Two women are standing alongside the ocean in front of the Marriott Resort in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. They are lingering behind about a hundred or so other widowed people who have started to go back inside – women, men, married, unmarried, engaged, same-sex partners, old, young, international. People of all kinds, from all over, with one very harsh thing in common: the person they intended to spend the rest of their life with is gone. They died. 

It is a little after midnight on Saturday, April 20th, and we have just finished a ceremonial “ocean letter release”, where we wrote love notes to our partners, attached them to ribbon and hearts (all biodegredable), and tossed them out to sea. Most have left the beach area by now, but some of us can’t just yet, because the moment is too big and too powerful, and we still aren’t done talking to our husbands. We never will be.

“ORBS” appeared in this cool shot of our ocean-letter-release on the beach

One of these two women happens to be me, and this other woman, maybe about 5 or 10 years older than myself, comes walking up to me with tears in her eyes, and a few glasses of wine in her stomach. It is pitch black outside, and only the stars and the waves washing up on shore act as our light to see one another. “I don’t know who the hell you are, and I don’t really care”, she says to me matter-of-factly. Then she gives me a hug and starts to cry. We stand there together, arm in arm, looking out at the water. There are no other words. No explanations of any kind. There is no need for any of that. Because I already understand. In fact, everyone here understands. Welcome to Camp Widow.

New friends …

Just 21 months ago, in the life where my husband was alive and well and we were happily, joyfully married; I knew nothing of such a place, nor did I care to hear of such a place, quite frankly. But when you wake up in a new world one morning where a freight train dressed up as a massive heart-attack decides to kill your husband for no damn reason, what becomes important to you quickly changes. Writing and comedy have always been coping mechanisms and saviors for me, so I wrote and I wrote and I wrote, and then I wrote some more. I created this blog and started furiously typing out all of the ugly, painful, horrific, and often hilarious truths about what it’s like to lose your husband and the life you knew.

And then, a few months ago, an angel on earth disguised as a woman named Michele Neff Hernandez, found my blog and contacted me. She told me she runs an organization that connects widowed people worldwide, called Soaring Spirits. (www.sslf.org) Through that organization, she also founded and runs this amazing annual event called Camp Widow. She wondered if I would like to be one of the 7 featured writers for their website’s blog called Widow’s Voice, and she invited me to deliver a 75-minute comedy Workshop / Performance on grief and loss, at Camp Widow. Never in a million years did I imagine that saying yes to both of these wild ideas would have such an impact on my life. But then again, who ever imagined I would be widowed at age 39?

Me and Michele …

In a lot of ways, it is almost impossible to describe something like Camp Widow in writing. I could go into all the specifics about workshops and other people’s personal stories of loss and all of that, but I wouldnt ever be able to capture the feeling or the tone or the magic of what went on there, inside this blogpiece. It is one of those things in life that is simply an “experience”, and you really need to be there to understand the impact and the power of its existance. However, if you are a widowed person and you are reading this right now, try to picture the following:

Try to picture a place where complete strangers give you a hug or a smile or a comforting look, because they know where you’ve been, and they’ve walked where you’ve walked. A place that holds a formal and elegant Banquet Dinner Reception for it’s “campers”, and where the D.J. is specifically ordered not to play any slow songs the entire night – ever. A place where you can dance freely and openly and have fun, without worrying about how you look to others, or whether people will think that you must be “over it” or “getting better”, simply because you are out and you have dared to laugh or feel joy again. A place where every single person around you understands how you can go from exhausted to angry to elation – all in the course of one hour. A place where you meet men and women whom you have been talking with for weeks or months or years online, and when you see them in person, you feel that instant connection, that bond that brings you closer. A place where they hand out kleenex before Workshops and Seminars, and where people don’t look the other way or act all awkward when you bust out crying or when you mention your loved ones name. A place where you are no longer the misfit, because everyone is the misfit. Everyone is Rudolph, and you all get to hang out on The Island of Misfit Toys. Throw in 2 full days of wonderful speakers, presenters, Workshops, and Round-Table discussions (like a support-group, but with specified topics such as Sudden Death, Widowed Without Kids, Long-Term Illness, Finances and many other subjects), all held at a gorgeous beachfront Marriott hotel with cockail parties and social events put together just for us; and you’ve got yourself a truly unique, once-in-a-lifetime experience.

at the formal banquet with new friend Diane, who drove us to South Carolina

None of this would even exist without that Angel I mentioned before – the one named Michele who is walking around earth in a human costume. When her husband Phil went out for his evening bike ride on August 31, 2005, and was hit by a Suburban, her entire world flipped upside down in seconds. Left with their 3 children and a planned future stolen away by death, Michele used her pain and her struggle and her grief to help other people all over the world who were going through something just as lonely and isolating and frightening. She took something that is terrifying on every level, and with it, she created this place of hope and dreams and inspiration. She didn’t have to do that. She didn’t have to do a damn thing, if you really think about it. To me, the very idea that she didnt drown or hide inside of her grief, but chose to reach out with it in the most expanding way possible, while still raising a family alone, makes this woman one of the most heroic people I have ever met. 

Michele with Raffle Winner / camper at Banquet

 At Camp Widow, Michele delivers a Key Note Address to all the campers who traveled from all over the country, and the world, to be at this exciting event. In her speech this past weekend, she quoted from the beautiful poem A Summer Day by Mary Oliver, in asking us all this incredible question:

“Tell me – what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

It is a loaded question, especially when you are grieving the loss of your life-partner, and just trying to regain your footing. And when a non-widowed person tries to deliver me words of inspiration such as this, or tells me how strong I am, or some other cliche or cheesy thing – it just sounds like pointless words. Like the teacher’s voice from all the Charlie Brown specials, where you just heard that noise coming from the phone or loud-speaker: Waah waah wah wah waaa….

Walking the beach …

It is not that I dont appreciate friends and family trying to encourage me or believing in me. I do. I really do. However, when someone who hasn’t been through this stands there and tells you that things will get better or that you will be okay or that you will have joy again, it is very tough to believe them. Because truthfully – they just dont know. They havent walked through the fire, so how can they say how much it burns and when it will stop? They havent felt the torture of nails being pounded into their flesh over and over again, so how can they end the bleeding? They haven’t sat all curled up in their beds, with recurring visions of that horrible, traumatic day – flashing before them on an endless loop, asking themselves why they should bother to get up today and continue on with existing, so how can they possibly know about what it means to lose hope, and how scary and awful that feels?

But this woman. This Angel. This woman with the warm and inviting voice - this woman who said a casual goodbye to her husband and then never saw him again - this woman who somehow found the way to rebuild her life – this woman who created and invented a place for people like me to go, where we can feel wanted and loved and not ashamed or shunned by society or forgotten about, even if only for a weekend – this woman who embodies everything good and everything real – when this woman stands up on a stage and tells a crowd of widowed people that hope matters, or that we can still have an amazing life, even if its not the one we wanted or planned – I believe her. I believe her because she did it herself. I believe her because she is standing there in front of me, and she is made up of all her pain and strength and fear and love and grief, and she continues on. I believe her because her life will always be complicated and wonderful and joyful and tinged with sadness and loss, and because she married again, to a man who not only doesnt feel threatened that she will always love her late husband, but who fully supports her calling to help other widowed people throughout the world. I believe her – simply because she is alive.

For those that have been asking what Camp Widow did for me, or if Im “all better” now that I went there – as Ive said many times, there is simply no such thing as being “better”. There just isnt. However, there is such a thing as recreating your life, while always carrying your partner with you, deep inside of your soul. There is such a thing as finding hope where you thought there was none, and light where you saw only darkness, and tomorrow where you couldn’t see past today. There are new relationships and friendships to explore, and people to love, and things to learn, and beauty to see. And there is the fact that even though today I feel hopeful and inspired – tomorrow I will feel different. And then different once again. That’s just grief. And that’s okay. 

 And then, of course, there is that lingering and very important question that still needs to be thought about, pondered over, and answered:

What is it I plan to do with my one wild and precious life?

I have no idea. But then again, maybe I do. In a lot of ways, I think I am already doing it.

Soaring Spirits is a non-profit organization helping the widowed worldwide, and celebrating its 5 year anniversary of Camp Widow West (coming up in San Diego, June 28), and 2 year anniversary of Camp Widow East (last weekend in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.) If you know anyone who is widowed, please tell them about this magical place where they can begin to live their life again, one tiny moment at a time. Please donate to www.sslf.org , and also check out www.micheleneffhernandez.com. Thank you so much.

I am not really sure where my husband went off to. He died. Yes. But it never feels that way. It feels as if he were part of some horrible magic trick in some terrible, cheesy Vegas act. One second – here. The next second – gone. POOF! Magic! It feels as though I took a nap, and then woke up and he went missing, never to be seen again. He died while I was asleep. Asleep. Im not sure that I will ever know how to process that. Im not sure that I want to. I am sure that there is no such thing as “closure.”

I am not really sure where I went off to. I’m alive. Yes. But it never feels that way. It feels as if I am part of some horrific magic trick in some awful, cheesy cruiseship act. That same hack trick where they pretend to cut the woman in half, as she lay inside the box. Except it’s not a trick at all. Every second that I’m here, living in this world, I am being severed in half. Over and over and over again. He died while I was asleep, and when I woke up, he was dead. He was already dead. Im not sure that I will ever know how to process that. Im not sure that I want to. I am sure that there is no such thing as “better.”

Where is that girl? That girl that my husband fell in love with. That girl that he believed in. That girl that he kissed for the first time on that NYC ferryboat, when our smiles for each other lit up the nightsky, when our futures were dancing with promise. I once knew that girl who was hopeful and dreamy, quirky and warm, energetic and fun. She laughed with abandon. She loved her birthday. She lived for Christmas, and all things family, and dinner-parties and music and baseball. She had dreams, and after years of heartbreak, she had finally found love. The true, amazing, rare, once-in-a-lifetime kind of love.

But we didnt get the lifetime, and so that girl lost her hope and her dreams. She isnt really much fun anymore. She tries, but she is very tired, because this new life is exhausting and hard and long. Her big brown eyes feel gray and colorless. She feels guilty on her birthday, lonely and empty on Christmas, and baseball games don’t seem to have the same impact without hearing her husband’s ongoing commentary. That girl went to sleep one night, just like any other night. Except it wasn’t. Because on that night, that girl went to sleep, and woke up dead.

Im not really sure where my husband’s remains are, or what remains of my husband. In that gray-looking canister they gave me, all filled with dirt? In the sand and in the water, where I tossed some of him on those meaningful days? In my heart – the way everyone is always telling me? In the universe, the clouds, the air? In the harmonies of a song so beautiful, you can hear your heart skipping? Maybe. But it never feels that way. People will feed you meals made up of the phrase: “He is always with you”, but actually knowing his touch is like trying to hug a butterfly.

Im not really sure where my remains are, or what remains of me. The pieces that were severed, came off little by little, second by second, hurt by mindnumbing hurt. Maybe I lost an arm while running into the ER that morning. Maybe a leg was chopped off when the nurses surrounded me and said “massive heart-attack. He didnt make it.” Maybe my soul disappeared while staring into that casket at my husband’s eyes that were no longer his eyes, or his face that was no longer his face. Perhaps my heart leapt out of my body and fell onto the wet ground, when I got that autopsy report in the mail. When I saw his name on that death certificate. When my 6 foot 4 husband, was handed to me, in a can. Remains.

So what remains of that girl, who died that day, on that day that she woke up? Many things, and nothing at all really. Everything that she was – she is not. Everything that she is – she was not. Her laugh is broken. Her smile is weak. She has no time for petty shit. She feels compassion for those in pain. She feels connected to those who hurt. She feels jealous of those with long lives and long marriages, and angry at the ones who dont ever seem to appreciate what they have. She panics easily, cries effortlessly, and feels deep emotion with abandon. She doesnt sleep enough, she writes too much, and she eats too much. She doesnt know yet how to take care of herself. She doesnt know yet how to care. About life. About being alive. She doesnt understand this new life – this weird future without her husband. This universe where she doesn’t grow old with him or spend decades with him or have children with him or retire with him. She doesnt understand yet, all that there is to understand.

Not yet. Not ever. Not yet.

So much was lost. So much is gone. He is gone. I am gone. Some things stay, but they dont look the same. They arent the same. But they stay anyway. Our love stays. The grief stays. Today stays. All of that stays, and it makes a great big pile of clusterfuck, in the wreckage. The pieces that lie there in that dirt, will somehow form a life. If I keep trying to figure it out, how they all go together, they will mold into my tomorrow. And all of the hope and the loss and the love and the fight and the hurt and the pain and the light – they will crash into one another, if I let them, and they will be the tools that I use to create, whatever the something is that I create.

What remains, is what I create. And what I create, is what remains ….

When you run a race, you always know ahead of time when you will be finished. There is a pre-determined length in miles or kilometers that you will run. Or walk. Or crawl. 5k. 10k. Half-marathon. Marathon. 100-yard dash. Whatever it is, there is an ending in sight. That ending is real and it’s tangible, and there’s a big sign at the end that says FINISH, and maybe some pretty ribbon to break through as you raise your hands up in victory, and people cheering and saying with delight: “Congratulations! You did it!”

What if someone told you that starting right now, right this second, through no choice of your own, you would have to run in a race that had no finish line? No chance to go out and buy a fancy track-suit. Nobody applauding or even noticing your efforts. No friends holding up signs along the way or handing you water and orange wedges. None of that. Just, from this moment on, your life would be one, long, endless race that leads to nowhere, and there is no Finish Line. None. The race never ends. Well, okay. Let’s not get overdramatic here. The race ends when you die.

Would you ever purposely put yourself into any such kind of ridiculous race? No! Of course you wouldn’t. Nobody would. Youd have to be a crazy person to sign up for such lunacy.

But that’s grief. That’s widowhood. An endless race that leads to nowhere – a race that never ends. And when your husband dies in a flash, with no warning, like mine did – that is exactly what it feels like. From the first second that I was jarred awake by that ringing phone on July 13, 2011, it was a new life of: “GOOD MORNING! YOUR HUSBAND’S DEAD! READY? ON YOUR MARK, GET SET, GO!!!!!!

Me and Don, doing a 5k in NYC, 2010.

It’s been almost 21 months now, and I’m exhausted. Every decision, every turn, every corner, every dilemma or problem or obstacle – these are all things I must face alone now. Without my other half to give his take on the situation. Without his help. And let me tell you – people stopped handing me water and orange wedges long ago. For them, the race was over awhile back. For me, it’s always there. Life is exhausting when you are living it without your teammate.

Something that I keep saying over and over again to my grief counselor, week after week, is this: “Everyone keeps telling me that Im doing really well. That I look ‘better’, or that I seem more ‘alive’, or that Im doing good things and progressing in all the right ways. So if Im doing everything ‘right’, why do I still feel like shit? WHY? Why doesn’t the pain ever lessen? I know it will never go away entirely, but why does it feel just as intense now as it did when it happened? Why doesnt what everyone else SEES, match the way that I actually FEEL? When will I not feel like shit everyday?”

She reminds me that it’s only been a short time – 21 months – and that it will take a very long time before I feel a little bit of release. She reminds me again that the level of pain is equal to the level of love we shared. She tries to comfort me with her words of hope and promise. My logical side understands all of this, and it makes a lot of sense. My heart will never comprehend any of it, and it makes no sense at all.

And so, with no answers about much of anything, and no real reasons why; feeling dehydrated, lethargic, and about to lose my mind; I just keep running. I suck at running. I have terrible feet and my shoes are old. Im overweight and Im breathing hard. I look like a complete jackass. WHERE THE HELL IS THAT FINISH LINE???

But there isn’t one. There never will be. But maybe one day – months or years or a decade from now – there will be more answers than questions.

Maybe one day – my ankles will adjust to the rocks in my shoes – and my knees won’t feel like they are on fire - and the pain won’t be so crushing.

No Finish Line. But another start.

Ready? On your mark. Get set. GO …..

A couple of weeks ago, I had to take one of our two adopted kitties, Sammy, to the vet because he has been losing weight, off and on puking, and having digestive issues for months.

So off to the vet I drove. Alone. Just me and my pet carrier and Sammy. We both cried the entire 30 minute drive to Long Island; and both for the same reason. We were scared. “I know, honey”, I said to Sammy as his eyes stared at me through the lines of that caged door. “I wish Boo was here too. Im sorry that Im not him. He would know how to make you feel better. I suck at this.” As I walked my kitty into the vet hospital, everything went wrong immediately. They couldn’t find my name in their system. Why was I there again? Was I married? What was my appointment for? After a million questions and no progress, they made me sit down and fill out “the form.” I took my seat amongst the other zillions of people and their Fluffies and Whiskers and Creampuffs, placed the paperwork atop Sammy’s pet taxi, and started to write.

That’s when I saw it. It jumped out at me as if I were wearing 3-D glasses in a movie theatre. The sight of it made me dizzy and filled me with fear. I forgot how to breathe and I stared blankly at the page as the following words became blurry, then clear, then blurry again:

 Check the Appropriate Box: Single – Married – Divorced – Widowed.

My friends in the widowed community had warned me about this moment, and about how awful it was to have to check that box. But I guess I never really paid attention or thought much of it. How hard could it be to simply put a checkmark inside of a box? Compared to all the other shit I’ve been through, making the shape of a checkmark with my pen would be cake. Right? Right? Wrong.

My heart was beating so fast that I kept forgetting where I was. The sound of dogs barking and cats meowing became a migraine as I tried to wrap my brain around these boxes and what they meant. How can my emotions and my raw, complex feelings about this loss possibly fit into a box? The problem was, none of these boxes described my situation at all. None of these boxes told the truth.

Im certainly not single. Being single is a choice. Single people date and live single-people lifestyles and go out on weekends til 2am with other single people, which I have zero desire to do. I was all done being single when I got married. Being single is not a place I want to return to. I am not single.

No matter how many times people try to lump divorce and death of a spouse in the same category, they are two different things entirely, and I am most definitely not divorced. We were so in love. We were just beginning our time together. We were supposed to be that couple that stays together forever, that still holds hands when we are old and gray. We joked about moving to Florida in 30 years and helping each other up the steps to The Golden Corral for the Early Bird Special at 4pm. We were that couple that went out for dinner at restaurants, and found it sad and depressing looking around at other couples who barely spoke a word to one another during their meal. The clinking of their silverware and the tension between their eyes were the only sounds you heard, and we would always promise to never be them and to always discover new reasons to fall back in love with each other. I am not divorced.

Widowed. This is a tough one. Sure, technically, my husband died, and therefore, I’m a widow. But that just can’t be. How is that possible? Widows wear black, or they walk around in mysterious capes and large beige sweaters, looking out windows pensively and petting their 18 cats. Widows let their houses pile up with memories and receipts and old aftershave and things from the life they once had, until, eventually, they are featured on an episode of Hoarders. Widows are old ladies with white in their hair and whiskers above their lip. Widows are on social security, and enjoy shows like Jeopardy and Murder She Wrote. Widows have blankets draped over their favorite chair, and they call them “afghans.” Widows have children, and grandchildren, and sometimes great-great grandchildren, and enough years behind them to count for an actual life with their husbands. Don’t they? Shouldn’t they? I don’t care what you say, you stupid hospital form. I am not a widow.

My cat stares up at me through his sad cage as I focus on the word  married. That is what I am. Married. That is how I feel. Those are the vows that I made, that we wrote. We chose not to say “til death do us part”, because we both thought it sounded creepy, like you were inviting death to come knocking. Instead, we coined the phrase “Until Forever” into our vows. Now he lies dead and here I sit, very much breathing but not quite alive, and I am married. I am married, dammit. Why can’t I still be married?

 It wasnt my choice, nor his, to end our union. Even if you’re dead, you can still love, right? Even if you no longer exist, you can still be a husband, right? Can’t you? There is no box to check for when you feel like you’re married and want to be married, because its the only thing tangible that you have left to cling onto. There is no box for when your husband is clearly gone, but you still talk to him every day and you say goodnight to him every night and you say to the thin air: “Ha ha! You’re the last one in bed. You have to shut off the light!” There is no box for when you still put the brown and the red M&M’s aside, cuz he likes those gross colors best. There is no box for taking out your phone 20 months later, on a regulgar basis, to text him with the score of the Yankee game. There is no box that says “It’s not Fair!”, or “What the fuck?”, or “In Denial.”

In this new widowed life that I was pushed into, there are many areas where I know that I will be okay, eventually. I can rebuild a life for myself. I can still have happiness and still feel joy, one day. I can still laugh and I can still have wonderful people in my life who care about me. I can soar in my creativity, and get onstage and teach and write and perform. I can help others and help myself and find new things and new ways to always grow and learn. I can have a fulfilling life ahead. It will hurt like hell and none of it will be easy, but I can do it. However, there is one place of that life where I am stuck. There is one thing that hurts so deeply and in a place so far down, that even when I start to type the words, I begin to sob.

Marriage. The end of our marriage. The very thought makes me shake and almost whimper. The very idea that because you died, we are no longer married. It doesnt seem right. It doesnt make sense. How can I no longer be your wife? How do you begin to accept something so awful? So far, I just cannot accept this, I cannot take it in, and that is where I am stuck. Or loyal. Or crazy. Because even if I cant be with you here on this earth, I would rather keep the title of being married to you, then to even address the concept of breaking that tie or being with anyone else. The reality is, I will probably be alone forever. Right now, I have negative zero desire to find love again, and maybe thats unhealthy, but its just how I feel. I had love. I had you. How on earth do you find that kind of thing twice in a lifetime? I would imagine that you dont, and if I cant have something that special, I dont want anything at all.

When I die, I want to still be your wife. I want to die as your wife. Why cant I have that right? That honor? You got to die being my husband, but I dont get to live being your wife? Why not? Instead of “Widowed”, why cant there be a box that says: “Married – Spouse Deceased.” Why? The hurt that lies inside of my heart at the thought of our marriage being over – it is a hurt that is impossible to describe. It is a hurt that sits dormant, wailing like a child. Seething like a lion. Crying like a widow, who just wants to be your wife.

“Are you ready?” The vet tech looks down at me. Sammy yawns. My hand shakes and quivers. My fingers fall off one by one and my soul dies as I make the unwilling checkmark, next to the “appropriate” box. Widowed.

But Im not ready. Im not ready to be widowed. And to be honest, I dont even know how to begin to start such a thing. I would suppose that it all comes down to acceptance. And if Im being truthful, I can accept that you are gone – maybe. Possibly. Someday. But to accept that I am no longer your wife? That our beautiful marriage dissolves like some pill floating in a glass of water? No. That is not something I can do. I don’t know how. 

Is it really so awful to just live inside denial? If I know its denial, and I know Im lying to myself, and I dont care, who am I hurting really? Not myself. Just let me have this one little corner, this tiny box, where we still exist as husband and wife. Where we hold hands and walk along the ocean. Where we watch Yankee games and get to be old people. Where I get to die with the knowledge that I was the one you chose, that you were the one I chose.

Beyond life. Beyond death. Until forever ….

Where is the box for that?

My husband and I used to play different types of ridiculous “what if” games. Well, I would play them and he would humor me and my insane sense of humor by responding over and over to my absurd “what if” questions. It was so much fun, and I would do this at the most annoying or random times – always out of absolutely nowhere, and always starting the same way; with me saying his pet name in that sing-songy voice, where I would stretch out the word “Boo” to somehow make it two lengthy syllables, served up alongside some innocent, pathetic, puppy-dog eyes….

Walking along the Hudson River by our New Jersey apartment, where, in parts, it was very cliff-like and steep along the roadway …

Me: But, Boo-oooooo???

Him: Yes Boo ….

Me: What if … what if I jumped down this cliff right now, Boo? What if I hurdled my body over this low fence and jumped and slid down all the steep rocks, hitting my head on each one, landing in the grassy knoll?

Him: You would probably die.

Me: But, what if I didnt die? What if I lived through it, but I became severely paralyzed? What if nothing worked except my head? What if I was just a head sitting in a wheelchair? Would you leave me if I was just a head, Boo?

Him: No, Boo. I wouldnt leave you if you were a head. But I might have you commited to a mental institution of some kind, for leaping off a giant cliff for no goddamn reason. In fact, I may have you commited right now. Freak.

A lot of times, we would be in bed, and I would wait until he was just about asleep, and then I would tap him on the shoulder with another “What if” question ….

Me: (tap tap tap) But, Boo-ooooooo???

Him: (grunting awake) Mmmhgjmmzz… what, Boo?

Me: What if I gained lots and lots of weight? Would you divorce me?

Him: Seriously? This is what we’re doing right now?

Me: Like maybe 150 or 200 pounds. What if, Boo? Would you leave me then forever?

Him: (sitting up, eyes still closed) No, Boo. I wouldnt leave you forever. Youre my wife and I love you. Is that the right answer? Can I please go to sleep now?

Me: But what if I was like that lady we saw on TV? The one who was 600 pounds and you couldnt even see her face, and she lived in her bed for 4 years? What if I was her? THEN would you leave me, Boo?

Him: Yes, Boo. THEN I would leave you. (laughing at how dumb this is)

Me: But, that’s mean, Boo. I thought I was your wife …

Him: Yeah, well, at that point, you sort of stop being a wife and become more of a furniture piece. Besides, what are you gonna do about it? Run after me? It would be the easiest divorce in history! Can I PLEASE, for the love of God, go to sleep now?

Now, almost 20 months after his sudden death, I still play the “What if” game, but I play it alone. There is not really much joy in playing this game alone, because now I, much like my husband, have become the unwilling participant. I dont want to play this game, but my mind and my heart and my brain and everything else inside me just goes there. And it is no longer fun, silly “What if” questions. No. It is the kind of “What if” questions that make you sweat, and keep you up all night, and give you nausea …

What if Don never took that second job at Petsmart? What if he had gone to the doctor more? What if his dad gave him the time of day or had a relationship with him, or maybe informed him that heart disease was in the family and that he should get his heart checked out? What if he had stayed in Florida, where his life was more calm and less stressful? What if he never moved to New Jersey at all, to be with me? To marry me? What if he was at his regular job that morning, as an EMS, on an AMBULANCE? What if he had his heart-attack in the ambulance and was treated in time and survived? What if he got that second chance that so many others get? What if he was home with me that day? What If I wasnt asleep when my husband was collapsing on a floor at work? What if he wasnt happy – really happy – when he died? What if he was alone and scared when it happened? What if he wondered where I was? What if he was in pain?

Everyone who has lost someone plays the “what if” game, and everyone else tells us not to. They tell us to stop torturing ourselves. Stop trying to change things that cannot be changed. Stop trying to figure out a riddle that has no answer, a calendar that has no months, a bird that has no wings. Just stop.

The “What if” game comes and goes in my mind and in my heart, and lately, it has quieted some. It has silenced itself for awhile. Why? Not because my mind and my heart are finally leaving me alone and letting me live in peace. No. That would be too simple. Too linear. That would make too much sense, and we all know that the grief monster never makes sense. The game has stopped asking these endless questions about the day of my husband’s death for a much deeper reason: it has a much more probing question in mind …..

What if our roles were reversed? What if I died, and you lived?

It is a question that plagues me. It is a question that brings upon sadness. Guilt. Fear. Confusion. Sacrifice. Love. And, of course, death.

But what if, Boo? What if you had woken up that morning to that new, horrific reality? The reality that I was already gone? What would you have done in the following minutes, hours, days, months? How would you be coping? I know for sure that after the services were said and done, after the friends and the flowers and the dust had settled – you would pack up our kitties and pack up your chair and your guitars and your life – and you would go back to Florida, where you loved it, and pick up right where you left off. You would get your EMS job back in Pinellas County at Sunstar. You would find a nice, but humble apartment that had central-air and tennis courts in the back, like your old one, and you would walk along Clearwater Beach and ride your bike in the paths and just be you.

I know you would always keep in touch with my family – my brother and my parents – and you would all take care of one another as much as you could, and you would check on them, and they would definitely check on you. I think you would handle the pain so much better than I am handling it, Boo. I really think that. You would be devastated, of course, but you would know how to go forward better than I know how to. You know how to let things go, because you had to growing up, and so you would probably find private ways to honor me and remember me, but you would spend your life making the best of your life.

Our families would embrace you. Our friends would embrace you and hold you up and love you. And you would take our photo albums and our wedding things and our letters and our memories, and you would take special care of them. And you would be a much better papa to our kitties than I am a Mama. They put up with me, but it’s so clear that they want you. They want you to be here. I want you to be here.

What if I died and you lived? Its something I think about often. I dont like thinking about it, but it’s there. It lingers. It whispers. It taps on my shoulder, waking me up in the night, right as Im about to fall asleep. Just like I did to you, Boo. All those nights. Those wonderful, married nights.

It’s not that I want to be dead. I don’t. Its just that sometimes, I don’t really want to be alive. And there is a difference. And during those times, I wonder ……

What If I Died and You Lived?

Theres no such thing as Heaven or Hell
To me, these are stories for others to sell
There is no reason
There is no Why
God didn’t take my husband to die.
 
If it gives you comfort,
then you should believe.
To me, it’s just bullshit they feed the bereaved.
 
What I feel to be true
and what seems to make sense,
is a bucket of questions
just over the fence.
 
It’s a mixture of science,
darkness, and stars
Today you’re on Pluto
Tomorrow it’s Mars.
 
Not that it matters,
because you’re not here.
So everything else
is just highlighted fear.
 
There is no peace when your other half dies,
only fragments of truth that are riddled with lies.
 
Where the hell did you go?
Does your spirit rest?
Does it fly all around?
Sit with birds in a nest?

They say that you’re with me
But what does that mean?
Did I make it all up?
That sign? That dream?
When I sensed your presence inside of my scream?
 
Are you air? Are you wind?
Do you travel by boat?
Do your ears still get cold?
Will you still need a coat?
How do I know
if you’re really around?
Can you whisper or talk
Can you please make a sound?
 
Theres nothing to touch
no sort of proof
Why is your energy
so damn aloof?
 
Your funeral screwed with my mind that day
you laid in a casket, your soul far away
your skin red and swollen
your eyes shut and tight
my heart looked away
unable to fight …
 
That was not you inside of that box
That was not you,
But it was -
Paradox.
 
How can I ever unsee what I saw?
That image of you.
So black. So raw.
And then you were dust,
they gave me a can,
filled with my husband,
My love. My man.
Now some of you sits here
in my bedstand
Some of you tossed at the beach
in the sand.
None of it means you are here with me
None of it lets me hold your hand.
None of it means I understand
the Death that has become you.

So final. So ugly.
so cruel and unfair
Where the fuck did you go?
I want to know where …..
 
Where were you last week
on Valentines Day?
Or when 4 year old Brian just wanted to play
When our niece took her first steps that Tuesday
or Monday or Thursday
or Saturday night
or the next time Im scared to death on a flight
or our kitties get sick.
or our taxes aren’t right.
 
Science says energy never dies
so where is your spirit each time your wife cries?
When the car mechanic is telling me lies …
Are you at “In N Out” for a burger and fries?
 
Did you finally jump on a plane to L.A.?
or Clearwater Beach
Yankees vs. Rays?
How come I havent felt you for days?
Maybe you’re on the phone with your dad
having that talk
that you never had.
You could be at Publix
getting a sub
or strumming guitar
in a Cape Cod pub.
Petting a puppy,
Saving a cat
Leave it to you to do something like that.
 
A tennis match
with Andre or Pete.
Steven Tyler is singing,
you jam up a beat.

Bringing my Boo’s ashes to Clearwater Beach

Or maybe you’re with your old EMS partners
Rob, Meg, Maria
Just killin some hours.
Making friends laugh,
Staying up til dawn
talkin ’bout movies
or music with John.
 
Calling dad “Pop”
eating mom’s apple pie,
playing catch with our brother
out in the night sky.
If energy talked for 3 hours straight,
you’d call up your sister,
be on the phone late.
So many places
your energy goes
and in the end
None of us know.
 
Well,
maybe you know.
Yes.
Only you know.
 
So where the hell are you?
Dont you think I should know?
Are you waiting for me
outside in the snow?
Nobody said
it was time to go.

Cape Cod with my brother and Jen

How can I feel
that youre still with me?
Put your name on a rock?
Go outside,
Plant a tree?
Why cant I feel your energy?
 
In the beginning,
right after you died
I felt you on earth,
it helped me survive.
 
But lately it’s gone,
and I dont know why,
but Im not giving up,
on where you might fly.
 
Give me directions
to where you are
Can I G.P.S. it?
Can I drive my car?
Or is it more vague,
like inside of a star?
 
Maybe it’s selfish
I dont really care
You promised forever,
we never got there.
 
If you’re gonna be Dead,
it’s not asking a lot,
that your soul stays with me,
It’s all that I got.
 
Where you go,
I should be.
Where You Go,
Stay with me.

This morning I woke up with a pimple on my face. I was doing my morning routine, and while looking in the bathroom mirror and flossing, I noticed it: a big, pinkish, ugly, nasty pimple; right underneath my bottom lip. Staring into that foggy mirror a bit more closely, I began to notice all the other unfortunate things going on with my face. All the things I have ignored for the past 19 months of being widowed; all the things that were no longer being pointed out to me by my loving, annoying husband.

 My eyes looked tired. Exhausted, actually. The life had been drained from them, the smile was gone. My skin was dry and my lips were cracked and that pimple suddenly magnified itself by a thousand, and I started crying. Sobbing, actually. Not because I had a pimple on my face. No. I was crying because I no longer had my husband here to point out that I had a pimple on my face. And that made me incredibly sad. That thing which used to annoy me beyond all measure about him- now made me incredibly sad.

That’s how grief works, I guess. There are so many different things to miss, that the missing becomes overwhelming. Each time you wake up or go to bed, there is a new list of things that you have to grieve. Your spouse is so many things, and, chief among those things, he is the one who rudely points out your zits and pimples. At least, that is what my husband so sweetly did, very often. Several mornings during our time together, we had the following type of conversation:

Me: Morning Boo ….

Him: Good mornin. (giving me quick kiss, then backing away) Ewww…

Me: What’s wrong?

Him: (in accusatory voice) You have a huge pimple on your face.

Me: Okay. Do you think we will live through this tragedy? What would you like me to do about it? It happens.

Him: Yeah I know, but its really disgusting.

Me: Well thank you for making me feel better about it. Now I feel like I can go out and conquer the world with your support.

Him: Oh stop being so overdramatic, Boo. You need to pop that thing.

Me: No!!! I dont wanna pop it. That’s disgusting. Itll go away in a day or two. Just leave it and Ill put makeup over it.

Him: No, I cant. I’ll still know it’s under there. Come here. I’m gonna pop it for you. Stay still, Boo. Stop moving around. I almost got it …

Me: You’re pushing your finger into my face. Its a little hard not to move.

Him: I got it! Okay. Good. I feel better now, dont you?

Me: Yeah. Fantastic.

My husband was extremely low-maintenance when it came to his appearance and mine. We were both very relaxed when it came to that kind of stuff. Hell, most of his jeans came straight from Wal-Mart, and it was a rare day when I would bother myself with full makeup or dressing up in any way. But for some reason, pimples annoyed the shit out of him, and him pointing mine out every single time annoyed the shit out of me. So we did this song and dance each time I got a pimple, and after awhile, it just became part of the fabric of who we were as a couple. It was one of those things that you never even think about – until you find yourself standing in front of a bathroom mirror in an apartment that you share with a roommate and not with your husband, because he’s dead.

Us being weird in our apartment ….

There are so many tiny things like this, that make up the little threads in the fabric of a marriage. Things that I never considered or thought that I would ever miss about someone, that I miss so very much …

Like the way he seemed to never have to pee throughout the day, and I always made fun of him. “Are you even human?”, I would say to him in awe. “You never go to the bathroom. How is that possible?” He would just look at me like I was a lunatic and say: “Why are you keeping tabs on my bathroom use? I didnt realize anyone was counting.” And then whenever he would pee, he would emerge out of the bathroom and say sarcastically: “I just peed. Are you happy?” Sometimes when he was at work I would get a random text from him out of nowhere. “Just peed. Thought you should know. Later on I might go again. Stay tuned for the full report. Weirdo.”

I miss the way he used to pile all of his random things on top of our Entertainment Center in the living room. Things that, in no way, belonged there. Keys, chapstick, wallet, pens, watch. It was like a line-up of ridiculous items, sitting atop the entertainment center on some kind of bizarre display. Just like with the pimple, we would perform the same ritual each time. He would toss his things there, and then I would take them and move them into a basket so they would at least all be in the same place. “Where are my keys, Boo? What did you do with my keys?” “Theyre in the basket.” “What is it with you and baskets? Why does everything have to be in a basket?”, he would ask, laughing at me. “Because then it’s ALWAYS in the basket, so you always know where it is.” He would just roll his eyes and say: “I already knew where it was! It was right here, where I left it. Until you moved it!”

I miss the way he left everything in the bathroom wet after he showered. Everything was wet. The sink was wet. The doorknob was wet. The sides of the tub. The floor was soaked. The toilet seat cover – wet. It amazed me each and every time. He would always walk out of the bathroom with his towel wrapped around his waist, and then he would drag more wetness all over the hallway and bedroom floor. It was like Pig-Pen, but with water. “Do you understand the purpose of a towel?”, I would tease him. “You dont just wrap it around you. You USE it to dry yourself off.” Then he would hear me cursing 5 minutes later when I went to sit down on the toilet, or leaned forward into the sink to brush my teeth, and got water all over my shirt from his leftover puddles. Drove me insane. I miss it. I want it back.

I miss the guy who sat at the computer desk in our bedroom by practically lying down, and stretching his very long legs and feet across the file cabinet, resting them there like it was normal to sit that way.

I miss the strange way he would shake his bottle of TUMS before opening them, or the way he made me sit in the backseat of the car whenever he drove us on long road-trips, like to my parents house, because he thought I was too much of a pain in the ass in the front seat. “You wanna be a backseat driver, you can sit in the backseat, Boo.” I would sit there and we would both laugh and smile at the ridiculousness of the wife being banished to the back seat, and we would share knowing glances through the rearview mirror.

I miss how he left half-empty glasses of various beverages all over the apartment; and how he would walk in from a long day at work and strategically remove each piece of his uniform and clothing, including socks, tossing them all over the arms of the couch, the floor, and just wherever they would land. Each article of clothing would fly off of him the same way it flew off Charlie Brown on the pitchers mound in those old comic strips. Then he would collapse into our bed with a loud thud and let out a huge, overdramatic sigh. “How was your day, Boo?” I would say, giggling at his exhaustion. “Huh?” He would reply, and then trail off into a nap in his boxer shorts.

I miss his white, old, ratty t-shirt he used to wear all the time when he played tennis, and it always smelled so awful and sweaty when he would return. Or the way he purposely would slurp his cereal loudly in my face, because he knew how much I hated that sound, and we thrived on finding ways to annoy each other. I miss the way he would sit on the couch, shirtless, and drink directly from the Coke bottle. “That’s really classy”, I would say with sarcasm. “I’m so turned on right now.” I miss how much he hated the grocery store, and everytime I sent him to pick something up, which was not often, he would always get it wrong. Always. I miss his really dry skin, and how he was constantly getting static-electricity shocks when walking around the apartment, yet he refused to take his socks off. “Goddamit!” “Jesus!” “What the hell?”, he would yell as his hand once again met with a spark. I miss how he would always forget to re-adjust the volume on the car radio, before giving it to me to drive to work. Everytime I would turn the engine on, some classic rock song would blare in my ears and scare the living shit out of me. I still think he did it on purpose.

I miss him farting in the bed. It didn’t happen often, thankfully. Don was not one of those type of guys who would fart on purpose, and then laugh and think it was the funniest thing in the world. He was not proud of them in any way, like a lot of guys are. However, sometimes, now and then – we would be lying in bed, drifting off to sleep, enjoying the silence of the night, and he would fart so loudly and over the top, that I would question my decision to spend my life with this person. It was always an accident, and he was always immediately embarrassed, which is what made it so funny. The fart would happen, followed by a beat, and then a very sincere and giggly “sorry.” Some nights he would fart in his sleep. Again, this was not a regular occurance, but it happened here and there.  One particular night, he had fallen asleep, and then he farted. Again. A third time. The fourth one was more like a musical note that didn’t want to end. It just kept going. I could no longer take it, so I reached over and shook him awake.

Him: Huh? What’s happening? Whats wrong, Boo? Why am I awake right now? Its 4 in the morning ….

Me: Because you keep FARTING! Its disgusting. Stop!!!

Him: (laughing) But Im asleep. I was asleep. I dont know Im doing it. Im sorry, Boo. That’s gross, I know …

Me: Jesus Christ. You dont smell that???

Him: (sniffing the air) Oh wow, you’re right. That’s pretty fucked up. Holy hell, it smells like I shit my pants. (starts spraying Fabreze)

Me: Oh, this is way beyond Fabreze, Boo. You need to Fabreze your asshole. Im not sleeping in these blankets. They are all filled with fart-smell now. I can’t do it. We have to move. We need a new bed. New apartment. New life. We have to get away from the farts.

Him: Nah. It’s Jersey. It blends right in.

That night, neither of us could fall back to sleep. We stayed up all night, we left the bedroom and the fart-smelling sheets, and we got in our car at 4:00 am, and went out for breakfast at the local diner. We had to escape the farts. We laughed so hard that night, and lots of nights. That was the thing about us, about our marriage. We always laughed. We mocked each other. We teased. We didnt let the tiny things bother us. We laughed at everything, because we felt so happy to be living our life together. All of those little things that some couples allow themselves to get so upset about and fight about and argue about – we didn’t. We just didn’t. By the time we had met one another and moved in together, we were both so ready to put up with someone else’s weirdness, and we both looked forward to many years of being able to irritate the hell out of each other. But that didn’t happen. We got robbed of that honor.

There are so many things to miss when you lose your spouse, because your spouse is so many things. Some days you grieve your past. Some days you grieve your future. Or the things you will never get to do together. Your friendship. Your partner in intimacy. You grieve your protector, your rhythm, your music. Your cheerleader in life. It is a list of things to miss, that goes on and on without end  …

Sometimes though, on days like today, it is much simpler than all of that. Sometimes you just miss those threads that made up that fabric. Those sliver-like pieces of wood that created the rungs on the ladder. The letters inside of the words that formed the sentence. The scotch-tape that held together the paper, on the gift that was your life together.

It sucks when nobody is there to rudely tell you that there’s a pimple on your face. Or to leave your entire bathroom looking like Lake Erie. To slurp cereal in a truly disgusting manner. Or to flee the wafting stench with you in the middle of the night, and run away to eat pancakes.

Sometimes you long for him to annoy you again. To keep you awake. Keep you alive. Sometimes you want a reminder – some sort of evidence of your partnership and your love. Proof that you indeed existed together and laughed like hell together and scraped through time together. You want the kind of proof that doesnt come in a picture frame or some left-behind item of his that you now keep. Sometimes – in the still of the night – lying there alone – you just miss his farts.

Don and I were only married just under 5 years when he died of a heart-attack, smack in the middle of his life, in July, 2011. We never got to start our family. Would we have had children? I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. Probably. It was something we talked about often, and something we both wanted to make happen one day. Adoption was one thing we fantasized about. Don loved the idea of helping or “rescuing” a child that was in need of a family, just like he loved rescuing animals.

Sammy naps with his Poppa (Don) …

There were many nights we would lie in bed and talk about what our future son or daughter might be like. We talked about names, created future scenarios for our imaginary child, and laughed about Don’s hatred of New Jersey, the state we lived in, and how he wasn’t going to be raising any “mafia wanna-be” who walked around saying things like “Fuggett-about-it!” The idea of kids was something we both hoped for.

Ever since losing my husband, people like to rationalize and insinuate that it has to be somehow “less painful” for me, because after all, we didn’t have children. To me, it feels like they are saying we weren’t really an actual family, since it was only me and him and our pets. I’ve also had lots of people wrongly assume that we werent planning on having kids anyway, so therefore, I didnt really lose anything in the way of a future family.

Sometimes I really hate people and their unbelievably cluelessness and insensitive remarks. Who cares if we were planning on having kids or not? Does it matter? The point is; the possibility, the hope, the option; was taken from us the second he died. Not only do I grieve the loss of my husband – I also grieve the family we never got to have. Each time I see other families playing happily together, kids swinging on a swingset, a little boy that maybe looks a bit like Don, a little girl with his sense of humor, a dad and his son tossing a ball back and forth. All of these scenarios are cruel reminders of what will never be. There won’t be any kindergarten or 1st year birthday parties or school functions or science fairs or graduations or marriages or grandparent days – not for us.

The only thing that hurts me more than the fact that I will most likely never be a mother – is that my husband will never be a dad. This reality pains me to my core, because Don’s own father was never much of a dad to him, so he never got to be a son, and now he will never get to be a father. My husband was robbed from both ends – his childhood was abusive and dysfunctional, and his adulthood ended at 46. He never complained, but he was hurt. This is why he loved animals so much. “They never leave you. They just love you, all the time, no matter what”, he would say to me. His lack of a loving family broke my heart into a billion tiny little pieces.

Don with our nephew Brian, as a newborn

And that is what I got – pieces. Before he died, during all the years I knew him, I got to see little pieces of what kind of a dad he might have been. I saw him play with our kitties, love them, take care of them when they were sick, brush their teeth with the patience of a saint, and hold them when they passed away, whispering in their tiny, furry ears: ” You’re going to be okay sweetie. My sweet Isabelle … poor little Ginger ….”

I watched him chase my cousin Tabatha’s daughter Ana around her house when she was a little girl, and how she always wanted to climb him because he was so tall. I saw him take care of our Nana when she was feeling sick, and I saw him help our elderly neighbor and friend Uncle Chuck into a chair after he had fallen, talking him gently into going to the hospital. I saw the way every animal and every child gravitated to him and loved him, and I saw him turn into a little boy while playing with kids and their toys. Mostly, for 2 1/2 years, I saw the way that he was with our nephew, Brian. He would lift him onto his shoulders, or lie down and toss into the air over and over, or we would read stories to him together on the couch. Don helped to teach Brian how to throw a baseball one day in my parents front yard, and he also taught him the word “ocean” when our family spent the weekend together on Cape Cod. Everytime I saw my husband with Brian, I would get that tingle inside me that wanted nothing more than for him to be someone’s dad. The way he was with little kids and animals – it was magic.

Brian laughs as Uncle Don lifts him into the air…

About 11 months ago, my brother and sis-in-law, Jen, had their 2nd child, my niece, Jillian. She was born after Don died, so she will never know him. But Brian knew him, and my husband really loved that kid. A few months ago, my brother told me that lately, Brian had been asking questions about Uncle Don, out of the blue. He was only 2 1/2 years old when he died, and now he is 4 and very curious. He wanted to sleep in the bed with me when I went home for a visit, because he said “Auntie Kelley is sad.” He whispered into my mom’s ear during dinner one night that he had a secret. “Uncle Don died”, he told my mom. “But don’t tell Auntie. She doesn’t know.” My mom laughed nervously and said: “Im pretty sure she knows!”

My mom babysits Brian and Jillian once a week while Dave and Jen are at work. She called me tonight to tell me this story of the dialogue that happened between her and Brian during their time together today. I scribbled it down as she was talking, so while it’s not exact wording since I wasn’t there, it’s close. The conversation began when my mom noticed that the fish in Brian’s fishtank were no longer there.

Mom: What happened to your fishes, Brian?

Brian: Oh, they died.

Mom: Oh, they did? Im sorry to hear that. How did they die?

Brian: They died because I forgot to feed them. I didnt feed them and they died, like Uncle Don died.

Mom: (taken aback) That’s right, Brian. Uncle Don died, and we all miss him very much.

Brian: Did Auntie see Uncle Don die?

Mom: No, but she went to the hospital to see him afterwards.

Brian: He used to pick me up and then go really really high , almost to the ceiling, Grammy!

Mom: That’s right honey. He did. He loved playing with you.

Brian: (putting his hands on his hips and getting very serious, like an adult) You know – he was a very nice guy. Uncle Don was a really nice man.

Mom: Yes he sure was. He was the best.

Brian: He was a really good, good guy. A very nice guy.

After that, Brian went back to playing and jumping around and being a little boy, but my mom was stunned by the seriousness in his tone. She said it was as if she was having a conversation with another adult, instead of a 4-year old boy. Now, I am quite sure that the most logical explanation for this “nice man” thing is that Brian has probably overheard my brother and Jen say things like that about Don, and he is just repeating it. Or maybe it’s something more.

They say that when people die, their souls or their spirits are easiest to reach by both kids and animals. Im convinced that our cat Autumn sees Don in the ceilings and talks to him, because of the strange way she acts. And as crazy as this makes me sound, I often see Don through Sammy’s eyes when Im petting him. I sing to them and I tell them how much I miss their daddy. Maybe Im nuts, or maybe I just dont have any children to see my husband’s eyes in. Maybe I see him wherever good things are, and because he never got to be that wonderful dad he should have been, maybe it makes my heart sing and skip a beat to hear that he left some sort of impression on a boy who was only 2 years old. Maybe that boy remembers and understands more than we think and know.

Or maybe he was just a really nice man, who now sleeps with the fishes.