When I was a kid, I was really scared of nighttime (and all the scary things in it – mass murderers, monsters, the boogeyman, et al.) I was sure they were in my closet, out in the dark hall, coming up the stairs, peering in the windows. The worst was when I woke up in the middle of the night and everyone else in the house was sleeping. Every creak in the house was terrifying. I couldn’t go to my parents, because doing so would have meant putting my feet on the floor, and there was no doubt that whatever was under my bed would reach out and grab my ankle.
This made for some long, lonely nights. The only thing that helped was the trains. We lived pretty far from the nearest train tracks – probably five miles anyway. But at night, when the world was quiet, I could hear the train whistles. I loved that sound. It meant that someone else somewhere in the world was awake too. It comforted me, made me feel safe somehow. I would lie in the dark, scared to death, and strain my ears until I could almost physically feel them hearing, hoping for the sound of a train – another soul in the night. Once I heard that whistle, I relaxed and could often fall back asleep. I don’t know why they meant so much to me, but they did.
As an adult, I never lived alone before Kirk and I got married – I went straight from home to living with him. That meant that I had never spent a night completely alone until we moved south a few years ago. I moved on ahead of him to start my new job, and he stayed back at home to sell the house and wait for our new one to be built. This meant living apart from him and the kids for about five months. I remember thinking I wasn’t too sure how I would feel about living alone in the temporary apartment. I don’t know why I was still intimidated at night, but I was. And sure enough, the first night was pretty lonely and restless – until I heard the trains. Once again, I somehow ended up a few miles from a railroad crossing, and that made it okay. It happened again when I moved here. I came ahead and lived in an apartment for two months while Kirk wrapped up things in the last house, and once again, the trains were here. I never intentionally looked for apartments near railroads, and never knew they were even there in either place until the first night alone. I loved that something that gave me such comfort in childhood still seemed to follow me in adulthood when I needed it.
You’re probably thinking that they give me comfort again now when there are so many nights without him. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. Oh, they’re here all right. Only a few miles away from the house we bought, and definitely “hearable” at night. But like so many other things, the comfort of the trains has been stolen.
Why? Because of where he died. The accident happened on a highway that runs parallel with the train tracks near us. The impact sent his car off the road and it ended up with its nose right at the base of the small hill that the tracks are on top of. That means that while he was in the car, already “gone” but still in there with the investigation going on around him, the trains were going by him. Only about twenty feet up the embankment. There are at least two regular train runs that happen during the time he was there. Maybe more than two.
I think about the people working on the trains. Mostly the conductor. What did he see? He had to have seen all the flashing lights right next to the tracks as he approached. He must have seen the car – crumpled I imagine. Could he see Kirk waiting there for someone to take him out of the car? Does he see things like this all the time as he drives on the tracks? If so, is he numb to it? Or was he upset at what he saw?
I don’t like the thoughts of the conductor, but they don’t bother me nearly as much as the thought of Kirk in the car while the trains went by. They would have been whistling because at that location they are about to go through a crossing. I can’t think of anything sadder and lonelier than the person I love so much sitting in that car, with strangers taking measurements and making spray paint marks all around him, while the trains pass nearby. So much going on - much of it about him, yet somehow ignoring him as he sat there, probably slumped over the wheel. All those people, all those trains – such busy-ness, such activity, such purpose, such noise, with him in the middle of it, so still. All his busy-ness, activity, purpose, and noise forever snuffed out. Waiting for someone to take him from the car, to show the respect he deserved, to treat him like a person instead of an investigation. This is the picture that comes to my mind now when I hear the trains. Him waiting. While I, too, waited just a few miles away - waited for him to come home, or for someone to call and tell me where he was and why he wasn't home yet.
I hate that in having lost something so big, I have also lost things like the comfort of trains. The small things that could maybe have made this an iota more bearable – gone just like he is, taken from me the minute he was.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
Too Much Spare Time
This past month has been “easier.” I got through the five month mark okay (thank you to everyone who got in touch on or before that day to say you were thinking of us). But here’s the problem with “easier.” It only means I’m not crying as much. I don’t miss him any less, or want him back any less. It only means getting used to it. I’m adjusting.
What does “adjustment” look like? Well for one, I am spending too much money. I counted the other day, and I have bought about 25 pairs of shoes in the last couple of months. Then there’s the clothes and all the other crap. It’s not that I can’t afford it – it’s just that it’s unnecessary, and not the best use of money. I don’t need most of the stuff, but it fills time. It keeps me busy, especially on the weekends, which stretch long and empty in front of me. (This is proof of what I never admitted to him – that it was actually CHEAPER to own a boat than not, because once we owned the boat I stopped going shopping so much. I never told him, but I actually did the math, and the boat, gas, and insurance were less than I spent every month before we owned it!)
I also am car shopping, but that is almost done, and once I buy it, I have no idea what I will do with my free time. Sometimes I think I am dragging out the car decision not just because of my analysis paralysis, but because I subconsciously fear what I will do with my Saturdays.
What I am realizing is that I am not just lonely, I am bored, bored, BORED. I think I might even be borING. Me. I never thought I was, but I am starting to wonder. It’s ironic because Kirk used to tell me I was “no fun.” Always when he wanted me to do something beyond my limits, like enter a hotdog eating contest, or get my picture taken with the Naked Cowboy in Times Square, or go to the bathroom over the side of the boat, or moon a trucker. He would suggest some such ridiculous thing, I would say no, and he would tell me he didn’t understand why I never wanted to participate in any of his “good ideas,” and that I was no fun.
I always dismissed this observation, since he never really meant it, and besides, almost anyone would refuse to do all of those things (I think…). But now that I live without him, I realize that he was the source of everything entertaining that happened. I was the Robin, the Tonto, the perpetual sidekick. I made him better, but on my own I am pretty ordinary, and not too interesting to be around.
I have no hobbies either. I used to like going to the movies, and never minded going alone, but now going alone seems actually lonely. I used to decorate the house, but it’s all done. I used to go boating, but you know the status of that. I am learning to cook, but still don’t like it, and I do work out now, but that’s a chore too. (do you see a theme emerging? BORING…)
Additionally, I stink at making friends. I have never really had to – he was my most important friend, and almost all our other friends came via him. It is especially tough for me because I naturally gravitate much more toward men than women. I have always been more comfortable with men, and that’s been reinforced by usually being primarily with men at work. This all was fine until I became a widow in a strange city. Now I have to figure out how to make friends, and realistically, they can’t really be men. I can’t very well call up some guy I get along well with at work and ask him if he wants to go to a movie or dinner – they are all married and somehow I don’t think their wives would appreciate it. That leaves me with women and couples. I do have two couples I do things with sometimes, and I don’t feel like a fifth wheel with them, but in the end, they are really just occasional social friends.
That leaves me with women. I don’t know what to do with them. Don’t they really just want to be with their husbands, the way I did? How would they have room for me? And why would they want to be MY friend? I have never really had much confidence that anyone actually likes me. I don’t know why – you all really seem to. But somehow the thought of trying someone new – putting myself out there – is scary. Making a friend is kind of like dating I guess – you have to take a risk if you want a chance at something. But then again, you might just get rejected and end up with nothing.
So here I sit – bored, lonely, and to top it all off, whining about being bored and lonely :). That ought to attract new friends by the droves.
What does “adjustment” look like? Well for one, I am spending too much money. I counted the other day, and I have bought about 25 pairs of shoes in the last couple of months. Then there’s the clothes and all the other crap. It’s not that I can’t afford it – it’s just that it’s unnecessary, and not the best use of money. I don’t need most of the stuff, but it fills time. It keeps me busy, especially on the weekends, which stretch long and empty in front of me. (This is proof of what I never admitted to him – that it was actually CHEAPER to own a boat than not, because once we owned the boat I stopped going shopping so much. I never told him, but I actually did the math, and the boat, gas, and insurance were less than I spent every month before we owned it!)
I also am car shopping, but that is almost done, and once I buy it, I have no idea what I will do with my free time. Sometimes I think I am dragging out the car decision not just because of my analysis paralysis, but because I subconsciously fear what I will do with my Saturdays.
What I am realizing is that I am not just lonely, I am bored, bored, BORED. I think I might even be borING. Me. I never thought I was, but I am starting to wonder. It’s ironic because Kirk used to tell me I was “no fun.” Always when he wanted me to do something beyond my limits, like enter a hotdog eating contest, or get my picture taken with the Naked Cowboy in Times Square, or go to the bathroom over the side of the boat, or moon a trucker. He would suggest some such ridiculous thing, I would say no, and he would tell me he didn’t understand why I never wanted to participate in any of his “good ideas,” and that I was no fun.
I always dismissed this observation, since he never really meant it, and besides, almost anyone would refuse to do all of those things (I think…). But now that I live without him, I realize that he was the source of everything entertaining that happened. I was the Robin, the Tonto, the perpetual sidekick. I made him better, but on my own I am pretty ordinary, and not too interesting to be around.
I have no hobbies either. I used to like going to the movies, and never minded going alone, but now going alone seems actually lonely. I used to decorate the house, but it’s all done. I used to go boating, but you know the status of that. I am learning to cook, but still don’t like it, and I do work out now, but that’s a chore too. (do you see a theme emerging? BORING…)
Additionally, I stink at making friends. I have never really had to – he was my most important friend, and almost all our other friends came via him. It is especially tough for me because I naturally gravitate much more toward men than women. I have always been more comfortable with men, and that’s been reinforced by usually being primarily with men at work. This all was fine until I became a widow in a strange city. Now I have to figure out how to make friends, and realistically, they can’t really be men. I can’t very well call up some guy I get along well with at work and ask him if he wants to go to a movie or dinner – they are all married and somehow I don’t think their wives would appreciate it. That leaves me with women and couples. I do have two couples I do things with sometimes, and I don’t feel like a fifth wheel with them, but in the end, they are really just occasional social friends.
That leaves me with women. I don’t know what to do with them. Don’t they really just want to be with their husbands, the way I did? How would they have room for me? And why would they want to be MY friend? I have never really had much confidence that anyone actually likes me. I don’t know why – you all really seem to. But somehow the thought of trying someone new – putting myself out there – is scary. Making a friend is kind of like dating I guess – you have to take a risk if you want a chance at something. But then again, you might just get rejected and end up with nothing.
So here I sit – bored, lonely, and to top it all off, whining about being bored and lonely :). That ought to attract new friends by the droves.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Regrets
I am learning that regrets come with loss. Especially a loss this big. I feel lucky that I have never felt any actual guilt, but I did struggle quite a lot with what I wished I had done differently in our lives together. I regretted that I didn’t come home earlier from work all my life. That I didn’t call him and talk to him that day. That I didn’t tell him more often that I appreciated him. That we never went to Australia, Alaska, and Hawaii like we wanted. That we never took the cruise we always wanted to take with some friends. That I told him if he wanted to go on an elk hunt he had to get a job first. That I never surprised him like I always meant to with U.S. Open tickets (tennis) for his birthday. That we ever moved to the place that put him in that spot on that day. On and on and on.
When I was home a couple of months ago I was thinking about all these regrets while driving to the cemetery to “visit” him. I was thinking that I had the regrets even though he would not have wanted me to, but I didn’t seem to be able to help it. Then I started thinking about making sure I have no regrets when I die someday. This suddenly made me realize that if he had known he was at the end of his life, HE might have had regrets. I was shocked and horrified at the thought. I started making a list in my head of what I thought he would regret. I feel confident that I could make the right list – when you live with someone for so long you know their thoughts well enough to make their list. I won’t go into what was on his list, because it is his, not mine to share. But that day I had a long talk with him about the fact that he should not have any regrets about anything between us, and I REALLY meant it. He made mistakes, and I’ve made mistakes, but in the end, I think we were stronger and better for having made them. Without them I don’t know that we would have achieved what we did. And in the end, even if he made mistakes in life regarding us or anyting else, they ALWAYS came from the best of intentions, but perhaps ended up being mistakes when viewed in hindsight. He loved us and we knew it, and he was a good person who treated others fairly and well. A good legacy for anyone.
Since then, I have largely been able to let go of my own regrets. By feeling how much I didn’t want him to regret anything, I realized that I shouldn’t. Not because we wouldn’t want each other to, but because there was really no need for them.
Except for one thing. I really regret taking the truck that day. More than ANYTHING, I regret taking the truck – if he had been driving it would he have lived? The impact would have been lower down – would it have made a difference? I will never know, and I will always regret this one thing.
When I was home a couple of months ago I was thinking about all these regrets while driving to the cemetery to “visit” him. I was thinking that I had the regrets even though he would not have wanted me to, but I didn’t seem to be able to help it. Then I started thinking about making sure I have no regrets when I die someday. This suddenly made me realize that if he had known he was at the end of his life, HE might have had regrets. I was shocked and horrified at the thought. I started making a list in my head of what I thought he would regret. I feel confident that I could make the right list – when you live with someone for so long you know their thoughts well enough to make their list. I won’t go into what was on his list, because it is his, not mine to share. But that day I had a long talk with him about the fact that he should not have any regrets about anything between us, and I REALLY meant it. He made mistakes, and I’ve made mistakes, but in the end, I think we were stronger and better for having made them. Without them I don’t know that we would have achieved what we did. And in the end, even if he made mistakes in life regarding us or anyting else, they ALWAYS came from the best of intentions, but perhaps ended up being mistakes when viewed in hindsight. He loved us and we knew it, and he was a good person who treated others fairly and well. A good legacy for anyone.
Since then, I have largely been able to let go of my own regrets. By feeling how much I didn’t want him to regret anything, I realized that I shouldn’t. Not because we wouldn’t want each other to, but because there was really no need for them.
Except for one thing. I really regret taking the truck that day. More than ANYTHING, I regret taking the truck – if he had been driving it would he have lived? The impact would have been lower down – would it have made a difference? I will never know, and I will always regret this one thing.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Funny Thought
I am posting twice tonight - my first daily double. This second entry is happier than the first. It is a funny memory I had forgotten that just came back to me, and I am enjoying it so much I decided to share. It might be too graphic for some of you, but I think you'll decide it's worth it.
Kirk and I pretty much went to bed at the same time as each other every night. I say "pretty much" because we always meant to go at the same time, but in reality what often happened was that he would go to bed, and ask me if I was coming. I would tell him I'd be right in. He (because he knew me and my version of time) would say "what does "right in" mean?" I would give him a variety of answers - anywhere between two and twenty minutes. However, I often didn't get there quite as fast as I committed. If it really took me a long time, he would come out and give me a look of humorous exasperation, and I would jump up from whatever I was doing and go to bed.
I don't know why I delayed - we both loved that time together. Cuddling, watching TV and laughing together, talking quietly - whatever. Then falling asleep all wrapped up in each other. It was one of the best times of the day, which is why he was always anxious for me to come in and join him.
At any rate, about a year ago, there was a night when I took a lot longer than I said I would to come in. In reality, it was probably about 20 minutes. When I got there, he said it had taken me forever. I said it hadn't - that it was only a few minutes. We bantered back and forth about it. Finally, he said he could prove that I had kept him waiting a really long time, and that I would agree he was right. I asked how, and this is what he said:
"If you went to the doctor, and he stuck his finger in your butt for that long, would it be a REALLY long time, or not?"
After laughing so hard I thought I would wet my pants, I acknowledged that the amount of time it took me to come to bed that night would indeed have been a VERY long time to have the doctor's finger in my butt. From that day on, I came to bed much faster, and if I was even a few minutes later than I said I would be, he would come and and wiggle his finger at me or pretend to be putting rubber gloves on. It worked every time.
A very funny thought - one of many, courtesy of Kirk.
Kirk and I pretty much went to bed at the same time as each other every night. I say "pretty much" because we always meant to go at the same time, but in reality what often happened was that he would go to bed, and ask me if I was coming. I would tell him I'd be right in. He (because he knew me and my version of time) would say "what does "right in" mean?" I would give him a variety of answers - anywhere between two and twenty minutes. However, I often didn't get there quite as fast as I committed. If it really took me a long time, he would come out and give me a look of humorous exasperation, and I would jump up from whatever I was doing and go to bed.
I don't know why I delayed - we both loved that time together. Cuddling, watching TV and laughing together, talking quietly - whatever. Then falling asleep all wrapped up in each other. It was one of the best times of the day, which is why he was always anxious for me to come in and join him.
At any rate, about a year ago, there was a night when I took a lot longer than I said I would to come in. In reality, it was probably about 20 minutes. When I got there, he said it had taken me forever. I said it hadn't - that it was only a few minutes. We bantered back and forth about it. Finally, he said he could prove that I had kept him waiting a really long time, and that I would agree he was right. I asked how, and this is what he said:
"If you went to the doctor, and he stuck his finger in your butt for that long, would it be a REALLY long time, or not?"
After laughing so hard I thought I would wet my pants, I acknowledged that the amount of time it took me to come to bed that night would indeed have been a VERY long time to have the doctor's finger in my butt. From that day on, I came to bed much faster, and if I was even a few minutes later than I said I would be, he would come and and wiggle his finger at me or pretend to be putting rubber gloves on. It worked every time.
A very funny thought - one of many, courtesy of Kirk.
The Worst Day of My Lfe
When I was in college, I took a stress management class. Not because I thought I needed it, but because I needed an elective and it fit my schedule. It turned out to be pretty interesting though, and I learned a thing or two that I have used ever since.
The biggest one is something I learned to say to myself whenever something frustrating or upsetting was going on. It is also something I taught the kids. Well, mostly Erika. She has been prone to getting upset over small things her whole life (understatement of the year), and for much of her life, she had downright drama queen tendencies. As such, she heard this from me a LOT. (Side note – to her credit, she has matured out of the drama queen mindset the past few years.)
So what is this technique? It’s a very simple statement that you say to yourself to put things in perspective when something goes wrong. Here it is:
“If this is the worst thing that happens in your entire life, think how lucky you will have been.”
Think about it. Long line at the DMV? Not so bad if it’s the worst thing that ever happens to you. Late for an important appointment? Not so bad either. Stuck in traffic? Also minor in the scheme of life. Until recently, this really helped me keep the frustrations of day to day life in perspective. Even Erika, in adulthood, acknowledged to me a few years ago that it was a good way to look at things.
Then came the day Kirk died. Suddenly the statement didn’t help anymore. Erika and I actually talked about the fact that we now knew exactly what day was the worst day of our lives. At one point, I even remember thinking that if anything, this was going to make life’s little glitches even less frustrating because they would seem even more inconsequential.
Turns out I was wrong. Instead of making the small things less important, they suddenly have become unbearable at times. Because they are just too much to deal with on top of the rest of the awfulness. At this point, I am within a few days of the five month anniversary of his death. So far, here are the candidates I have for “the worst day of my life”:
1. The obvious choice – the day he died.
2. The day after he died. This might have been worse than the day he died, because it was the first FULL day without him – at least on the day he died I – and he - had a good day for most of the day. I will never forget that second day – it was incredibly painful, raw with emotion, exhausting. I could not process even the smallest piece of information. My sister Jennifer arrived that day – it was the only good thing about the day, and was the beginning of her taking such good care of me.
3. Two days after he died. Erika arrived that day, and again, it was a huge relief. But it was also the first day I saw him after he died. I had been so anxious to see him, but it was like a punch to the gut in real life. Thank God Erika and Jenny were there.
4. The day Erika and I flew home to bury him. I will never ever forget walking through the airport at home and seeing Matt for the first time. I had been so anxious to see him – it had been 5 days since the accident and it was far too long to go without seeing him. I remember seeing him down the hall in the airport and feeling what was perhaps the biggest rush of emotion (relief, happiness, grief, all mixed up together) I have ever felt, and then getting to him and holding each other so tight and crying and crying in the middle of baggage claim. Then Erika caught up with us and we were three holding and crying. I was so relieved to be with them both at the same time, to be touching both of them together. But there was one person – such an important person – missing. We clung to each other, me in the middle, walking to the rental car counter, pressed together so tight there was no air between us. I remember Matt saying “There are supposed to be four of us.”
5. The day we buried him.
6. The day after we buried him – the first day without him that was not a blur of activity and decisions. The first day that I saw what felt like the dark, open mouth of the rest of my life without him. I remember feeling like I was going to have a panic attack at the thought of it – it was too much to bear to think of never ever seeing him again.
7. The day I went to the Social Security Administration and had to sign something saying our marriage had ended. I do NOT consider our marriage over – not then and not now.
8. Matt’s birthday – the first important family day without Kirk, AND there was a tornado here; I remember sitting in the bathtub (the bathroom is my shelter room) in the pitch dark listening to the wind and praying nothing would happen to me, or Matt would have lost both parents, one of them on his birthday.
9. Father’s Day.
10. Fourth of July – one of my favorite holidays, and one that we have a lot of tradition around.
11. Kirk’s birthday.
12. The day before his birthday, when I should have been home with family but was stuck in Atlanta instead because weather made me miss my flight.
13. Every day on which anything crappy happened since he died.
I know a lot of those other days don’t seem like they could be as bad as the day he died, but sometimes I think they are worse in a way because they are ON TOP OF not having him.
So much for successful stress management. Just add it to the list of everything, big and small, that I have lost.
The biggest one is something I learned to say to myself whenever something frustrating or upsetting was going on. It is also something I taught the kids. Well, mostly Erika. She has been prone to getting upset over small things her whole life (understatement of the year), and for much of her life, she had downright drama queen tendencies. As such, she heard this from me a LOT. (Side note – to her credit, she has matured out of the drama queen mindset the past few years.)
So what is this technique? It’s a very simple statement that you say to yourself to put things in perspective when something goes wrong. Here it is:
“If this is the worst thing that happens in your entire life, think how lucky you will have been.”
Think about it. Long line at the DMV? Not so bad if it’s the worst thing that ever happens to you. Late for an important appointment? Not so bad either. Stuck in traffic? Also minor in the scheme of life. Until recently, this really helped me keep the frustrations of day to day life in perspective. Even Erika, in adulthood, acknowledged to me a few years ago that it was a good way to look at things.
Then came the day Kirk died. Suddenly the statement didn’t help anymore. Erika and I actually talked about the fact that we now knew exactly what day was the worst day of our lives. At one point, I even remember thinking that if anything, this was going to make life’s little glitches even less frustrating because they would seem even more inconsequential.
Turns out I was wrong. Instead of making the small things less important, they suddenly have become unbearable at times. Because they are just too much to deal with on top of the rest of the awfulness. At this point, I am within a few days of the five month anniversary of his death. So far, here are the candidates I have for “the worst day of my life”:
1. The obvious choice – the day he died.
2. The day after he died. This might have been worse than the day he died, because it was the first FULL day without him – at least on the day he died I – and he - had a good day for most of the day. I will never forget that second day – it was incredibly painful, raw with emotion, exhausting. I could not process even the smallest piece of information. My sister Jennifer arrived that day – it was the only good thing about the day, and was the beginning of her taking such good care of me.
3. Two days after he died. Erika arrived that day, and again, it was a huge relief. But it was also the first day I saw him after he died. I had been so anxious to see him, but it was like a punch to the gut in real life. Thank God Erika and Jenny were there.
4. The day Erika and I flew home to bury him. I will never ever forget walking through the airport at home and seeing Matt for the first time. I had been so anxious to see him – it had been 5 days since the accident and it was far too long to go without seeing him. I remember seeing him down the hall in the airport and feeling what was perhaps the biggest rush of emotion (relief, happiness, grief, all mixed up together) I have ever felt, and then getting to him and holding each other so tight and crying and crying in the middle of baggage claim. Then Erika caught up with us and we were three holding and crying. I was so relieved to be with them both at the same time, to be touching both of them together. But there was one person – such an important person – missing. We clung to each other, me in the middle, walking to the rental car counter, pressed together so tight there was no air between us. I remember Matt saying “There are supposed to be four of us.”
5. The day we buried him.
6. The day after we buried him – the first day without him that was not a blur of activity and decisions. The first day that I saw what felt like the dark, open mouth of the rest of my life without him. I remember feeling like I was going to have a panic attack at the thought of it – it was too much to bear to think of never ever seeing him again.
7. The day I went to the Social Security Administration and had to sign something saying our marriage had ended. I do NOT consider our marriage over – not then and not now.
8. Matt’s birthday – the first important family day without Kirk, AND there was a tornado here; I remember sitting in the bathtub (the bathroom is my shelter room) in the pitch dark listening to the wind and praying nothing would happen to me, or Matt would have lost both parents, one of them on his birthday.
9. Father’s Day.
10. Fourth of July – one of my favorite holidays, and one that we have a lot of tradition around.
11. Kirk’s birthday.
12. The day before his birthday, when I should have been home with family but was stuck in Atlanta instead because weather made me miss my flight.
13. Every day on which anything crappy happened since he died.
I know a lot of those other days don’t seem like they could be as bad as the day he died, but sometimes I think they are worse in a way because they are ON TOP OF not having him.
So much for successful stress management. Just add it to the list of everything, big and small, that I have lost.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Faith
The question of the afterlife continues to be a struggle for me. Where Kirk is, if he is, what he is, whether he is aware of us. At first, it was a constant struggle – seemingly every minute of every day. The need for a “sign” or a sense of his presence consumed me. I want so much for there to be something after death – some state in which he is not fully gone, through which we are still connected. My faith in this is stronger at times, then weakens, then strengthens again. Faith is not something I struggled with before I lost him – the topics about which I had remaining questions were just not burning issues for me. But now, it’s all different.
There is a book I read every day – I have referenced it before on this site. It is called “Healing After Loss – Daily Meditations for Working Through Grief” by Martha Whitmore Hickman. This book is very helpful and thought-provoking for me, and often references the heart of what I am feeling and questioning about the afterlife (and other topics). It does not offer answers – just thoughts. Here are some quotes from the book that are so true of what I go through with regard to this topic. (NOTE: I have tried to use these quotes correctly, and to give credit where it is due. I trust that Ms. Hickman will not be too hard on me if I don’t know the proper way of crediting her, and those she quotes in her book. Please note that anywhere I type “…” it means I have skipped some text that is not relevant to my point, and also that all italics are added by me. Hopefully this will keep any lawyers happy.)
“Faith is a way of waiting – never quite knowing, never quite hearing or seeing, because in the land of the darkness we are all but a little lost. There is doubt hard on the heels of every belief, fear hard on the heels of every hope.” (Frederick Buechner)
And also, from Martha Whitmore Hickman – “we can never really be sure for long that the particulars of our faith, our hope, are what we would like to believe they are…Because as sunshine follows rain follows sunshine, faith, as it waits, moves from confidence into doubt into confidence again…And every once in a while some minor miracle of insight and confidence, some serendipity with no explanation other than grace, renews us, and we are willing to relinquish our need to know the details. Instead, we trust that all shall be well.”
This is exactly what is happening with me – I cycle between quiet belief in something I have no proof of, and an urgent need for observations, details, evidence. Faith is not easy for the analytical, empirical evidence-oriented person that I am. Please know that I when I talk about “faith” I never mean God. I am just referring to the ability to believe in something in the absence of any evidence.
Slowly, though, I feel myself moving toward more moments where I believe than moments where I question. I am being helped in this effort by some things that are not hard evidence, but that do carry weight with me.
One of the things that has helped me is a conversation I had with my sister Lauren a few weeks ago. We were talking about the afterlife, and she told me that one of the things she thinks about is that there is so much in our world that we do not understand. We talked about the fact that there are many phenomena that humans have yet to figure out, and the fact that we haven’t figured them out or explained them doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Since that conversation I have thought a lot about the fact that I have always believed that there are many things we can’t experience with our five senses, but still likely exist. For example, we haven’t yet found life in outer space, but I firmly believe it must be out there – it is too illogical to think that we happen to live on the only planet that sustains any form of life.
Another thing that gives me hope is that I have learned that Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, an expert on death, believed based on her observations that there is an afterlife. The fact that a woman who was a scientist at heart, and who spent many many hours with people who were on the verge of death, believed in the afterlife carries some weight with me. I am trying to learn more about what she based her belief on, but for now, this also points me toward faith.
And finally, most importantly, there is Kirk. I have been waiting and waiting for him to somehow prove to me that he still exists. A “sign,” a ghost, a voice that answers when I talk to him, a spiritual feeling inside me – SOMETHING - anything. But I have been thinking lately that this is unfair to him. What a big burden I am putting on him! He has cared for me for so many years, always making sure I have what I need and want in every way. Is that why I still expect him to help me? I don’t know, but I am starting to realize that it is too much to expect. I'm now starting to think it is up to me to figure out what I believe, rather than up to him to convince me.
Still, I kept expecting something from him. But recently, it came to me that maybe I am looking in the wrong place for what he can give me in the way of assurance. I am looking in the “now” for the sign, the proof. The truth is, I think maybe he gave it to me long before he died.
To understand the significance of what I am about to tell you, you have to really understand Kirk and who he was. He was never prone to wild theories, or speculation, or fantasy. Like me, he liked data and personal observation – trust and faith were not characteristics he was long on. He was completely grounded in reality. Keep this in mind as I tell you this story.
A few years ago, Kirk and I went out to a restaurant back home. Once we were seated, our server came over, and he realized that she was a woman who had known his parents when he was a child. He told her who he was and they chatted for a minute, then she left to get our drinks. After she left, he told me that she and her family had moved into a house after he and his family had moved out of it. He told me it was the house in which he had seen “the lady.”
I knew right away what he was talking about - it was a story he had told me before. The house was an older home, and he had lived there when he was pretty young. His Mom and Dad would know for sure, but I’m guessing he was perhaps somewhere between 5 and 7 at the time. In a certain room of that house, he would sometimes see a woman – no one he knew (whenever he talked about this he always called her “the lady”). I believe he said his sister also saw the woman in that same room sometimes. He told his parents, but they never saw the woman, and I am sure dismissed his comments as imagination. He also says that in that house, he would sometimes see a black and white cat in the pantry. There was a barn in back of the house with barn cats in it, and whenever he saw the cat in the pantry he thought it was one of the barn cats, who were not allowed in the house. When he saw it he would try to catch it, because he thought his dad would be mad if he came home and found one of the barn cats in the house. He would try over and over to catch the cat, but could never catch it – to his recollection, the cat would get away from him, and then disappear.
Understand that this is not a story he told to anyone except me. He was very sure about what he saw, but would never risk looking silly to others. I don't think he ever used the word "ghost" when talking about it, but that is definitely what he believed he saw. I have to admit that although I didn’t totally dismiss what he told me, I did think that he was a pretty young kid when it happened and it could have been imagination.
At any rate, we had a good dinner, and by the time we were done eating, the restaurant was quiet. The server didn’t have any other tables, so she sat down and visited with us. Finally, she said with some hesitance that she wanted to ask him something. She asked him if he had ever seen “a woman” when he lived in the house – had he ever seen something that could be a ghost. He was stunned. He finally said “yes, I did.” She said that when she moved into the house, her children (who Kirk did not know) were pretty young, and that they would insist to her that they saw a woman in one of the rooms in the house. Like Kirk's parents, she never saw the woman, but her kids, who were now adults, continued to maintain that they were sure they saw a ghost in that room. Kirk asked her where the kids would see the woman, and she named the room (I think it was an upstairs bedroom) and he said that was definitely the right room. He asked her about the cat, but she had no recollection of her kids seeing a cat.
From that day forward, I believed that he did actually see something. I had forgotten about this until recently, and it now occurs to me that through Kirk I have indeed received some evidence of things we do not know or understand – I got it from him a long time ago in the form of his own experience.
Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, life in outer space and other undiscovered phenomena, and Kirk’s “lady.” That’s the foundation on which I am building some faith. And also, if I am honest, pure desire – the desire to believe that he is not fully gone, that we are still connected by more than love and my memory, and that I will “see him” again someday.
There is a book I read every day – I have referenced it before on this site. It is called “Healing After Loss – Daily Meditations for Working Through Grief” by Martha Whitmore Hickman. This book is very helpful and thought-provoking for me, and often references the heart of what I am feeling and questioning about the afterlife (and other topics). It does not offer answers – just thoughts. Here are some quotes from the book that are so true of what I go through with regard to this topic. (NOTE: I have tried to use these quotes correctly, and to give credit where it is due. I trust that Ms. Hickman will not be too hard on me if I don’t know the proper way of crediting her, and those she quotes in her book. Please note that anywhere I type “…” it means I have skipped some text that is not relevant to my point, and also that all italics are added by me. Hopefully this will keep any lawyers happy.)
“Faith is a way of waiting – never quite knowing, never quite hearing or seeing, because in the land of the darkness we are all but a little lost. There is doubt hard on the heels of every belief, fear hard on the heels of every hope.” (Frederick Buechner)
And also, from Martha Whitmore Hickman – “we can never really be sure for long that the particulars of our faith, our hope, are what we would like to believe they are…Because as sunshine follows rain follows sunshine, faith, as it waits, moves from confidence into doubt into confidence again…And every once in a while some minor miracle of insight and confidence, some serendipity with no explanation other than grace, renews us, and we are willing to relinquish our need to know the details. Instead, we trust that all shall be well.”
This is exactly what is happening with me – I cycle between quiet belief in something I have no proof of, and an urgent need for observations, details, evidence. Faith is not easy for the analytical, empirical evidence-oriented person that I am. Please know that I when I talk about “faith” I never mean God. I am just referring to the ability to believe in something in the absence of any evidence.
Slowly, though, I feel myself moving toward more moments where I believe than moments where I question. I am being helped in this effort by some things that are not hard evidence, but that do carry weight with me.
One of the things that has helped me is a conversation I had with my sister Lauren a few weeks ago. We were talking about the afterlife, and she told me that one of the things she thinks about is that there is so much in our world that we do not understand. We talked about the fact that there are many phenomena that humans have yet to figure out, and the fact that we haven’t figured them out or explained them doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Since that conversation I have thought a lot about the fact that I have always believed that there are many things we can’t experience with our five senses, but still likely exist. For example, we haven’t yet found life in outer space, but I firmly believe it must be out there – it is too illogical to think that we happen to live on the only planet that sustains any form of life.
Another thing that gives me hope is that I have learned that Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, an expert on death, believed based on her observations that there is an afterlife. The fact that a woman who was a scientist at heart, and who spent many many hours with people who were on the verge of death, believed in the afterlife carries some weight with me. I am trying to learn more about what she based her belief on, but for now, this also points me toward faith.
And finally, most importantly, there is Kirk. I have been waiting and waiting for him to somehow prove to me that he still exists. A “sign,” a ghost, a voice that answers when I talk to him, a spiritual feeling inside me – SOMETHING - anything. But I have been thinking lately that this is unfair to him. What a big burden I am putting on him! He has cared for me for so many years, always making sure I have what I need and want in every way. Is that why I still expect him to help me? I don’t know, but I am starting to realize that it is too much to expect. I'm now starting to think it is up to me to figure out what I believe, rather than up to him to convince me.
Still, I kept expecting something from him. But recently, it came to me that maybe I am looking in the wrong place for what he can give me in the way of assurance. I am looking in the “now” for the sign, the proof. The truth is, I think maybe he gave it to me long before he died.
To understand the significance of what I am about to tell you, you have to really understand Kirk and who he was. He was never prone to wild theories, or speculation, or fantasy. Like me, he liked data and personal observation – trust and faith were not characteristics he was long on. He was completely grounded in reality. Keep this in mind as I tell you this story.
A few years ago, Kirk and I went out to a restaurant back home. Once we were seated, our server came over, and he realized that she was a woman who had known his parents when he was a child. He told her who he was and they chatted for a minute, then she left to get our drinks. After she left, he told me that she and her family had moved into a house after he and his family had moved out of it. He told me it was the house in which he had seen “the lady.”
I knew right away what he was talking about - it was a story he had told me before. The house was an older home, and he had lived there when he was pretty young. His Mom and Dad would know for sure, but I’m guessing he was perhaps somewhere between 5 and 7 at the time. In a certain room of that house, he would sometimes see a woman – no one he knew (whenever he talked about this he always called her “the lady”). I believe he said his sister also saw the woman in that same room sometimes. He told his parents, but they never saw the woman, and I am sure dismissed his comments as imagination. He also says that in that house, he would sometimes see a black and white cat in the pantry. There was a barn in back of the house with barn cats in it, and whenever he saw the cat in the pantry he thought it was one of the barn cats, who were not allowed in the house. When he saw it he would try to catch it, because he thought his dad would be mad if he came home and found one of the barn cats in the house. He would try over and over to catch the cat, but could never catch it – to his recollection, the cat would get away from him, and then disappear.
Understand that this is not a story he told to anyone except me. He was very sure about what he saw, but would never risk looking silly to others. I don't think he ever used the word "ghost" when talking about it, but that is definitely what he believed he saw. I have to admit that although I didn’t totally dismiss what he told me, I did think that he was a pretty young kid when it happened and it could have been imagination.
At any rate, we had a good dinner, and by the time we were done eating, the restaurant was quiet. The server didn’t have any other tables, so she sat down and visited with us. Finally, she said with some hesitance that she wanted to ask him something. She asked him if he had ever seen “a woman” when he lived in the house – had he ever seen something that could be a ghost. He was stunned. He finally said “yes, I did.” She said that when she moved into the house, her children (who Kirk did not know) were pretty young, and that they would insist to her that they saw a woman in one of the rooms in the house. Like Kirk's parents, she never saw the woman, but her kids, who were now adults, continued to maintain that they were sure they saw a ghost in that room. Kirk asked her where the kids would see the woman, and she named the room (I think it was an upstairs bedroom) and he said that was definitely the right room. He asked her about the cat, but she had no recollection of her kids seeing a cat.
From that day forward, I believed that he did actually see something. I had forgotten about this until recently, and it now occurs to me that through Kirk I have indeed received some evidence of things we do not know or understand – I got it from him a long time ago in the form of his own experience.
Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, life in outer space and other undiscovered phenomena, and Kirk’s “lady.” That’s the foundation on which I am building some faith. And also, if I am honest, pure desire – the desire to believe that he is not fully gone, that we are still connected by more than love and my memory, and that I will “see him” again someday.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
A Good Memory
I have not written since his birthday. Free time seems very short since I have been trying to get some exercise each night – I often do not even eat until 10 p.m., and then have no energy for writing, even though I have lots of stuff backed up inside me that I need to get out. But once again tonight it is too late to write much.
If I was going to write a lot tonight, much of what I would say would be unhappy. But since I am keeping it short, I will share a good memory that came back to me today when I was driving. I remembered it when I was behind an eighteen wheeler that had one of those “How Is My Driving?” stickers on it.
Kirk and I were in the car, and talking about how people seem to only give feedback in this world when they are unhappy. Very rarely does anyone make the call or send the email about how happy we are with the service we got or whatever. As we were talking about this, a truck went by with one of those stickers. He started laughing and telling me what a good driver the guy was, and that he was going to call the number and tell them. He put the phone on speaker, and this is about how the conversation went:
Operator: Hello, how can I help you?
Kirk: I am calling in a report on one of your drivers.
O: Can you see the truck number on the sticker?
K: Yes, it’s XXXX.
O: Thank you. What is the driver doing?
K: He is driving extremely well.
O: (long pause) Excuse me?
K: He’s a very good driver and he is doing everything right.
O: I’m not sure what you mean.
K: Well, for one, he is driving in a straight line.
O: That’s good right?
K: Yes – I really appreciate it. He is also using his turn signals.
O: I guess that’s good too. (she’s starting to get it now)
K: He is maintaining a perfect distance behind the car in front of him too.
O: Okay.
K: I think he could be the best driver I have ever seen. I would like to commend him for it.
O: All right.
K: He is such a good driver you should give him a raise.
O: I’m afraid I don’t control that sir.
K: Who does?
O: His employer. I do not work for them – this is a service.
K: Can you put me through to his boss?
O: No sir. But I will relay the information to his employer.
K: Thank you – what is your name?
O: Mary (or whatever)
K: Hello Mary. Are you a good driver?
O: Well I guess so.
K: Don’t you know?
O: I guess I am.
K: Well do you drive in a straight line? And use your turn signals?
O: Yes I do.
K: Well you sound like a good driver to me. Would you like me to tell your boss?
O: (laughing now) No, that’s okay.
K: I’d be happy to – just put her on the phone.
O: No it’s really okay.
And so on and so on. Just a typical conversation between Kirk and a stranger. Before hanging up, he made her promise she would really file the report. He loved thinking about that guy getting told someone had called to report him driving perfectly.
As I was thinking about this I thought it is pretty ironic that a person who actually bothered to report someone driving safely was killed by someone else who wasn’t. But that was Kirk, and it’s still a good memory for me. I’m glad it came back.
If I was going to write a lot tonight, much of what I would say would be unhappy. But since I am keeping it short, I will share a good memory that came back to me today when I was driving. I remembered it when I was behind an eighteen wheeler that had one of those “How Is My Driving?” stickers on it.
Kirk and I were in the car, and talking about how people seem to only give feedback in this world when they are unhappy. Very rarely does anyone make the call or send the email about how happy we are with the service we got or whatever. As we were talking about this, a truck went by with one of those stickers. He started laughing and telling me what a good driver the guy was, and that he was going to call the number and tell them. He put the phone on speaker, and this is about how the conversation went:
Operator: Hello, how can I help you?
Kirk: I am calling in a report on one of your drivers.
O: Can you see the truck number on the sticker?
K: Yes, it’s XXXX.
O: Thank you. What is the driver doing?
K: He is driving extremely well.
O: (long pause) Excuse me?
K: He’s a very good driver and he is doing everything right.
O: I’m not sure what you mean.
K: Well, for one, he is driving in a straight line.
O: That’s good right?
K: Yes – I really appreciate it. He is also using his turn signals.
O: I guess that’s good too. (she’s starting to get it now)
K: He is maintaining a perfect distance behind the car in front of him too.
O: Okay.
K: I think he could be the best driver I have ever seen. I would like to commend him for it.
O: All right.
K: He is such a good driver you should give him a raise.
O: I’m afraid I don’t control that sir.
K: Who does?
O: His employer. I do not work for them – this is a service.
K: Can you put me through to his boss?
O: No sir. But I will relay the information to his employer.
K: Thank you – what is your name?
O: Mary (or whatever)
K: Hello Mary. Are you a good driver?
O: Well I guess so.
K: Don’t you know?
O: I guess I am.
K: Well do you drive in a straight line? And use your turn signals?
O: Yes I do.
K: Well you sound like a good driver to me. Would you like me to tell your boss?
O: (laughing now) No, that’s okay.
K: I’d be happy to – just put her on the phone.
O: No it’s really okay.
And so on and so on. Just a typical conversation between Kirk and a stranger. Before hanging up, he made her promise she would really file the report. He loved thinking about that guy getting told someone had called to report him driving perfectly.
As I was thinking about this I thought it is pretty ironic that a person who actually bothered to report someone driving safely was killed by someone else who wasn’t. But that was Kirk, and it’s still a good memory for me. I’m glad it came back.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Sorry to Disappoint
Just a quick post tonight, in response to the many emails I have gotten about last night's post. The answer is NO, I do not have any pictures of me with drawings on my face. Sorry to disappoint.
While I am addressing comments, I will mention one other item. One of my sisters has helpfully pointed out that in the photo of me, Kirk, and the kids that is labeled "The Early Years," I appear to be wearing Amish clothing. Let me clarify two things: (1) I am not and have never been even close to Amish in my choice of attire, and (2) the dress in the photo actually belonged to the sister who now says I look Amish. If the shoe fits...
I am heading back home tomorrow night to be there for Kirk's 50th birthday. He would not have wanted a party - his birthday choice was always to stay home alone with family, have a great meal, and enjoy a good glass of wine. Well, actually, the wine was usually in a giant yellow plastic cup from Rudy's Barbeque. But you get the point - low key was his preference. However, this is a birthday I cannot ignore or hide from, so we are meeting it head-on and celebrating instead. We will remember, make a toast, laugh, probably cry some. In short, celebrate having had him in our lives. Feel free to do the same.
While I am addressing comments, I will mention one other item. One of my sisters has helpfully pointed out that in the photo of me, Kirk, and the kids that is labeled "The Early Years," I appear to be wearing Amish clothing. Let me clarify two things: (1) I am not and have never been even close to Amish in my choice of attire, and (2) the dress in the photo actually belonged to the sister who now says I look Amish. If the shoe fits...
I am heading back home tomorrow night to be there for Kirk's 50th birthday. He would not have wanted a party - his birthday choice was always to stay home alone with family, have a great meal, and enjoy a good glass of wine. Well, actually, the wine was usually in a giant yellow plastic cup from Rudy's Barbeque. But you get the point - low key was his preference. However, this is a birthday I cannot ignore or hide from, so we are meeting it head-on and celebrating instead. We will remember, make a toast, laugh, probably cry some. In short, celebrate having had him in our lives. Feel free to do the same.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Memories That Make Me Laugh
I promised that this next post would be happy, and so it is. I thought I’d share some of the family memories that you may not know.
Most of you who know us know that Kirk’s role is to be the comedy man, and mine is to be the long-suffering target of his humor. We both knew our parts well, and enjoyed them thoroughly.
One of the many torments I endured would happen when I took a weekend nap, or if I came home really tired from work and fell asleep on the couch. He would wait until he was sure I was pretty deeply asleep, and then would draw on my face, generally with eyeliner. Over the years, I have woken up with cat whiskers, a Dudley DoRight mustache, a devil's horns and goatee, and every other manner of artistry. Hard to believe someone could sleep right through it all, but I can.
Two of these events in particular come to mind. The first occurred when Erika was probably about 10 years old. I came home from work, and promptly dozed off on the couch while Kirk was getting ready to make dinner. Erika (who gets her sense of humor straight from her father) wanted to draw on my face. After some consultation, they agreed on a Charlie Chaplin/Adolf Hitler mustache. They proceeded to give me a nice replica. They then woke me up and told me Kirk needed me to run to the store for something he needed for dinner. I dragged myself up off the couch, picked up my purse, and headed toward the front door. I could see that they were acting pretty amused at something, but this was pretty normal so I didn’t think anything of it. Just as I left the house I heard Kirk say to Erika “I can’t – I just can’t.” I looked back to see him coming after me, while she held onto his arm trying to drag him back saying, “No, no, don’t tell her!” He told me to come back and look in the mirror, and much to my horror, there was the mustache. She was fully prepared to let me go out in public with that thing on my face. Fortunately he knew that my willingness to be the straight man has limits, and this was one it was best not to cross.
On another occasion, I fell asleep on the couch on Halloween. He left me there and went to bed. I woke up about midnight, and got up to go in the bedroom. The whole house was dark, and when I stopped in the bathroom on the way to bed, I turned on the light, looked in the mirror, and screamed out loud. While I was sleeping, he had drawn an enormous spider web and spider on my face. It stretched fully from side to side and top to bottom. The end of my nose was colored black, and was the spider’s body. Its head was drawn on the bridge of my nose, and there were 8 long legs drawn from my nose onto my cheeks. The rest of my face – chin, forehead, outer cheeks, even my eyelids, had a perfect spider web pattern on them. It was a more elaborate job than any member of Kiss ever dreamed of, and in my groggy state, it scared me half to death.
Kirk also greatly enjoyed what he called “funny thoughts.” This was his term for when a person is thinking, and thinks of something so funny they actually laugh out loud. If he laughed out loud without provocation, and I asked why, and his answer was “funny thought” you could pretty much guarantee he had just thought of some new practical joke he could play on me.
I, on the other hand, am not overly prone to “funny thoughts.” I think about funny things, but few are so funny they make me laugh out loud, and that is the key criteria for being classified as a “funny thought” in Kirk’s book. However, there is one thing that he knew 100% qualified as a funny thought for me. It is something that happened several years ago, and I am so thoroughly entertained by it, it still makes me laugh out loud to this day.
It involves Fabio. Just in case anyone does not know who Fabio is, he is a complete idiot who became known for modeling for the covers of Harlequin Romance novels. He has ridiculously giant muscles, long flowing hair, is dumb as a rock, and is completely in love with himself. You may also know him because he used to do “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter” commercials. At any rate, I can’t stand Fabio. I dislike him even more than I dislike Martha Stewart, and that’s saying something. A few years ago, Fabio was hired to do PR for a roller coaster at Busch Gardens. It was, at the time, the latest greatest thing in roller coasters, and the theme of the ride had to do with Greece or something. So Fabio was hired to ride in the front car on the maiden trip of this new roller coaster. At the end of the ride, there was all kinds of media waiting to take his picture as the coaster came to a stop (remember now, this is a man who LOVES himself and his looks). All went well until the roller coaster was going over the tallest hill. As it flew down the incline, a passing goose was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Fabio’s face hit the goose going God only knows what MPH. The goose burst into a million pieces. There is no funnier thought in my book than my mental image of Fabio at the end of the ride, as the coaster screeches to a halt and the cameras all go off, with a blood and guts and feathers all over his precious face. I never saw the pictures, but my imagination ran wild.
This image is one that would still make me laugh years later. A few months ago, we were in bed, and we both were almost asleep, when somehow the picture popped into my head. Of course, I started laughing. He listened for a minute, and then said one word. “Fabio?” I said “Yup.” Then we both started laughing and pretty soon we couldn’t control it. Every time we settled down, one of us would start again.
The next day when I came home from work, I received confirmation that Kirk was the man for me. While I was at work, he had spent quite some time on the Internet, and had found the photo I had been dreaming of for years (see photo to the right). He had printed copies of it, and there was one in almost every room of the house. He had even saved it as the screen saver on the computer. He had also found interviews with Fabio talking about how Busch Gardens is fortunate he does not plan to sue, and that they should realize that geese are dangerous (see youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7w4dpxgSWA&NR=1 - the interview is priceless!). The part I love best about the picture is that the girls on either side of him don’t even have a speck of blood on them – that goose was going for Fabio and Fabio only.
Who would choose a Harlequin model when you could have Kirk?
Most of you who know us know that Kirk’s role is to be the comedy man, and mine is to be the long-suffering target of his humor. We both knew our parts well, and enjoyed them thoroughly.
One of the many torments I endured would happen when I took a weekend nap, or if I came home really tired from work and fell asleep on the couch. He would wait until he was sure I was pretty deeply asleep, and then would draw on my face, generally with eyeliner. Over the years, I have woken up with cat whiskers, a Dudley DoRight mustache, a devil's horns and goatee, and every other manner of artistry. Hard to believe someone could sleep right through it all, but I can.
Two of these events in particular come to mind. The first occurred when Erika was probably about 10 years old. I came home from work, and promptly dozed off on the couch while Kirk was getting ready to make dinner. Erika (who gets her sense of humor straight from her father) wanted to draw on my face. After some consultation, they agreed on a Charlie Chaplin/Adolf Hitler mustache. They proceeded to give me a nice replica. They then woke me up and told me Kirk needed me to run to the store for something he needed for dinner. I dragged myself up off the couch, picked up my purse, and headed toward the front door. I could see that they were acting pretty amused at something, but this was pretty normal so I didn’t think anything of it. Just as I left the house I heard Kirk say to Erika “I can’t – I just can’t.” I looked back to see him coming after me, while she held onto his arm trying to drag him back saying, “No, no, don’t tell her!” He told me to come back and look in the mirror, and much to my horror, there was the mustache. She was fully prepared to let me go out in public with that thing on my face. Fortunately he knew that my willingness to be the straight man has limits, and this was one it was best not to cross.
On another occasion, I fell asleep on the couch on Halloween. He left me there and went to bed. I woke up about midnight, and got up to go in the bedroom. The whole house was dark, and when I stopped in the bathroom on the way to bed, I turned on the light, looked in the mirror, and screamed out loud. While I was sleeping, he had drawn an enormous spider web and spider on my face. It stretched fully from side to side and top to bottom. The end of my nose was colored black, and was the spider’s body. Its head was drawn on the bridge of my nose, and there were 8 long legs drawn from my nose onto my cheeks. The rest of my face – chin, forehead, outer cheeks, even my eyelids, had a perfect spider web pattern on them. It was a more elaborate job than any member of Kiss ever dreamed of, and in my groggy state, it scared me half to death.
Kirk also greatly enjoyed what he called “funny thoughts.” This was his term for when a person is thinking, and thinks of something so funny they actually laugh out loud. If he laughed out loud without provocation, and I asked why, and his answer was “funny thought” you could pretty much guarantee he had just thought of some new practical joke he could play on me.
I, on the other hand, am not overly prone to “funny thoughts.” I think about funny things, but few are so funny they make me laugh out loud, and that is the key criteria for being classified as a “funny thought” in Kirk’s book. However, there is one thing that he knew 100% qualified as a funny thought for me. It is something that happened several years ago, and I am so thoroughly entertained by it, it still makes me laugh out loud to this day.
It involves Fabio. Just in case anyone does not know who Fabio is, he is a complete idiot who became known for modeling for the covers of Harlequin Romance novels. He has ridiculously giant muscles, long flowing hair, is dumb as a rock, and is completely in love with himself. You may also know him because he used to do “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter” commercials. At any rate, I can’t stand Fabio. I dislike him even more than I dislike Martha Stewart, and that’s saying something. A few years ago, Fabio was hired to do PR for a roller coaster at Busch Gardens. It was, at the time, the latest greatest thing in roller coasters, and the theme of the ride had to do with Greece or something. So Fabio was hired to ride in the front car on the maiden trip of this new roller coaster. At the end of the ride, there was all kinds of media waiting to take his picture as the coaster came to a stop (remember now, this is a man who LOVES himself and his looks). All went well until the roller coaster was going over the tallest hill. As it flew down the incline, a passing goose was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Fabio’s face hit the goose going God only knows what MPH. The goose burst into a million pieces. There is no funnier thought in my book than my mental image of Fabio at the end of the ride, as the coaster screeches to a halt and the cameras all go off, with a blood and guts and feathers all over his precious face. I never saw the pictures, but my imagination ran wild.
This image is one that would still make me laugh years later. A few months ago, we were in bed, and we both were almost asleep, when somehow the picture popped into my head. Of course, I started laughing. He listened for a minute, and then said one word. “Fabio?” I said “Yup.” Then we both started laughing and pretty soon we couldn’t control it. Every time we settled down, one of us would start again.
The next day when I came home from work, I received confirmation that Kirk was the man for me. While I was at work, he had spent quite some time on the Internet, and had found the photo I had been dreaming of for years (see photo to the right). He had printed copies of it, and there was one in almost every room of the house. He had even saved it as the screen saver on the computer. He had also found interviews with Fabio talking about how Busch Gardens is fortunate he does not plan to sue, and that they should realize that geese are dangerous (see youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7w4dpxgSWA&NR=1 - the interview is priceless!). The part I love best about the picture is that the girls on either side of him don’t even have a speck of blood on them – that goose was going for Fabio and Fabio only.
Who would choose a Harlequin model when you could have Kirk?
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Photos
No real post tonight - just a note to say I am playing with the slideshow at the top right section of the page and learning just how technically illiterate I truly am. I will add more photos once I figure this out, and will try to add captions also.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
A Crappy Week
The past few days have been difficult. On Tuesday (or maybe Monday – I can’t remember) I talked to the DA’s office. Not the actual DA though - one of the Victim’s Assistance reps. They confirmed that the case has finally arrived in the DA’s office and is in what they call the “intake” stage. My suspicion is that this is a fancy word for “it’s in a massive pile of untouched files on the new guy’s desk.” She says that they will be reviewing the case to decide for sure what they will charge him with, and also working on any holes in the case that have to be shored up in order to go to the grand jury. I asked her if we will have an opportunity to have any input to this part of the process. The answer is no. The DA does not meet with the family until after the grand jury phase. I asked her how I keep informed about the status of the case, and she said she could make a note in the file that I want to be notified when the case is scheduled for grand jury, and what charges they plan to bring. (Isn’t it insane that I would not automatically be told these things? What family that lost their husband, son, father, brother, would not want to know what charge they decide on and when it is going to the grand jury?) I told her I did want to be notified, and asked when is the earliest I would expect to hear about those things. She told me the end of September or early October is the very earliest, and it might not be that soon. I asked her if that means it would actually go in front of the grand jury then, or if that is just when a date would be set for the grand jury. She said that the actual grand jury proceeding would not happen then – that is just when it would be put on the calendar for some future date.
I know this is how things work, but it is so frustrating. If the police department that had responsibility for the accident reconstruction just would have done their job in a timely way, so much more progress could have been made by now. I am so sick of waiting to be someone’s priority. This is not a big city we are talking about - these are small towns that have very few, if any, criminal deaths in a year. I just don’t understand what is more important than the fact that he died – that someone killed him. Barking dogs? Auto thefts? Shoplifting? When is it Kirk's turn to be first on someone’s list? How horrible of an event does it take to be the top priority?
I just want it to be his turn, my turn, for someone to say “this is what I am going to spend my time on today.” I don’t understand what is more important. Do they just do this in chronological order? Does an ATM break-in that happened the day before he died come first? Shouldn’t there be some priority given based on what the crime was? I try to think through it logically – what crime is worse than killing someone? Rape? Horrible, but not worse than dead. Child abuse? I feel terrible for thinking this, but it’s still not dead. DEAD. Think about it - what could be worse than dead? There are terrible things done to people, but in the end, what victim would choose death over survival? If the answer is that in the end we would all choose to survive even the worst injury, doesn’t that mean that the person who is dead has suffered the worst crime of all, and should at least be closer to the top of the list than he seems to be?
When they told me I won’t even get an update for at least a month I couldn’t stand it. I felt like a two year old having a temper tantrum inside – me me me me me me. I have waited long enough - I have no more patience. Kirk was taken from us and it should be our turn to feel like someone cares. He deserves to be someone’s first concern - all the other victims can wait. Unless they are dead too, in which case they also deserve attention, especially if they died before him.
I know that some who read this may be more familiar with the justice system than I am. Please don’t try to help me understand – I know there are probably good reasons for what is happening. This is emotion again, not logic.
Also this week, I found a grief support group. I have not been feeling like I was ready for that, or needed it quite yet – I have just needed to focus on getting through each day. But in the last few weeks I have been breathing a little easier and decided it is time to try. I don’t want one-one-one counseling at this point. Mainly because I am so sick of “interviewing” people to help me. I have already had to deal with meeting multiple lawyers, financial planners, etc., so I can pick some who are a good match for me. I still haven’t found a financial planner. When I think about having to find the right counselor, I imagine having to tell the story over and over until I find the right one. It’s just too much. So I signed up for a group instead. It starts in October. The person who runs it seems good – we talked on the phone today. But talking to her brought it all out again. There have been fewer tears in the past few weeks, but this week, between talking to the DA’s office and the grief support lady, the tears just came out again and again.
I don’t understand where the calmness went. During the first week after he died – the very hardest week yet – I was so shocked and sad, and yet inside me, there was a calmness, a sense of peace. It was like a solid feeling inside me that it would all be all right in the end, because it was worth it. The marriage, the love, the children, the happiness, the ordinary daily life – the sum of these things was so good that even though it was shattered, the goodness was worth any amount of pain. As devastated as I was, I was literally filled with that thought, and it brought me incredible peace. It was like a rock inside me – something to cling to, to make even the worst thing “okay” in a way. There was a quiet place inside me that even in the grief said, “That’s all you get to have of him, but it was so great it’s okay to only have gotten that much.” It literally helped me keep breathing. But after about the two week mark, it disappeared. Not the feeling that it was worth it – that has never ever wavered, not even for a moment. But where is the peace it brought?
I am worried (as always) that I am not being clear and that what I’m saying will be misunderstood. It WAS worth it. I WOULD do it again. But the comfort inside me is gone. Instead, the “it was worth it” makes me sad, and hungry for more of him. I want the rest of what I should have had – the arguments we had not yet had about whether I called when I should have, the meals he had not yet cooked, the vacations we had not yet taken, the Seinfeld episodes we had not yet watched for the twentieth time. I want the next thirty years, not just the last thirty. The gratitude that was keeping me afloat is not working anymore. It’s still there, but where is the peace that used to come with it? When the last few weeks were emotionally calmer, I thought it would come back. I thought that maybe the confusion and challenge of the last few months had just temporarily blocked it, and that with my emotions getting a little quieter, it would come back. But it didn’t. I could sure use that peace now, when life seems to be getting tougher again.
The next post – I PROMISE – will be happier. I need a break from all this crappiness.
I know this is how things work, but it is so frustrating. If the police department that had responsibility for the accident reconstruction just would have done their job in a timely way, so much more progress could have been made by now. I am so sick of waiting to be someone’s priority. This is not a big city we are talking about - these are small towns that have very few, if any, criminal deaths in a year. I just don’t understand what is more important than the fact that he died – that someone killed him. Barking dogs? Auto thefts? Shoplifting? When is it Kirk's turn to be first on someone’s list? How horrible of an event does it take to be the top priority?
I just want it to be his turn, my turn, for someone to say “this is what I am going to spend my time on today.” I don’t understand what is more important. Do they just do this in chronological order? Does an ATM break-in that happened the day before he died come first? Shouldn’t there be some priority given based on what the crime was? I try to think through it logically – what crime is worse than killing someone? Rape? Horrible, but not worse than dead. Child abuse? I feel terrible for thinking this, but it’s still not dead. DEAD. Think about it - what could be worse than dead? There are terrible things done to people, but in the end, what victim would choose death over survival? If the answer is that in the end we would all choose to survive even the worst injury, doesn’t that mean that the person who is dead has suffered the worst crime of all, and should at least be closer to the top of the list than he seems to be?
When they told me I won’t even get an update for at least a month I couldn’t stand it. I felt like a two year old having a temper tantrum inside – me me me me me me. I have waited long enough - I have no more patience. Kirk was taken from us and it should be our turn to feel like someone cares. He deserves to be someone’s first concern - all the other victims can wait. Unless they are dead too, in which case they also deserve attention, especially if they died before him.
I know that some who read this may be more familiar with the justice system than I am. Please don’t try to help me understand – I know there are probably good reasons for what is happening. This is emotion again, not logic.
Also this week, I found a grief support group. I have not been feeling like I was ready for that, or needed it quite yet – I have just needed to focus on getting through each day. But in the last few weeks I have been breathing a little easier and decided it is time to try. I don’t want one-one-one counseling at this point. Mainly because I am so sick of “interviewing” people to help me. I have already had to deal with meeting multiple lawyers, financial planners, etc., so I can pick some who are a good match for me. I still haven’t found a financial planner. When I think about having to find the right counselor, I imagine having to tell the story over and over until I find the right one. It’s just too much. So I signed up for a group instead. It starts in October. The person who runs it seems good – we talked on the phone today. But talking to her brought it all out again. There have been fewer tears in the past few weeks, but this week, between talking to the DA’s office and the grief support lady, the tears just came out again and again.
I don’t understand where the calmness went. During the first week after he died – the very hardest week yet – I was so shocked and sad, and yet inside me, there was a calmness, a sense of peace. It was like a solid feeling inside me that it would all be all right in the end, because it was worth it. The marriage, the love, the children, the happiness, the ordinary daily life – the sum of these things was so good that even though it was shattered, the goodness was worth any amount of pain. As devastated as I was, I was literally filled with that thought, and it brought me incredible peace. It was like a rock inside me – something to cling to, to make even the worst thing “okay” in a way. There was a quiet place inside me that even in the grief said, “That’s all you get to have of him, but it was so great it’s okay to only have gotten that much.” It literally helped me keep breathing. But after about the two week mark, it disappeared. Not the feeling that it was worth it – that has never ever wavered, not even for a moment. But where is the peace it brought?
I am worried (as always) that I am not being clear and that what I’m saying will be misunderstood. It WAS worth it. I WOULD do it again. But the comfort inside me is gone. Instead, the “it was worth it” makes me sad, and hungry for more of him. I want the rest of what I should have had – the arguments we had not yet had about whether I called when I should have, the meals he had not yet cooked, the vacations we had not yet taken, the Seinfeld episodes we had not yet watched for the twentieth time. I want the next thirty years, not just the last thirty. The gratitude that was keeping me afloat is not working anymore. It’s still there, but where is the peace that used to come with it? When the last few weeks were emotionally calmer, I thought it would come back. I thought that maybe the confusion and challenge of the last few months had just temporarily blocked it, and that with my emotions getting a little quieter, it would come back. But it didn’t. I could sure use that peace now, when life seems to be getting tougher again.
The next post – I PROMISE – will be happier. I need a break from all this crappiness.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Firsts
It’s beginning. Today is the first day of the months I have been dreading. The months in which there are too many “firsts,” too close together. In less than two weeks, it will be his birthday. His 50th birthday. Hard to imagine him being 50 – he acts/looks/seems so much younger. He didn’t have even one gray hair or wrinkle – no one could ever believe his age. He would not have wanted a fuss – he did not like birthday fusses. I plan to make one anyway – I cannot let the day go unmarked, uncelebrated.
A month later, in mid-October, my first birthday without him. No flowers, no macaroni and cheese with hotdogs. I also am not a big birthday person, but this one will be very tough.
Then in quick succession, Thanksgiving, Erika’s birthday, Christmas. Thanksgiving was his favorite holiday – hunting, food, Cowboys football, and family all on the same day. This year, Erika and Mom W. will be cooking. Then comes Erika’s birthday the following week. Just like with Matt’s birthday last June, I will face the birthday card. One of the worst moments I have had so far was signing Matt’s card. For twenty five years, I have signed every card “Mom and Dad.” This year the signature was shorter – “Mom.” It felt awful – those were the three saddest, loneliest letters I have ever seen in print. On Erika’s first birthday without her dad, she will be alone, and will take the toughest final of her semester. Just like on Matt’s birthday, I will be thinking and worrying about her.
Then Christmas. This year, I can’t stand the thought of decorating, of putting up a tree. He loved the way I did the tree – he called me Martha Stewart (who of course I can’t stand). He always worked so hard at finding a gift I would love. Sometimes he even went to the dreaded mall – a sacrifice that meant more to me than the gift itself because I knew how much he hated going there.
Last year, his whole family was at our house and it was great. This year will be so very different. We will go home for Christmas this year. Before we moved away, our house was the Christmas house for 30 or so family members, largely because he was the food man. Why would we go anywhere else when we could have Kirk cook for us? People still reminisce about the year he made seafood Newburg, or the time he made some veggie dish everyone loved. We have been meaning to go back home for Christmas for years, ever since we moved away. We never once made it back, which means that the last Christmas at our house back home is now the last Christmas my family ever had with all four of us.
Just a few short days after Christmas, perhaps the worst day of all – our anniversary. The one day of the year that was ours, just ours. It would have been our twenty-ninth. I can’t even write or think about that day yet. And then New Years Eve. Typically, we are the New Years Eve hosts for friends. Again, lots of food, champagne, sometimes some firecrackers. And he loved these little plastic bottles that have a string you pull and streamers come out. This year, there will be no one to kiss when the ball drops.
This feels like way too much for a four month period. I am gathering my fortitude now for it all – trying to clear my head and focus on how I will get through. Focus on appreciation more than loss, gratitude more than pain. What I still have, not what was taken. I want so much to be that person eventually. The person who feels the happiness more than the sadness. I hope she’s in me somewhere.
A month later, in mid-October, my first birthday without him. No flowers, no macaroni and cheese with hotdogs. I also am not a big birthday person, but this one will be very tough.
Then in quick succession, Thanksgiving, Erika’s birthday, Christmas. Thanksgiving was his favorite holiday – hunting, food, Cowboys football, and family all on the same day. This year, Erika and Mom W. will be cooking. Then comes Erika’s birthday the following week. Just like with Matt’s birthday last June, I will face the birthday card. One of the worst moments I have had so far was signing Matt’s card. For twenty five years, I have signed every card “Mom and Dad.” This year the signature was shorter – “Mom.” It felt awful – those were the three saddest, loneliest letters I have ever seen in print. On Erika’s first birthday without her dad, she will be alone, and will take the toughest final of her semester. Just like on Matt’s birthday, I will be thinking and worrying about her.
Then Christmas. This year, I can’t stand the thought of decorating, of putting up a tree. He loved the way I did the tree – he called me Martha Stewart (who of course I can’t stand). He always worked so hard at finding a gift I would love. Sometimes he even went to the dreaded mall – a sacrifice that meant more to me than the gift itself because I knew how much he hated going there.
Last year, his whole family was at our house and it was great. This year will be so very different. We will go home for Christmas this year. Before we moved away, our house was the Christmas house for 30 or so family members, largely because he was the food man. Why would we go anywhere else when we could have Kirk cook for us? People still reminisce about the year he made seafood Newburg, or the time he made some veggie dish everyone loved. We have been meaning to go back home for Christmas for years, ever since we moved away. We never once made it back, which means that the last Christmas at our house back home is now the last Christmas my family ever had with all four of us.
Just a few short days after Christmas, perhaps the worst day of all – our anniversary. The one day of the year that was ours, just ours. It would have been our twenty-ninth. I can’t even write or think about that day yet. And then New Years Eve. Typically, we are the New Years Eve hosts for friends. Again, lots of food, champagne, sometimes some firecrackers. And he loved these little plastic bottles that have a string you pull and streamers come out. This year, there will be no one to kiss when the ball drops.
This feels like way too much for a four month period. I am gathering my fortitude now for it all – trying to clear my head and focus on how I will get through. Focus on appreciation more than loss, gratitude more than pain. What I still have, not what was taken. I want so much to be that person eventually. The person who feels the happiness more than the sadness. I hope she’s in me somewhere.
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