words – Gather by Image

Saying Goodbye

I shared this on Social Media on July 7, 2022:

Today was a deeply sad day for the kids and me.

Over 14 years ago, Timmy Gaige and I met Benjamin Joseph Saunders-Gaige at a Homeward Trails adoption event, and not long after he came to live with us. Tim made him an email address and a Facebook account, and let him up on the bed when I was traveling for work. We took him camping, and basically any place we could get away with. We knew we drove some people crazy with our obsession with him…. But then he always won them over!

Almost 11 years ago we started bringing home strange new beings who took all of our time and attention. Yet he watched over them. And always (from the beginning through today) his Dr. Julianne Fisher was there for us and for him.

Nearly 17 years, a million squirrels chased, walks, hikes, runs, pats, kisses, belly rubs, tears in your fur, 2 surgeries, countless roadtrips. You were my constant companion. You loved my babies like your own.

I know how much you missed Tim. How much you lit up when you heard his voice on video after he was gone.

I know he is waiting for you on the other side of that rainbow bridge. I will miss you so much, BJ, as do your human siblings, but I know how happy you are to be together again with the tall one. I will dream of your reunion.

I can’t wait to see you again, it’s only a matter of time. I will take my time… I have more living and loving to do, but I will see you both again when my time is up!

#always

I have no doubts or regrets regarding how we handled the end of BJ’s life. It was his time, and I am so glad that he was able to go peacefully, with a mouth full of chocolate – kisses and reese’s – surrounded by the ladies who have loved him most. Here are some photos of the end that I didn’t share on social media:

Saying Goodbye surrounded by those who love him with our whole hearts.

I remained calm and steady here up until I held his paw and said to him “Say hi to Daddy for us.” And then the tears flowed.

It’s not the first time I held someone I loved until they stopped breathing. Different, yes. But there is something universal and other-worldly about those last breaths. Something about being with someone you love at that moment when they cross to the other side. Something beautiful and gut-wrenching and breath-taking and indescribable.

Even though I knew then and know now that it was for the best, that he went in the best possible way, and I am so grateful for that – it doesn’t lessen just how much I miss that companion. When I am the first one home, I open the door expecting to see him. I still expect to see him next to me when I wake up. I thought the loss of our dog would be dwarfed by the incredible weight of the loss of Tim. I was wrong.

What an incredible testament to the boundlessness of the human heart’s capacity to love.

Afterall, grief is the price we pay for love. (I believe Queen Elizabeth II is creditted with this one.)

The price is high, but I will keep on paying it. There is no other way.

Life check

There are a lot of memories for me today… 5 years ago today was the last time I heard Tim’s voice. It was the day that I decided to take him to the hospital, and he never came home. I wrote about this a bit in my letters: A year without your Voice and Another year without your voice.

Today, I want to reflect on this past weekend. I chose to go out to Vegas with my 3 best friends from college for a reunion weekend and an all day Music fest: Lovers and Friends. I know that everything is a risk. Especially these days, with covid (less life-threatening thanks to vaccines) but still rampant. Especially, because we live in America.

My friend Anne was ready to go before the headliners, so we walked her to the gate and told her to get an Uber not the bus back to her hotel.

Shruti, Stacia and I went back in, to the main stage area for TLC (which was awesome). Next up was Usher, Ludacris and lil Jon on the main stage. It was a break so we sat down on the ground. There were a good number of people around us also sitting down. There was DJ music, so medium loud but the three of us were chatting. I was beat. Closed my eyes a few times. Trying to think if Stacia and I could convince Shruti to leave before Lauryn Hill, because it was a long day standing on blacktop that was hotter than the surface of the sun and I was whooped. All of the sudden Shruti says “Get up! Get up! Get up!” I look back and see a wave of humans coming at me in the dark. Shruti grabs Stacia, Stacia grabs me, I grip my water bottle and hat (which I ripped off my head) And Stacia for dear life and RUN! People were ducking and running but very little screaming. It was so scary but the crowd was so NICE! Everyone who touched me was gentle like they didn’t want to hurt me but wanted me to know they were there/ to move forward. We rushed towards the stage and ended up near the front, Shruti pulled us to side thinking of getting trampled and we ended up near a security gate to the VIP section and people started jumping it. No one knew what was happening but there was a buzz of possible gun fire. (Because we live in America) I strained hard to listen. It was absolutely terrifying. I’ve never been in a situation like that before. I managed to be afraid both of getting trampled and of being shot at the same time. People were trying desperately to stay together with their people, and also move in the right direction, and keep each other safe. Stacia started shaking with repressed sobs and I nearly lost it too. I immediately thought “I cannot let my children be orphaned because I wanted to go to a concert.” Somehow this steadied me. I knew I had to keep my senses sharp and remain in control.

When we got to the fence, Shruti struggled to get over it and people helped her. When we got over into VIP we were able to head towards a VIP exit but still no one knew what was happening. But we were ready to get out! We got back to the hotel where we parked, and asked security for first aid because Shruti’s foot was bleeding. Some random concert goers stopped and had bandaids, gauze etc in their clear plastic bag. Stacia and Shruti had some things in a locker, that we will never see again but thank God Stacia had her car keys! (She also had my sunglasses and I had everything else I brought, phone, wallet in my skirt pockets.) It took a long time to get out of the garage but we eventually made it home to Stacia’s house. While exiting we heard Usher and realized that they kept playing! But clearly, we were done.

The music was absolutely phenomenal, but it’s definitely my last festival. That’s not a risk I need to take. Earlier in the day, I thought the heat was the big drama. I will always hold close that in the heat of the moment, Shruti saved my life.

In all things, I wonder #WWTD. I know he’d have understood my desire to go. He’d have wanted me to see my friends. He’d have encouraged it. I went out to Vegas with those 3 when I was very pregnant with D in 2016. I am a person who knows deep in my bones that no matter what precautions you take – tragedy can strike. That even when you marry a man with excellent family history, who takes little to no risks, follows all the rules, avoids tobacco, drugs, motorcycles, firearms… you can get hit with a perfect storm of nearly unbelievable disease and he can die at 37 years old in the prime of his life.

I live in the balance between carpe diem and which risks are too much.

I came home today. I held my babies close. I told them the story. I held HIS babies close.

I reread tonight Another year without your voice and I am reminded how much I’d want to share not only our children, but this world we live in with Tim. I watched one of my friend’s husband’s respond to what we went through and I saw Tim. This, remains so true today:

I’d want to tell you about the disappointing things going on in our country and in the world… I’d want to hear your outrage – not because I want you to be upset, but because it always inspired me, and because I’d know there was one more white male in this country who GOT IT. I’d want to tell you what has happened with me, with my work, ask your advice, report on friends, with other family.. well, I’d want to tell you everything. But you probably wouldn’t let me get to it if we were short on time. All you’d want to hear would be our children. I wish you could see them now! I like to believe you can. I wish we could see you! I guess I do. I see so much of you in them every day. No matter what, you live on in us.
Another year without your voice

On the very same day that I experienced this, in Buffalo, NY, a city that my Tim loved with his whole heart, from his camp days – experienced a terrible white supremacist’s massacre in a super market in a predominantly black neighborhood.

The terrifying experience made me realize just how much I need to appreciate my life. It is, of course, a thing I should have learned 5 years ago when Tim’s took the craziest turn. But all of the things I worry about daily can be reduced to nothing when you consider the sanctity of life. May we remember that, appreciate it, and fight for it always, not in cells that are growing as a part of a woman’s body, but full, live humans of every race, religion, orientation, gender identity.

May we all offer each other every day the same love, grace, and respect I experienced from the Lovers and Friends festival-goers of May 14, 2022.

Saying Goodbye to Dad

It was a difficult decision in this environment, and a risk, I know, but I decided to leave the kiddos for several hours today and head up to PA for my dad’s < 10 person funeral mass.

The absolute saddest part of dad’s passing was the timing. Dad had been ready for a long time. Before Tim died, I spoke to him about how much I wish that across the country we had Death with Dignity options. Imagine if Dad could have made his own choice? He would have made it years ago, and gone to rest peacefully, surrounded by the support of his family. My heart breaks to think of the sadness and the confusion of this time. I can only imagine this is the case for many other patients in care facilities across the country, who can not understand why their family members are not able to visit. Death is always sad for those of us left behind. It is a heavy weight to carry. But I like to imagine a world where the suffering can find their way home in peace, in a manner and time of their choosing.

I am glad that I was able to go today. I wrote and gave the Eulogy, which I will share here. I may have broken my own connection to the Catholic Church in 2016, but I can not deny that Father Ed did a beautiful job with Dad’s mass. He had met dad, and he read carefully the background on Dad that my sister-in-law, Gaby, provided. He incorporated those thoughts beautifully and connected them to both readings and the gospel in his homily. My sister, Jean, and my Aunt Kathleen did a beautiful job with the readings, my Aunt Dolly with the prayer of the faithful and the Church staff who joined for the piano and singing did a gorgeous job. The pianist went so far as to add a few chords of ‘Somewhere over the rainbow’ at the end after hearing the end of the Eulogy. And my mom, who I hate to welcome to widowhood, was her strong, beautiful, elegant self.

Here are the words I shared today with the small crowd allowed for the funeral mass. Mom hopes to have a burial that more can attend in the future.

Good morning.

(Here I ad libbed that before I started I wanted to mention that my immediate family had joined a video chat the previous evening to wish my 18 year old niece a happy birthday and we had agreed… as weird as this funeral mass is for all of us here – the size, only a few immediate family members – it would have been right up dad’s alley).

We, here in this room today, and others that could not be with us, we are Dad’s legacy. Most significantly, Mom, Joe, Jean, and I (and our spouses and children) are dad’s greatest legacy. Even though he couldn’t always show it the way we might have liked for him to, it has always been clear to me just how much Dad loves each and every one of us.

At my first job after college when someone would accept a new position and be moving on to the next adventure, we would celebrate (sometimes roast) them with a top 10 list, Letterman style. At my husband’s Celebration of Life, we developed a collection of things that “we learned from Tim” particularly for our children to have for years to come.

So today for this small group of us gathered here, I will share the top 10 things that I learned from Dad, whether directly or indirectly…

The value of family, resilience and perseverance. I know how much it meant to Dad that he and Mom got to fulfill a longtime dream of visiting Ireland together, where they met some of dad’s cousins and saw where his mom was born.
The value of education. Dad always made it clear how important he found education of all kinds. The love of a good book! And a library! Dad was a lifelong learner. And it’s not surprising then that my sister, Jean, is an educator.
The value of hard work – whether this be at school, work, around the house or in the yard, where my brother, Joe’s nickname for Dad – “Johnny Flamethrower” – came. Dad’s favorite tools may have been his lawnmower, leaf blower, and subsequently lighter – to light the leaves on fire… eventually only on the county-approved days.
The value of understanding and appreciating cultural differences. This was something I think Dad struggled with personally all his life. He made a point to talk to me about gender and racial equality in particular, as well as the damage of prejudice, and every year he looked forward to signing right up for the Church and Synagogue interfaith community sessions.
In a similar vein, Dad taught me the value of a good debate, of challenging the status quo, of pushing yourself to think differently then you’ve been taught to think.
Dad taught me that it may never be too late to reinvent yourself. This was something Dad did over and over. Brother, son, friend, soldier, Stone Container worker, husband, Philadelphia Police officer, father, Wharton School Business student, Blacksmith/farrier, rubber stall mat installer, woodworker, chef, grandfather, student of history and law.
Dad taught me the importance of mental health. Mostly, that mental health and challenges with it are very real. I learned through him the damage of secrecy, and with it the value of transparency, openness and speaking the truth.
Dad taught me that It’s never too late to bury the hatchet… When Dad’s brother Hugh was sick, I went to visit him at his home and he told me and Tim about Dad coming to visit him in the hospital. They had not spoken for many years. Uncle Hugh looked me in the eye and said “if roles were reversed, MaryBeth, I don’t know if I would have done it…. He was the bigger man.” Nothing in all the years of my life could have prepared me to hear those words. I was shocked, but I was also incredibly touched, and those words have stayed with me.
Dad shared with me words he often recalled from his sister, Patsy… Regarding burial for GrandPop Saunders, and whether it be with Grandmom Saunders, or in a plot where in the future Grandmom Mary could be buried with him, Dad said Aunt Patsy told him, “Johnny, let us appease the living, rather than the dead.” Dad and I spoke of that many times and it stuck with me. Based on the life I’ve lived, those words have been incredibly important to me.
For many years, on the second Sunday of December, my family would go cut down a Christmas tree. Whenever we would do this, Joe, Jean, and I would wait to hear the words Dad always spoke “Just remember, the farther you walk out, the farther you need to walk back.” We laughed about it a lot, but it’s a valuable lesson in life.

When I was young, Dad and I enjoyed watching The Wizard of Oz together, and he made me memorize “Somewhere over the Rainbow”. He’d even record me singing it on a little black tape recorder.

I hope you are somewhere over the rainbow, Dad. I know a couple people who will be happy to show you around. May you be at peace. May you be at home. There’s no place like home.

May

May came crashing in. I woke up thinking about the hospital time in a confusing wake up where it wasn’t clear where the dream stopped and the conscious thought began.

In some ways it was refreshing to wake up on my own like that. It’s rare. I usually awake suddenly right in the middle of a sleep cycle by one of my offspring calling for me or busting into my room.

I woke up thinking about the hospital time. And then I remembered it was May. Much like last year, all the thoughts are creeping in as the time of year approaches. As I mentioned in my post last year Pain, my body is readying to relive the trauma.

There is a part of me that wishes I could skip this part. Skip the pain …

Last night I went to the gym. Another rarity. I worked hard. At the end I felt like I was going to vomit. But I felt alive. So I’ll take it.

I remind myself what he wouldn’t give to be alive … To be here with me, with his children whom he adored. To take every chance to learn new things, to experience the world, to watch, to play, even to worry. And I know that even with all this pain, this grief, the struggles, I am so fortunate to be alive.

Last night a picture came up of the four of us (before D was born) standing at a farm in the fall in front of a field of sunflowers. I loved that photo. I think I made it my Facebook profile picture after it was taken. But as I looked at it last night on the screen I thought to myself, I never appreciated how perfect my life was. I don’t want to do that again. I’m not sure I can simply STOP worrying about the worry of the day, but I want to consciously appreciate.

Maybe my life isn’t “perfect” anymore with the love of my life dead, but here’s a thing: I can stop and think about how much he loved me and it still fills me up. It still takes my breath away. What a gift to have been loved like that. What a gift to love like that. Even if it ended tragically. That kind of Love is such a gift. And while the task of raising these three humans may seem monumental most of the time, and while I feel like I’m mostly screwing it up… The task is also a gift I need to fully appreciate.

I can be grateful. I can accept the suckiness. I can demand more. I can demand more of myself, and of life and of the world around me.

I can not skip the pain. Feeling the pain… is what it is to feel alive.

I have so much more to write, but for today, this is enough.

Here we go, May! Here I am. I am alive.

39

Dear Tim,

Today is your 39th birthday. Is? Was? Would have been?… I’m not sure. I’m going with “Is.” It will always be the anniversary of your birth.

I just re-read last year’s posts on Milestones and Pain and wow. Year two and I feel it coming on again. This time of year is heavy with memories. And looking back, it surprises me how much I survived last year at this time.

Mostly, I think you would be proud of me. Mostly, I still think “what would Tim do” or else just do what you’d want me to do reflexively. I do that with the big things that matter. But I did do one thing for which you wouldn’t approve… and what’s worse: I did it in the name of buying myself something for YOUR birthday! I bought a new dishwasher! You would not have wanted to replace only one appliance. But the other appliances simply don’t need replacing. And man, have I wanted a new dish washing machine!

I’m doing my best. I am. I know I am. And I think I am doing ok. But this time is hard. And not just for me. Annabelle burst into tears at the breakfast table yesterday morning. She also asked several times about “Daddy’s friends” coming for cupcakes… which isn’t the easiest to pull off on a Thursday evening… Thank goodness for our friends who came with their kiddos! I think it made her happy. I think she is emotional this time of year without fully understanding it. This week I have felt detached and… confused? without being able to pinpoint why.

I’ve lately been listening to some music from the Broadway musical “Dear, Evan Hansen,” and there is a song the teenagers sing (relative to a teenage suicide)

No one deserves to be forgotten
No one deserves to fade away
No one should come and go
And have no one know he was ever even here
No one deserves to disappear

– Benj Pasek / Justin Paul

So many times in the hospital I told you that even if I’d known this would have happened I wouldn’t change a thing about our life together. On my hardest days, in the darkest moments, I wonder about whether that’s true. In those moments, Tim, I think about how much easier it would be if we had known this was coming to never have children and to just enjoy our time together… maybe put in for a whole lot of life insurance for you so that now I could just use that to go to some tropical island and never have to work again and not have anyone that I need to support…

But those thoughts never last very long… I know it’s true that I wouldn’t change a thing because all of it is for love of you… It was for love of you that we had the family we had in the first place. While I know how sad you would be that I have to be both mom and dad on my own, I also know that raising them on my own is the best way to live my love for you.

And oh my goodness, how much they are like you and how much you would love every minute with them… Annabelle’s love of March Madness, the way she listens and remembers these intricate facts… Rose’s humor, innate interpersonal understanding, her intuition, the way she loves so big … Declan’s absolute love for anything sports-related but also his love of taking care of baby dolls.

They are your legacy. The legacy you dreamed of… the greatest legacy you could have ever imagined. I can buy myself that dishwasher for your birthday, because the gift of mothering is my gift to you. Raising them without you is both my most tremendous challenge and my greatest honor.

Happy 39th Birthday!

Love always,

MaryBeth

The Holidays

The Holidays are joyful, magical, especially for children. The holidays can be difficult for adults. They are difficult for many people. They are especially difficult for grieving people, people in crisis, people processing tragedy.

The Holidays – Christmas in particular – are for children and people in love. This year, I am neither of those. But I do have three small children at home for whom I must ensure the magic.

When I was in the Widow’s support group “the Holidays” was a topic on the giant post-it note paper, and I didn’t totally understand it. It was October, so I think I knew intellectually it was staring us all in the face, but I could not yet comprehend it.

The best that can be said for me last Christmas is that I survived it. I think the kids enjoyed it. I went through the motions. I know this for sure because when I unpacked the Christmas ornaments I found a homemade ornament from each kiddo marked 2017, which I would swear I’ve never seen before, and yet I am positive I must have seen last year. On my birthday (two days before Christmas), I drove to the grocery store and fantasized about running away. My kids were with two people I trusted completely. Certainly, running away was the best option. Tim loved Christmas. He was absolutely kid-giddy about it. When we first took the kids to our new home, the first thing he asked them is where we should put the Christmas tree. (It was June). He loved Christmas lights! I know, without a doubt, that if Tim had died on me before we had children, I’d want to take time off and go to some tropical beach, and completely ignore the holiday. But that’s simply not an option at this point of my life. Not when I need to supply the magic of Christmas to our children. To help them see the Holidays through the lens their father would have showed it to them. I feel the pressure to give them the best Christmas possible, for them, because of what they are missing without him here, and because he was the great Christmas lover. So I ask myself “What would Tim do?” and then I do it… And so often that helps.

Today, I listened to an episode of my favorite podcast, Terrible Thanks for Asking, Happy(ish) Holidays III . In it, a man talks about looking forward to a Christmas that he will spend with his family, including 2 teenage sons, through a stage 4 cancer diagnosis, knowing that this is likely to be his last Christmas season.

And it made me think. What if we all thought about how we would want to spend the holidays if we knew it was our last? How would it change your perspective? How would it change how you spent it?

As much as I wish we could have had so many conversations… to prepare… for ME, I am absolutely thrilled for him that he never knew. Had no idea that this was coming. But if he had known…. If he had known that his last Christmas, would be his last Christmas, how would he have wanted to spend it? Like all things with Tim, because of how well I knew him… the answer comes to my mind immediately: exactly the way he did. Everyone said we were crazy. But he didn’t care. And for once, I didn’t care either! We threw caution to the wind, we planned, and we took a 5 year old, 3 year old, and 5 month old to London for Christmas. We took time off. We traveled. We trusted each other. We relied on each other. There were few gifts that year. The gift was the experience. Exactly the way he always wanted. We said that the Christmas gift we gave each other was paying for expensive airport parking to make our lives easier getting in and out of the airport in the US. Santa had small, modest gifts under the tree in London Christmas morning. The kids didn’t seem to notice Mom and Dad didn’t get anything. Most importantly, we spent Christmas together, simply. We played games, pulled Christmas crackers, I cooked dinner, and had some snacks and charcuterie for “lunch.” We enjoyed each other. Just our small immediate family. And we could not have been happier. I don’t tell myself that’s how he would have spent his last Christmas to make myself feel better. I do it because it is simply true. But thinking that today… it did bring a measure of comfort.

So then I thought to myself…. if I knew this Christmas was my last… how would I want to spend it? Again an easy answer. I would want to spend it with my family. However, wherever, that was. Spending it with Tim is not an option. Yet if this was my last Christmas, I’d want to be with my children, and make it special and memorable for them. I would want to see the magic of Christmas that can only be seen in a child’s eyes. I’d want to slow time down, and just BE with my family.

It’s probably not my last Christmas. But I don’t know that. And elements of it could be “the last”… kids grow and change so quickly. My children’s cousins will be here this Christmas again, but one of them is already in College, so I know that family togetherness is fleeting. If I’m lucky, I will grow old. My kids will grow up, and have their own interests, their own people, and they may all chose to spend it with their own families… maybe then I can try that tropical vacation Christmas.

Somehow, there is comfort in knowing the answer to that question. It’s not a question about Tim, and doing what he would want me to do. It’s a question about me – how would I want to spend it if I knew it would be my last?

I know the answer. And that is just what I am going to do.

For better or for worse

Normally, the “until death do us part” is the part of our marriage vows that rings in my head these days.

But today was a strange day. I mostly took the day off work to take A to doctor appointments. And mostly it was an awesome day. There’s just something about getting a lot of one-on-one time with one of our kids. They are all seriously amazing, awesome humans. At their current ages, and considering I work full time, when we are all together there is a lot of vying for my attention, and they can get nasty with each other, or with me, and exhausting, and just generally challenging the way young humans are. But A is 7 now, and goodness, she’s just a good and interesting human, and we mostly had a great time together (except when I basically had to hold her down for a flu shot, but…)

A few things stand out. I had an interview with one doc. Going through my file he asked, “so what happened with her dad ?”… the usual shock: “Wow…. nothing short of tragic…how are YOU doing?… are you seeing someone? Do you have friends?” You may think some of these sound blunt, but I typically appreciate the blunt comments to the over-cautious, or completely- ignoring-it ones. But I would be lying if I didn’t admit my eyes filled with tears a few times during that discussion.

At the next appointment, I got some paperwork I had to update highlighted fields and glance over the rest, all vital PII… down to Marital status: Single. Choke. I get it. I do. And yet… Widowed should always be an option. Single just does.not.cover my status. That appointment brought us to the 6th level of a building with glass walls and elevators and A kept talking about how if Daddy were here she would not let him near the edge, would tell him not to look down. Daddy is afraid of heights, yes. In the present tense. This discussion with the nurse, who didn’t know. The anticipation/discomfort I felt for whether she would find out in this conversation (she did not.) The doctor who did know. the discomfort I felt for her/me/A. The present tense. I love that she speaks of him that way. And yet…

At the end of the day, I had to take the dog to doggie ER. Hopefully, fortunately, he’s going to be ok. On the way home with him and 3 prescriptions, I felt myself falling apart at the seams. The engineer in me tackles. Assesses the situation. Takes action. The human in me is secretly always afraid if I take someone I love to the ER, he or she will never come home. It’s a weird sort of PTSD. And with a 13 year old dog… is he already living on borrowed time? I don’t know. There is the part of me that remembers how much Tim feared dealing with his death – the dog’s death. The moment for the kids of course, but secretly, I think the thing he feared most was dealing with it himself. Watching the movie “Marley and me” broke him.

And here is the thing I thought about driving home tonight: Tim, my love, for better or for worse, everything in my life is because of you. What a strange thing for a feminist to think, to know to be true. My whole life is inextricably linked to you. This dog that we got together. This particular dog that you convinced me to adopt, when I was initially turned off by his jumping up on me at the Homeward Trails meet and greet event in Georgetown. This dog who was our first baby, our first shared love, who stole my heart before our children did. This dog, these other three humans who made my heart grow and expand and who have all basically defined my life, whether I thought I wanted that or not – for better or for worse. Everything I do and everything I am is now defined by them. For better or for worse. Whether or not it was what I ever thought I wanted. And I would have it no other way. I told him that a million times in the 26 days. And yet. I have to make all the decisions alone now, without him here. All the decisions for all of them, without the one other person who loved them just as much, who’s life was defined by them as much as mine is.

When I came home, E told me that the kids were asleep. That the girls had asked if BJ was coming home tonight, or if he would stay forever. And for the zillionth time I was reminded: I’m not the only one with that special brand of PTSD. I woke them both to tell them I was home. To tell them BJ was home, and he got medicine and should be OK. But I remind myself he may be on borrowed time. And I will need to deliver another message some day. And the way in which I deliver that message is entirely up to me.

Anyone who has worked with me is likely to tell you that I love to be in charge. I tend to think I make decisions better than most people. But there are days when the magnitude of my personal responsibility is crushing. And all I can do is hope that I continue to make the best decisions possible.

For better or for worse.

Hamilton

A month ago I went to see this at the Kennedy center, with some great friends, and thanks to my friend Jen’s incredible perseverance to get tickets! Her husband took this shot of us…. now I’m trying to refrain from the “I’m not throwing away my shot” joke… mvimg_20180809_192341 I could not have been more excited. I’d been listening to the music, and its just so great. Honestly. It’s story telling at its best. Lin-Manuel Miranda rivals only J.K. Rowling in my mind with artistry of words. But lyrics… to music. Oh my goodness. Words fail me. I would recommend seeing it to anyone who has the opportunity. So what do the lyrics mean to me? Where I am now, in my life…. in my journey of grief and healing?

Of course Hamilton, an American Musical is about American History, which I love, its about politics; it pushes you to think a little differently about both of those things. But above all, it is a story. And it is a story about love and loss and healing. Romantic love, the love of a parent, the love of a country, the love of freedom, and the ideals of Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. Loss through death, loss through War, loss through betrayal, embarrassment and disappointment.

I guess all of us are living a life that is a story about love and loss and healing. Maybe they all take slightly different forms, but these three things are essentially what our stories are all about.

I could go on at length about what so many of the songs meant to me, but I will pick just three, in honor of Angelica’s “three fundamental truths”…

Aaron Burr is “the villain in your history” and this story of course, but his story is also told in a very relate-able way. He may not have taken very distinctive political stances but his life was full of love and loss… and hopefully some healing… This was one of my favorite songs, “Wait for it” which he sang:

Death doesn’t discriminate
Between the sinners
And the saints
It takes and it takes and it takes
And we keep living anyway
We rise and we fall
And we break
And we make our mistakes
And if there’s a reason I’m still alive
When everyone who loves me has died
I’m willing to wait for it
I’m willing to wait for it

I am the one thing in life I can control

I hope that I do not spend my life waiting. But I do need to remind myself sometimes that I am the one thing I can control. I can’t control anything else, but my own actions, choices, responses, attitude. I also know that not everyone who loves me has died… but the one who loved me… the one who loved me the most, in a complete 360 degree way, in the way everyone dreams of being loved… he has died, so if there’s a reason that I’m still alive….

OK, I also just have to mention two other songs that I won’t quote… one is “Burn”.. it is so well-done. The most perfectly eloquent song about response to public betrayal. Whether or not you can relate personally, it makes you feel so much. The other is “Non-Stop.” It is a long-ish song. It tells so much story, and it incorporates almost every other song from the musical together into one song in the most beautiful way, and exhibits how everything comes together.

Also.. the songs King George does are hilarious. They are so ridiculous… informative and ridiculous… and then when he jumps in with “he’s never gon’ be president now” in the Reynolds Pamphlet… just hilarious.

Later in the play, after the Reynolds Scandal, Alexander and Eliza’s 19 year old son, Philip, dies in a dual. Unimaginable. This song could have been called that. Alternately, it is called “It’s Quiet Uptown”:

There are moments that the words don’t reach
There is suffering too terrible to name
You hold your child as tight as you can
And push away the unimaginable
The moments when you’re in so deep
It feels easier to just swim down

The Hamiltons move uptown
And learn to live with the unimaginable

This. So very much, this. Our family’s story was just so very unbelievable… unimaginable. No one could get their head around it.. suffering too terrible to name. What else can you do? But push away? So often, I have been so deep, when it would have been easier, so much easier, to just swim down. And yet… I learn to live with the unimaginable. I learn every day.

You knock me out, I fall apart

Look at where we are
Look at where we started
I know I don’t deserve you, Eliza
But hear me out

That would be enough

If I could spare his life

If I could trade his life for mine
He’d be standing here right now
And you would smile, and that would be enough

This part reminds me in a different way of Tim’s dad. It’s a different context, for sure. But how many times I heard him express his desire to trade his life for his son’s. It is the pain of a parent, that I can imagine, that I have seen with my eyes, but I have not lived.

I don’t pretend to know
The challenges we’re facing
I know there’s no replacing what we’ve lost
And you need time
But I’m not afraid
I know who I married

Isn’t that the truth? I know who I married. This time has shown me how very much I know who I married. For that, I am grateful.

If you see him in the street, walking by her side
Talking by her side, have pity

Eliza, do you like it uptown? It’s quiet uptown

Look around, look around, Eliza
(They are trying to do the unimaginable)

This part reminds me so much of the interesting use of words. Of their meaning, and of choosing words carefully. I never liked the word “pity.” It has such negative connotations in our society. No one wants to be pitied. Certainly, I never wanted pity. Then, a circumstance arose where I could have felt many things… but what I felt was pity. I didn’t want to say that to the person I pitied though, because it felt mean. And that’s not what I wanted to convey. Meanness or ill-will was not what I was feeling. So I looked up the meaning of “pity” almost for a thesaurus option, and the very definition of the word was exactly how I felt for this other person: the feeling of sorrow and compassion caused by the suffering and misfortunes of others. And then I realized, that I have no shame for all of the pity others have felt for me. Why should I? Should I not be grateful that I have people in my life who are caring enough to have sorrow and compassion for the suffering and misfortune my children and I have endured, and continue to endure for the sudden loss of the love of my life, of their father?

There are moments that the words don’t reach
There is a grace too powerful to name
We push away what we can never understand
We push away the unimaginable

They are standing in the garden
Alexander by Eliza’s side
She takes his hand

It’s quiet uptown

Forgiveness.. Can you imagine? Forgiveness. Can you imagine?

Have pity… they are going through the unimaginable.

I resound with these words so much when I think about how others see us. Everything we have experienced, and do experience, I know is (to others) unimaginable. And yet, to us, it is life. It is hard to imagine.

May we all experience the forgiveness. May we all experience a grace too powerful to name.

And the final song in the play… “Who lives, who dies, who tells your story.” Isn’t that what it is all about? When I have read about others’ discomfort with the widowed finding love again, that is often how it is explained that others feel… would their spouse “move on” so quickly? What does their life mean? Who would keep their flame, who would tell their story? The thing that maybe only the widowed can really understand, is that we may move forward, but we never move on.

Let me tell you what I wish I’d known
When I was young and dreamed of glory
You have no control, who lives, who dies, who tells your story?…….

But when you’re gone, who remembers your name?
Who keeps your flame, who tells your story? Who tells your story (who tells your story?)

(Eliza) I put myself back in the narrative
I stop wasting time on tears
I live another fifty years, it’s not enough

Wow. That’s possible. I could live another 50 years…

I try to make sense of your thousands of pages of writings
You really do write like you’re running out of time (time)

He really did… My Tim. He ran out of time.

I rely on Angelica
While she’s alive, we tell your story
She is buried in Trinity Church, near you
When I needed her most, she was right on time

Isn’t this the truth? My sister was absolutely right on time, when I needed her most.

And I’m still not through
I ask myself, what would you do if you had more time? (time)

You could have done so much more if you only had time
And when my time is up, have I done enough?

Will they tell our story? (will they tell your story?)
Oh, can I show you what I’m proudest of? (The orphanage)
I ~~established~~ the first private orphanage in New York City
(The orphanage)
I help to raise hundreds of children
I get to see them growing up (the orphanage)

OK, this is something I can’t exactly do but… are there other things that I should be doing?

In their eyes I see you, Alexander
I see you every time

In A, R and D’s eyes, I see Tim. I see him every time.

And when my time is up, have I done enough?
Will they tell my story? (will they tell your story?)
Oh, I can’t wait to see you again
It’s only a matter of time..

Those last two lines haunt me. I hear them in my head so often now. When I miss him the most… I hear them at the gym. Or when I am driving in my car, alone….. and after all, I guess it is true.

… I can’t wait to see you again. It’s only a matter of time…

Showing up

Today I went to my Uncle’s funeral. I spent more time in the car than anything else. I had some straight talk with the girls about where I was going, what I was doing today. I got some questions that I never seem to be able to predict. Those conversations are difficult, but getting less so. My skin is getting thicker.

It’s a funny thing going to your uncles’ funeral as a widow. It feels as though everyone is expecting you to either completely fall apart confronted with another death, or else to know the right thing to say. (Maybe this is only in my head and neither of these are true.)

It was an open casket, and when I went to pay my respects I wished my Uncle luck. I told him “there are a lot of good people waiting for you on the other side.” One moment I found myself with two of my cousins, who have each had their own significant losses (mother and daughter) so I repeated the sentiment and they agreed. I did not have much time with my Aunt – the newest member of the widow club. The only thought that crossed my mind was to welcome her to the club no one ever wanted to join… but I didn’t say it. I’m not sure I really said anything.

I know people spend a lot of time worrying they will say the wrong thing to me. I won’t say there is no wrong thing, because that’s just not true. Plenty of people have said plenty of “wrong” things to me. But I forgive them. I appreciate that they tried to say anything at all. I appreciate that they showed up. When I look back on the last year, what I appreciate the most is the myriad of ways that people showed up for me. (And keep doing so.)

My sister, who is probably the poster child for showing up for me, questioned my taking the trip for the funeral today. It came from a place of love, and big sisterly protection. But for me, if there was a way for me to swing it, I wanted to be there. I may not have words for my Aunt, but I wanted to try to show up. I was glad I could do that today. Even if it was the only thing I really had to offer. Grief is tricky. It is unique. And sometimes all you can do is sit in the sadness with someone. Don’t look away from its ugliness, but simply be in it. Acknowledge the love and the loss.

Rest in Peace, Uncle Chalie. There are many who loved you and you loved on the other side – after you’ve greeted all of them – have a pint with my Tim. He’ll show you around, and where to find the best beers.

Year Two

June 11th came. And I survived it. I did a round trip drive to Pennsylvania to see my nephew graduate from high school. I stopped in A’s classroom before I left. Worth every moment. I spent the morning at a coffee shop we used to go to together… working on the 26 days post.

I woke up on June 12th and Tim’s car was gone from the driveway. Someone came into my driveway and took my property. Tim’s car. Which as of September 2017, was registered and titled to me care of the Virginia DMV. So close to my home. So close to where my three babies were sleeping. I’m a short female, widow…living alone… with three small children. Surely, I should have felt “vulnerable” before. But I just… didn’t. Maybe that’s foolish, but it’s simply true. This one act rattled the core of my being. I missed another day of work, I dealt with so many police, detectives, insurance agents, adjusters, car lot, tow truck drivers, body shop managers… you name it that week. I got the car back. Spent more to get it back than it’s worth and should have just let it go and bought a new car… but I will let that car go when I am ready, on my own terms.

Year Two. People tell me it’s worse than year one. I actually remember Tim remarking about that once with respect to the overwhelming sympathy/support you receive because people note the “first” of everything… but they have moved on by the second… and you haven’t. I guess this is true. It may also be that the cloud of grief has lifted, and you have to feel more, you still have to live the new reality. There are a hundred reasons people may say that year 2 is harder than the first… but I didn’t want it to be true for me. Of course not, I never do. Well, I guess how the year turns out remains to be seen, but it certainly started with a bang!

Year Two for me has been difficult in a unique way as well, that not all widows face in exactly the same way. For me, as a result of the size of my heart, along with random happenstance and timing. Hopefully one day I’ll be ready to write about that.

Tim had such a solid and nearly instantaneously good sense of people. I used to say he was an excellent judge of character, but it was more than that. It used to drive me crazy how he always turned out to be right about people. The thing for which I am most grateful is how much we knew each other. And how much he shaped me. While we never discussed death and arrangements for us specifically, I knew immediately every step of the journey how to do exactly what he would want. I worried sometimes (because I am me) how they would be received by others, but I always knew what he would want… and I executed accordingly. In any difficult situation in the last year, I’ve offered it up to him in my heart and I hear an answer from him nearly immediately. That fact has a spiritual / other-worldly nature to it that I don’t typically buy into… but it’s simply true. I hear him in my heart telling me what to do, whenever I ask. Sometimes, even when I don’t.

In D’s room I have a picture of him and Tim where Tim is looking straight into the camera. I picked it to put up on a canvas on the wall even though there is one I have in the same position of them looking at each other that I like even more… because I love the idea of D having that in his room… with Tim looking right out at him. I both love and hate that picture. It has a Mona Lisa quality of Tim’s piercing eyes. Tim could pierce you with his eyes like Dumbledore… in life, and most especially in the picture in D’s room, beyond life as well.

There was a saying that I always liked that went “if equal affection can not be, let the more loving one be me.” (From a W. H. Auden poem.) I have often lived that way.

There was a time, when I put D to bed while Tim was in the hospital… when I bathed or put D to bed right after he died… when there were many people here with the girls, that I was finally alone with D, and I would just cry. And I would worry, what am I doing to this poor kid to cover him in my tears all the time? That hasn’t happened in a long time. But tonight, I let the girls watch something while I put D to bed, so we were alone reading stories… while he was getting another one I looked up at that picture of Tim. I let his eyes pierce me. I let everything he would say to the questions of my heart wash over me. And I cried. I felt bad, because D looked at me very confused. But when I smiled at him, he smiled at me and snuggled in for “one more” story…

What I hear him say is this: I know you, MaryBeth. You know me. Don’t let your emotions cloud your judgment when it really matters. I can’t be there to envelope you in my love. I can’t be there to adore you. Surround yourself with people who adore you. People who adore you, but will also call you on your BS…

So this is what I must do. This is what I will focus on doing in year two, and I will see where it takes me.

“Love is not a victory march, it’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah” – Leonard Cohen