Happy Birthday Blog

This blog is one year old today, which means it was one year ago today that Luke went into the hospital.  I just can’t believe what a year can bring.  One year ago, at around this time even, he was walking up to the doctor because he’d been sick.  Coughing, night sweats, weight loss, back pain, and I’d threatened to take the car away if he didn’t go to the doctor immediately.  He’d fought me (the reality that he was sick) so hard.  He was superman, and nothing could touch him.

Well, it touched him.  When he got to the hospital he was in full kidney failure.  I have every memory of that day, and the next 9 days he spent in the hospital, burned into my brain in explicit detail.   

Now that it’s over, now that he’s gone, I can confess that I knew that day what the finale would be.  I saw it all played out before me, in an instant.  His life flashed before my eyes, all the way to the bitter end.  I didn’t see the details, of course, but I saw myself driving, alone, and that was all I needed to know.  I tried to ignore it, tried to be positive, but I knew that day that we were going to lose him.  He was so positive, too.  I remember him saying, “I’m not afraid of cancer, I’m just ready to get it out of me.”  I knew by how red the doctor’s eyes were that it was too far advanced.  Poor baby.

One year.  I feel like it’s been one year since he died, and simultaneously one year since I met him.  When I hear people talk about events in their life now, like their husband going to the military for one year, I just laugh inside.  Literally anything can happen in that year.  In one year I became married and widowed.  In one year my husband went from untouchable superman to having a superhero book written about him, in memory of.  In one year we have all been shaken to the core, reminded to live and love NOW, don’t wait, because tomorrow you could be looking into the red rimmed eyes of a doctor who can barely spit out the words.

This is the year of firsts for me, and every day from here until November 15th will be a comparison, “What were we doing at this time last year?” 

We all have place holders in our lives; life changing events that we use as landmarks.  It could be the year you moved, the year your parents divorced, something to base your life on.  Mine was always 1996, the year my daughter was born.  Now I’m basing everything in months, increments of “before Luke died,” and “after Luke died.”   

It’s strange to think, “Was he alive then?” when trying to remember an event.  How can you not know that??  Because time heals wounds by dulling the pain, and unfortunately some of the memories get sacrificed as well.  Thankfully we have things like blogs and photographs and videos to help us remember, so for better or worse, I will always remember one year ago today.

Purge.

I’ve been feeling like purging lately, like I want to spring clean my apartment, but keep going until there’s nothing left.  Fortunately, a friend of mine who lost her father not long after Luke passed is going through the same thing right now, so I know it’s normal.  Sure isn’t easy to ignore though.  I understand that it’s the need to cleanse, to start fresh, to purge the sad and painful emotions I’ve suffered over the past year (it was a year ago this week that he went into the hospital, can you believe it?). 

I’m afraid to follow my instincts though, because I’m afraid I’ll wake up a few months from now and regret getting rid of anything.  It almost makes sense to me to get a storage unit to put half of my stuff in, where it won’t be forever gone and out of reach, but it won’t be present either.  Then I could see how I feel in 6 months or a year.  I don’t know.  Feels like I want to wrap his memory up in a nice little package with a ribbon, something I can open and view whenever I need to, but not have it surrounding me all the time. 

I guess that’s movement, though it kind of hurts to say. 

I expected to be in deep mourning for a lot longer than I have been, like the “not functioning” kind of mourning, and I’m just not.  I don’t know if it’s a strength thing, or if I am just so logical that my brain can’t linger too long on something it knows isn’t there anymore.  I am angry that he’s gone, sad that he’s not able to live his life; I feel he was so cheated, and he was such an amazing person to cheat, I almost feel like it was poetic.  I will always feel that way because the tragedy of his death is an indisputable fact. 

The rest is kind of in a grey area.  Is he here?  Is he not?  Does he see me and hear me?  When I think I’m feeling him, is that my own brain answering a need?  The physical fact remains that he is not here, and will never be again, and that’s a hard pill to swallow. . . but being a realist, I swallowed it the day he died, and I have a hard time holding onto things I know aren’t there.  Wallowing in misery won’t bring him back.  So I live.  And I make sure to really fucking live.   

The other day Audrey and I were pulling out of our apartment complex, talking about something inconsequential, when a motorcyclist rode by.  Just some dude on a bike.  We both stopped talking mid sentence and silently watched him pass.  I quietly said, “I hate motorcyclists.”  She nodded, “I know, me too.”  We both felt the same thing, anger and sadness that he will never ride a motorcycle again.  That asshole on the bike was an asshole simply because he is alive.  I reminded Audrey that even though it hurt, it’s good to see things like that because they keep his memory active.  Every time we see a motorcycle we’ll think of Luke. 

In the beginning, I doubted that.  I was afraid that after enough time, my memories would all fade and I’d be left with this hazy image of a beautiful man with deep eyes and a strong chin, but with no details.  I realized when I saw that motorcycle that that will never happen, because there are other people I’ve lost who I think of all the time when I see something that reminds me of them.  Silly things.  My Grandmother died 5(?) years ago, and still, whenever I see something in a particular shade of orange, I think of her.  Not sure why, probably something she wore or something in her condo, but that color orange is, and always will be, representative of her.

With Luke?  There’s a hundred things.  Countless, really, and while many of them will fade over time, there are some things that will remain his in my memory forever. 

I went to an estate sale last weekend, and amidst the faded and dusty books there was a complete bow and arrow set.  I stood transfixed for a moment, caressing the leather, fingering the feathers, remembering the set we had on our wall for years, and how it was one of the only things he “willed” to anyone.  Memories of a life I never even lived surrounded me in swirls of images; Luke, young in the woods, just running.  Luke, a young man, 18 or so, carving arrows, imagining he’s a warrior in a past life.  Luke, an adult, showing his young cousins how to shoot, starting a new generation of fantasy hunters.  Luke, my love, showing me the proper way to hold the bow, creating a memory that would push its way through the dust years later, almost 6 months after his death.  

I see him sometimes on the street, too.  Only once was it heart stopping, where I actually lost my breath for a moment.  The men I briefly mistake for him are never as handsome as he was, though.  Funny how we can immortalize someone as perfect.  Sigh.  What I wouldn’t give to be able to see him old and falling apart.

Onward. . .

Self.

One woman I know, who lost her husband, kept a blog of his passing and the feelings she had through it all.  She stopped writing on the one-year anniversary of his death.  I think that’s a great idea. 

This writing is therapeutic, though.  Sometimes I feel like I’m doing ok, but when I come here I sound very sad.  It forces my deeper feelings out of me.  Otherwise, I’d just go along every day and not process.

It’s like looking at his pictures.  I see them every day, on my Facebook, in my phone, all over my house.  I can look at them and smile, but I’m beginning to think I don’t really look at them anymore.  My eyes flutter over them like they would anything else in my house, because they are not him. 

There are two pictures I like to look at, though, because they illicit a response from me.  Every time I look at them I get lost, and the feelings usually take over, leading to much-needed tears.

Sometimes I don’t even know I need to cry until I start.  I haven’t “just cried,” since he left.  Now it’s this all-consuming sob that obliterates everything except that pain, though only for a brief moment.  Shotgun tears.  I wonder if I’ll ever cry normally again; it’s a strange thought.  I imagine after some more time passes my pain will lose some of its attachment to Luke, and I’ll be able to cry about other things, like, you know, stubbing my toe.  Normal things.

Normal things. . .that word means something completely different to me now.  Nothing puts life in perspective more than death.  I am a lot more certain about my decisions now.  I have less confusion and distrust of myself.  I see through people more easily now.  I weigh options with more severity because I realize the impact my choices make.

Sometimes I feel like I’m asking myself, “What would Luke do?” but we have to remember the man was not perfect.  He and I battled all the time about the proper course to take in dealing with people.  He was too soft, I am too hard.  Now I realize I’m really asking, “What would I do through my experience of Luke?”

I’m living harder.  I’m making choices that bring my life more joy.  I’m not sweating the small stuff, as they say.  I’m cutting ties with emotional vampires.  I’m solidifying those relationships that have proven to be lasting and worthy.  I’m making those coffee dates.  I’m not letting other people’s ideas of what is right for me dictate my choices, because really, everyone has an opinion and they all seem to differ.  No one can know what is right for you, except you, because we have all had different experiences that led us to the point we’re at now in life.  Empathy only goes so far.

There’s a delicate balance though.  I realize I am a representation of Luke, in many ways, and I see that in people’s eyes.  What if the things that bring me happiness bring sadness to those who love him?  Like moving out, or dating someone new.  Will people judge me?  Will they be able to step out of their own attachments to “Luke and Erin” to realize he would want me to be happy, too? 

I’m building a home base around myself, with people that have been in my life, or recently come into my life, whose intentions are pure.  They’re the kind of people you want to tell your secret plans to.  I’m making it my goal to not have anyone in my life that doesn’t meet that criteria, and so far it’s brought me joy.

I think I need an overdose of joy after the past year.  I think we all do.  I hope that people in some ways are still affected by losing someone so close, someone in our community, someone so young, and of course someone as dynamic as Luke.  I hope the experience has touched you, and you are able to carry a little of that into your lives, because I think this was a stark reminder of how suddenly life can end, and to question whose life you’re living.  Are you living according to you?  You are already everything you want to be, you just have to embrace it, and for me, that time is now.

People

I had to update my parking zone permit today.  Seemed so simple.

The woman pulled up my account, started asking questions about the vehicles I own, which ones I’ve bought and sold, etc, since the last time I renewed.  Then she says, “Is Luke your husband?”  Don’t tell her. “Yes,” I say, quietly.  “Does he own any vehicles?”  God, I wish. “No,” I tell her, a little hesitantly, almost laughing under my breath. 

When the total is higher than I expected, I delay for a minute, trying to decide if I can afford it.  I tell her I might have to come back next payday, then begrudgingly change my mind, figuring I’m already here, I might as well bite the bullet.

She laughs and says, “Eh, just ask your husband to pay for it.”

Crush.  “I wish I could,” I say, realizing immediately that I just made him sound like an unapproachable prick.  Tell her now.  I just turn and walk out.

These encounters remind me, almost daily. 

There is a man who works at the bar down the street from me.  He’s the bouncer, and Luke and I used to be regulars there.  I can’t bring myself to tell him what happened.   The last time I saw him, I told him Luke was sick, and this huge man broke down like a baby in my arms.  It even surprised me, because he was displaying the sadness I was feeling inside. 

I avoid him now, selfishly.  I’m not prepared to deal with the emotions of someone who doesn’t know.  That’s the thing, everyone knows.  Everyone in my world knows what we went through, so I’ve been saved the agonizing job of saying the words.  This is something I’ll have to work on eventually.  “My husband died in November.”  ”My husband died last fall.”  ”My husband died around Thanksgiving.”  “My husband died five years ago.”  Ten, twenty.  “When I was 32, I lost my husband to cancer.”  Fuck, the things that help define me now. 

The worst part is, when I do tell him, someday, he’ll be devastated that he didn’t know that it had happened, when it happened, and I’ll have to live with that guilt.

Confusion.

Just a couple of observations.

I’ve been making some interesting changes in my life lately.  I’ve decided to start stage managing again, and writing for the magazine.  These seemed like normal choices for me to make, at first, but now the thought is running through my head that I’m reverting back to who I was before Luke.  I’m not sure how I feel about this.

To explain, I have to backtrack a little.  About ten years ago, I was engaged.  It was a terrible match, and at the time I pretty much became a completely different person, someone totally contrary to who I am.  Long story short, we called it off, and as soon as I left I almost immediately went back to who I was before.  Consequently, I felt like I lost those two years of my life and often referred to it as my “coma years,” because I was really asleep at the wheel.  It was so bad that I would accidentally tell people I was two years younger than I was.  Strange.

So now here I am, having lost Luke, and I find myself making these changes.  Is it because those are two parts of my life where I felt I belonged, and I feel I’m lacking that now that he’s gone?  I never gave those things up because of him, so why am I going back to them now?  I’m terrified of looking back at this part of my life like a coma.  I feel this is vastly different, because I’m more AWAKE than I have ever been in my life, but still, the thought is there.  I just want to make sure I’m making the healthiest choices possible.

Aside from that, lately I’ve felt this awesome forward movement.  As I explained to Jill, I feel like I had opened a big bag of feathers, and since he died the feathers were just swirling around me.  Lately, the past couple of weeks, I feel like I’m walking forward and the feathers are still swirling, but with momentum.  They are simultaneously following me and propelling me.  Assisting me into the future, ever-present :)  It’s a  nice feeling.

I’ve also encountered a new sensation, that of missing someone who is tangible.  What a strange thought.  When I miss Luke, it is impossible to relieve, it is deeper and more painful, with a sharp edge of finality.  I know I can’t reach him.  It’s a strange feeling to miss someone I can call and actually get a response. Saying goodbye doesn’t mean forever.  I didn’t realize those feelings would surface.  It’s funny, the things you never expect. 

He is strong today.  Everyone feels this strange energy buzzing around.  I wonder what’s special about today that he’s taking such an interest in us.  March 10th.  What is it??

Winds of Change

My horoscope said today that the winds of change are blowing through my life, and I should approach them not with fear, but with a positive outlook, because the future is a very, very happy place.

It’s right, the wind of change is blowing, and while I am still approaching it with fear of letting Luke go, lately I’ve felt a sense of peace when I think of him.  It’s strange. . .You know how you have this picture in your mind of a person?  Think of any person right now, and you get a mental image of them, either sitting at their desk, or standing in your living room, or riding the bus.  My image of Luke is always removed, like he exists up somewhere, usually floating somewhere up along my ceiling.  Isn’t that strange?  I don’t think of him standing anywhere, only in glimpses and flashes, sometimes at the market, sometimes on top of buildings, like a guardian of the city or of me, I’m not sure.  In a real sense, he exists everywhere. 

Usually when I think of him, it’s with wistful sadness, but lately. . .lately it’s with overall happiness, like he is proud of me, and we are solid.  Isn’t it strange that our relationship still continues to progress and change, even though he is gone?  Ha, I still feel like “we have our ups and downs.”  He is very much alive here; I feel him judging my decisions, like the angel on my shoulder keeping me on the straight and narrow.  It’s an interesting new way to live my life.  Not only does my conscience weigh on my decisions, but now his does too, and I’ll tell you, his is a much taller order to fill.  I’m not living my life, “for Luke,” in a creepy, unhealthy way, but I respected his decisions, and as his wife I want to do right by him, and he always did things with  integrity and deep honesty, so it doesn’t hurt to have him there.  When he was alive, if I was ever confused he was the first one I’d go to for advice, and that hasn’t really changed.  When I need help, I just think of him, and I kind of feel the answer.  Ok, now I sound crazy (so be it).

So the winds of change are blowing.  I had a conversation with a friend  last week, who told me people in my position should move out of their house or apartment within the first year of losing someone, for true healing to take place.  When he said that, I balked, because I feel close to Luke here, and don’t ever want to let that go.  As I’ve thought about it more, though, I realize that’s the point.  Slowly it’s becoming a thought that I’m really contemplating, certainly not right now, but the thought is in there, and it’s formulating.  Perhaps sometime in the next year I’ll be ready to change my surroundings a little, to really embark on my new life. 

So overall, I feel good.  I feel him here, but not in a miserable way.  I am experiencing true joy in my life, with no guilt.  I feel connected to him, and happily feel it will always be that way.  I think this is what healing looks like.

Anniversary.

Silence.

How does one hug the ocean?  Do I just run into the icy waters, soaking myself, floating, thrashing about, trying to find your love in the murky darkness?

I sit in our car, with my hand on the back of the seat where you sat so many times.  Feel me, I whisper.  I wait, and nothing comes.  At times I feel like you’re watching me, then in the next instance the reality of my aloneness overwhelms me, and I crawl into your seat, wrapping my arms around it, caressing it.  That seat has become you, it’s something I can touch.  Feel me, feel me, I’m sobbing now, hitting and punching the seat.  Sadness, anger, despair all flooding in at once.

Do you feel me?

The vastness of the sea before me is calming and overwhelming all at once.  The drive down here affected me deeper than I expected, on this day, our day.  We’ve never seen our beach in the snow.  As I finally made my way down to the private road, the one that leads to our secret spot, I had no control over the tears. 

Sometimes I feel like you are reaching out to me by the amount of tears I cry.  Cuz I can run, you know I can.  I’m very good at hiding from myself, from the pain.  But on these days, when I think I’m ok, there’s a lump in my throat, every sensation is heightened, and a shroud of sadness envelopes me.  Those are the days I know I need to let go, to let the tears rise like memories, bringing me back to you.

You once wrote to me, “Even though we’re apart, I hope you feel my love.  Do you feel me?  Do you??”

As I sit here now, forever apart from you, I ask you the same.

Do you feel me, my love?

Four years.  It could have been a day, or a lifetime.  In the span of eighty years, what is four, except everything?