrick’s ashes have been on our fireplace mantel since the funeral in February. I got to a point where some days I didn’t consciously notice them as I rushed around in the fog of daily have-tos. The ashes, though, were a solid presence of Patrick in our home, and knowing a fixed date when they would be gone brought back waves of grief.

The burial rite itself was beautiful. Family and friends gathered on a crisp, alpine morning to say goodbye again. CR helped place Patrick’s urn in the ground, and we both scattered a handful of freshly turned dirt on top. Everyone in attendance did the same, and as I watched the others, I felt a deep calm in the tradition and ritual of laying the dead to rest.

On Monday night, a thunderstorm woke both CR and me. CR got back to sleep, but I stayed awake listening to the thunder for hours. I have been meaning to backup my photos for months, and perhaps the fear of a computer-frying power surge spurred me out of bed in the early hours to start. Browsing the images was at once wonderful and sad. As I got into the more recent years, I found myself bracing for what was to come: “This is from the week before Patrick had his seizure; these are from the months we spent away from home while Patrick received radiation treatment; this must have been the last week he was able to navigate the stairs in our home; Patrick’s smile here is from just three days before he died.”

The pictures from this year are more sporadic, and in some ways, depict a life in chaos. I was struck by the difference in what I chose or had the energy to document compared to years past. Most, despite the background of loss, show CR and me smiling, striving to build happy memories, and choosing to love and be grateful.

May Patrick’s soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

 

MARATHON UPDATE

Well, I’ve taken yet another week of training off after aggravating inflamed IT bands. I’m planning on running today, though! The marathon is less than a month away. I have my longest run planned for this coming weekend, and we’ll see how it goes. My plane ticket is booked, so whether I’m ready or not, I’m going!

Beloved

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Tomorrow is – would have been – our fifth wedding anniversary. Five years ago, all of our friends and family were gathering in my hometown to celebrate the start of our marriage. Snow had continued to fall through May, and by early June the leaves on the aspen trees had just started to leaf. The week of our wedding, the weather turned suddenly hot, and all of the high peaks’ snow began melting in earnest. My mom and I collected sandbags from the fire department to reinforce the creek bank near our home for fear that the run-off would flood our yard and possibly the house. The water was rushing so powerfully, you could hear enormous boulders being rolled down the creek bed, particularly at night when the flow was the highest.

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The creek stayed in its bank and the sun rose over a glorious green valley on the day of our wedding. I remember looking at the faces of those gathered and feeling a surge of joy realizing that each person there was known and beloved, and that they were all there to support Patrick and me. How could we, how could any of them, even have imagined that in five short years, Patrick would be gone. In the brief, wonderful, intervening years, we fully lived our vows: We saw each other through periods of unemployment; pregnancy; home ownership; parenthood; loss of parents; terminal illness; death. Even knowing what I now know, I would have chosen Patrick again to be my husband.

I spoke with Patrick’s sister a couple of days ago, and she wondered if Patrick had set aside a gift or a note for me to mark this anniversary. He didn’t. Patrick considered a project like this for both me and for CR. He spent so much time thinking and worrying about it that the entire process became stressful and daunting, and he finally plotted a different course. The message that Patrick most wanted to convey was that CR and I are and always will be beloved. He commissioned a mirror from Charles Shakleton (descendant of the great explorer and master woodworker based in Vermont). Patrick spoke with Charles several times about exactly what he wanted. The resulting oval mirror that now hangs in our entry reads “BELOVED” across the top. Patrick’s gift to us, to everyone who enters our home, is that each time we see our faces in the mirror we know that we are his beloved, God’s beloved. This subtle reminder captures more about Patrick as a human being than any set of timed gifts or notes ever could. Patrick’s love is pure and simple and ever present.

Thank You, E.B. White

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EB and Charlotte

In the months before Patrick died, CR and I started listening to Charlotte’s Web, read by the author, during the car rides to and from my work/her daycare.

CR was immediately drawn into the storyline of Fern and Wilbur. Her pink, plush, toy pig immediately was renamed for the protagonist. She cheered when Wilbur escaped from his pen and empathized with his loneliness in the barn before Charlotte greets him with her famous, “Salutations.” E.B. White’s matter-of-fact narration and New England accent add depth to the story and humor that I may have missed without his inflection and emphasis. CR and I have now probably listened to the story, start-to-finish, five times.

As the story closes, Charlotte dies. My gratitude to E.B. White is for presenting death in real terms, with real emotion, in language that children, that CR, can understand. With Patrick’s diagnosis, I began questioning all of the social workers and doctors we met on how to talk to CR about death so that she might process losing her father in a healthy way. While I got wonderful tips about how to talk with her, it was while listening to Charlotte’s Web that started our real, ongoing conversation about what death is and how it affects a family. For CR, it was clear how much Wilbur missed his friend, and that even though she was gone, he was still connected to Charlotte through his memory of her and through her children.

I feel confident that CR feels closely connected to her father, even with him absent. Thank you E.B. White for helping us start a conversation that will keep Patrick present in our lives and for helping CR begin a lifelong process of healthy grieving.

Marathon Training Update

My physical therapist has advised that I still not run. As the weeks tick by, I am growing restless and more concerned about my training plan’s interruption. I have another appointment in early June. I’ll keep you posted.

It’s just stuff, but…

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imageA beautiful blue and pink plaid shirt hangs in Patrick’s closet. It is soft, rich flannel that brought out the blue of his eyes, just as it did my dad’s eyes. My mom gave it to Patrick, along with a number of my dad’s shirts and sweaters.

My father died on August 8, 2008, a date that was special in its roundness and also because it was the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics. My mom waited for a few months before tackling his closets, and she farmed out as much as she could to her brother and son-in-law. Patrick accepted my father’s clothes willingly, though most of them stayed untouched in his closet. The blue and pink flannel was an exception. I loved seeing him in that shirt! I loved seeing my father in that shirt!

I query Google in full sentences: “What are the signs of a toddler urinary tract infection?”; “How do I match wall color paint?”; “What do I do with the deceased’s clothes?” In most cases, Google provides answers for every possible scenario, and it is therefore not terribly helpful. When it came to advice on clearing out possessions, the one consensus I could find was, “Do what feels right to you.”

The first thing of Patrick’s I dealt with was his cell phone, an iPhone, which I felt attached to as an extension of him. It contained his voice, his thoughts in voice memos and notes, photos of things and people that he treasured, records of his activities, medications, doctors’ appointments, and memories of CR and our life as a family. I contemplated keeping his number active, but couldn’t justify the ongoing expense. So, I once again turned to Google: “How do I extract and save all of the data from an iPhone?” This time I found a concrete answer. Patrick’s phone data now lives in various files on our computer’s hard drive, and his iPhone went back to Apple via their recycling program.

His closet, however, remains as he left it – the blue and pink flannel hanging where he last hung it. Our basement is full of the gear we used together: backpacks, skis, bikes, books, Frisbees. It’s just stuff, but it is his stuff, infused with his smell and our memories. I know that I will eventually take the time to go through everything and decide what to keep, sell, or give away. But, not quite yet.

I’m keeping the shirt.

Language of Loss

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I am currently at a professional conference. My daughter, who is three, is with my mom at our home. This is the first time I’ve been away from her for more than the workday since Patrick died. I got a FaceTime call last night from CR, and she was gasping sobs, wanting me to be there as she went to sleep. I sang her some songs– ours are “Twinkle Twinkle” and “Over the Rainbow” — and my mom reported that she went to sleep pretty easily after we had said goodnight.

img_0518The opening speaker at the conference was CNN’s Anderson Cooper, who was promoting his new book about his relationship with his mother, Gloria Vanderbilt. Cooper lost his father when he was only ten years old and lost his brother to suicide when he was a senior in college. He said two things during his talk that I found haunting:

  1. Regarding the death of his father, he said he realized that “all things are possible and nothing is safe.” CR is much younger to have suffered our loss, but I think her tears last night may have been rooted in a fear that, like her father, there is a possibility that I might not come back.
  2. After his brother’s suicide, Cooper sought out war zones to report on because, as he put it, “I wanted to be around people who spoke the language of loss.” CR and I talk about her father on a daily basis, and she usually initiates the conversation. This is our shared experience. My three-year-old and I speak a language of loss that none of our peers have yet learned; Her friends all still have daddies; My friends are either recently married or still single. In my family, I am the first faced with raising a child without a spouse.

Tonight’s bedtime phone call was much better–no heart wrenching sobs–but the anxiousness in CR’s voice about my absence is evidence of this new language she’s been forced to learn. Does the death of someone you love make you instantly fluent in the language of loss, or like all new languages, does it take years to learn?

P.S. The running continues. I am sore, and the soft skin of my feet is tender, but as I alternated walking and running in the crisp air of early morning, I felt hopeful and happy and glad of the effort.

P.P.S. I promise I wrote my blog’s tag line BEFORE I saw Cooper’s book cover!

26.2

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My husband died at 6 am two months ago today. I was sleeping near him and was
awakened by a change in his breathing. I was able to hold his hand as his chest rose and fell for the last time. He was so peaceful and unlabored, surrounded by love and the warmth of our home. Our daughter awoke and called for me at the same moment of his last breath, and I have to believe that we both sensed his passing – a blessing from our wonderful man. He was fully himself until the last day, including his ability to speak and laugh with us.56b3ac43a589b4e5222f65d0.jpg

We sat with him for two hours before the hospice nurses arrived. Our daughter was able to hold his hand and to tell him goodbye. I know she does not fully grasp the impact that today will have on her life, and we will continue to process her father’s death and absence for years to come.

Witnessing my husband’s death carried its own beauty and power. He was my best friend, a deeply devoted son and brother, and the most loving father. He touched so many in his life with his calm manner, attentive listening, and deep intelligence. He faced his terrible brain tumor diagnosis with courage, grace, and hope. His faith remained unshaken, and he faced the end without fear or regret. May we all be so blessed.

The summer I first met my husband, Patrick, I was training for a marathon. I had been a competitive athlete in college, and after graduation, I decided I was going to train for and run a race. I had a summer internship near my college town. All of my friends had left to start their lives. So, at 22, I felt like I didn’t have much else to do besides work and run. There is more to that summer to write about later.

Patrick’s cousin sent around an email last week that he is going to start training for this year’s New York City marathon; he is running to raise money for brain cancer research, and he emailed the family to see who wanted to join the team. I remember thinking after I finished my first one that I would never punish myself in that way again. Never say never. The last week has brought blizzards to our mountain town, but I am planning to strap on my running shoes! The arrival of our daughter, Patrick’s illness, work, and other excuses have sidelined my more athletic ambitions of late. Enough! Fighting cancer is an ultra-marathon! I witnessed Patrick fight so hard, give clinical trials a chance, and endure physical discomfort for nearly two years to try to beat his tumor. What is training for and running a marathon compared to that?!

I am basically starting from zero, but I’m going to start training and fundraising to run. My family, Patrick’s memory, the race, and the cause are just the motivators I need. What I hope will come is a chance to grieve, to reflect on our lives together, and to rebuild my strength. An e.e. cummings poem was central at our wedding and during our marriage: i carry your heart with me. Patrick, I carry your heart into this endeavor and into all things.