Several weeks ago, I was in Indianapolis for a work conference. It's an annual thing; most of the people I see there, I haven't seen since last year, and won't see again until next year. Early in this trip, I bumped into the woman who I was temporarily working for when Ryan died. She asked immediately how Sophie was doing, and if I had a picture. Proud mom that I am, I pulled one up on my iPhone right away and showed it to her, beaming. She gasped, smiled bright, and said with true joy, "What a light!"
Truer words have not been spoken. That is what Sophie is to me - a light. Before she was born, when I was in the depths of my grief, I know many people were hoping that a baby would provide me with solace. I always reacted to this sort of sentiment bitterly, knowing that a baby would do nothing to heal my heart, that a baby would not make it all better. No matter how happy she may make me, I knew that she would not fix things. And she hasn't.
But, she is a light. A bright, warm light in the center of the darkest room. She glows pure and strong even when I'm having my worst days - the light is always on. Sometimes, it grows so bright that it's hard to look at - it grows to all sides of the room, and the darkness shrinks away. Sometimes, her light spreads to the walls, and shines out the windows, and for the first time in months, I can see outside, and see what's ahead. Other times, it shrinks back to the center of the room, dulls, and it becomes my job to tend to it, and make it bright again. But the light never goes away, it is constant, always warm, always hopeful, always on.
The dark is still in the room too. There are dark corners, all of the time, and sometimes I can't help but going and sitting in one for a while. There are shadows too, that catch me unaware. They are projections of darkness that fall off of relics in the room - old memories, objects, things that are there and I can't get rid of, or don't want to. As bright as the light is, it can't shine out all of the bits of darkness. After all, before the light went on, it was a very, very dark room. I can't expect one little light to get rid of all of the black. That's an awfully big job for such a small light! But because of my little light, I can see again. I can understand the dark corners and the shadows, and know that they are not hopeless - though they sometimes can feel like it.
What a light. A light that wrinkles her little nose when she smiles her gap-toothed grin. That laughs when I laugh, and then makes me laugh again. That runs as fast as she can and giggles and hides, waiting for me to find her. My little light dances to the music that I play for her, and asks me to sing songs to her again and again. She snuggles against me when she falls asleep at night, and is happy to see me in the morning. She's excited when I get home from work, and runs and throws her arms around my legs. She gives me little kisses when I ask for them, and every so often, for no reason at all. My little light causes me joy that is bigger than my grief. It does not replace or cancel out my grief - they run parallel. But the joy is bigger. The light it bigger than the dark. And, to be clear, it is a very big dark.
What an amazing light.
Saturday, March 14, 2015
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Missing You for Two Years (A Letter)
Dear Ryan,
I heard your voice yesterday. Usually, I can't even bring myself to look at your name in my voicemail box, but yesterday it was almost full, and I had to delete some old messages. I always do this insanely carefully, making sure that I don't accidentally delete yours - it's like cutting the correct wire on a time bomb. After I was finished deleting a few yesterday, I stared at your name for a while. Then, I had to listen. I wanted to hear you say that you love me on my birthday.
I have three messages saved from you - two are just you saying chicken in your silly voice. The third, though, is the message you left me the morning before you died - a happy birthday wish because you had forgotten to say it before I left the house that morning. Thank goodness you were so sleepy that morning - otherwise you wouldn't have needed to call me, and I wouldn't have this record of your voice. Now I just have to make sure I never lose it.
It wasn't as jarring as I thought it would be, listening to your voice. It was a comfort, at least for as long as the voicemail was playing. I listened twice. I haven't forgotten what you sound like - I remember it perfectly. Hearing it sounded like you were right there, and that I'd be on my way home to you soon. I have dreams like that - that we're just apart for some reason, and are supposed to be seeing each other again soon. But, in the dreams we never get there - I always wake up first. And then of course, in real life, I know that I won't be seeing you soon.
There are no words for how much I miss you. I know I tell you this often - when I think of you and start talking to you, it's almost always the first thing I say, I think. But then sometimes I get lost in talking to you and I don't finish - I get distracted, or if I do it at night, sometimes I'm so tired I fall asleep in the middle of it. But I do try to talk to you. Do you hear it? Are you listening? You never talk back, and I wish you would. That sounds trite, but it's simply true. I know you probably can't talk to me in the traditional way, but I wish you'd give me something to work with - some way to know that you're hearing me. If you're sending signs, I'm not catching them. Am I just too stupid? I'm trying, I really am. Maybe you need to be more obvious. But not scary. Don't scare me in the middle of the night or anything. Be obvious in the daytime, when I can handle it better, You know I can't handle scary. There's a reason that I always left the room when you were watching scary movies.
So anyway, I try to talk but I get distracted, so I thought I'd write. I'm clearly getting distracted doing that too. I'll try to do both - talk and write - more often. I can't believe I haven't seen you in two years. The other day, I drove by the church where we had your funeral. I drive by it every day of course. But that day, it suddenly struck me, with ferocious intensity, how that was the last place I ever held your hand. And I can still imagine how it felt - when I held it that day, and when I held it just a week before. I have a true tactile memory of it. I want to hold it again. I want you to come, and wrap your arms around me, and let me cry as long as I want, and support me telling me everything will be okay. And you're there - so it will be. No one can make me feel better like you could. So, now that I need someone more than ever, it's a double whammy that you're not hear to make me feel better, Everyone tries, but it's not the same. And, for this, there's really no such thing as feeling better, Not totally. I won't wake up one day and say "Oh good, I'm all better now. Glad that's over".
So, I have a few things I want to say. I'm sorry that I couldn't keep you here. I tried really hard. I didn't realize at first what was happening, and I reacted slowly. But I don't think it would have made a difference. I couldn't keep you here, but I wanted to. And I would give nearly anything to fix it and get you back. I don't beg for it as much as I used to - only when I'm having my worst days - because I know that it's not possible.
Sometimes, I think you knew that something was coming. I looked through the house intensively to find some trace that you knew. You told me weeks before that you were starting to sell off some of your collections (I wish you'd done better with that), and that you were trying to connect with old friends. You mentioned a strong desire to drive through your hometown. And when I told you about the baby, you reacted strangely. I don't know exactly what was strange, but you seemed almost bittersweet about it. I probably just caught you off guard. But sometimes I think you knew something wasn't right with you. I don't know why it would matter, whether that would make it better or worse, but I just think about it. A lot. I think about everything a lot. I'm often lost in my head.
And about the baby - she's wonderful. She's my everything. If you're reading this, then I'm sure you're able to watch her too, so I'm probably not telling you anything you don't already know, but you would be head over heels for her. She has such a fantastic little personality. The temper I could do without - but I think it's a sign of a headstrong girl, and that's a good thing. She's simply the most beautiful child I've ever seen. She loves reading books - sometimes she babbles aloud while she's looking at them, as though she's reading out loud. She knows her shapes (star, circle, square, heart), and colors, and believe it or not, she's learning some letters. "S" is her favorite. Today we learned "G". She looks at family portraits here and at your parents' house, and identifies everyone in them. She points at you and makes a "Da" sound. And Ryan, I hate to flatter us so blatantly, but man did our DNA combine well. She's perfect. It's a sin of the highest order that we can't make a couple more like her. I think of that often, and it ties my stomach in knots.
I love you. And I love you some more. Thanks for leaving me that voicemail two years ago so that I can hear you say it back to me every now and again, and so that I have proof that it wasn't all a dream. Sometimes I have a hard time looking directly at your picture, or thinking about you for too long - because it still hurts a lot. There are certain memories that make me especially sad - because I know I'll never make more of them with you. People who say that I should cherish the memories mean well, but they don't understand how sometimes memories can just be reminders of a lost future. I think about seeing a movie with you, and all I want to do is go see a movie with you. And, of course, I can't, so it's just a lot of turmoil. And to know, at my age, that I will NEVER get to do a certain thing again, is very hard. The finality in it. But then, you know all about finality. Oh Ryan, I wish I could change things so that you could come and be with your daughter, keep doing the job you loved, learn everything you wanted to learn, be with your family. You still had such a bright future. It's not fair. I say that a lot. But it's true. It makes life feel very random and meaningless. A person like you should have gotten to live a century. I want you to know what a good man I thought you were. I was married to the best man I knew. I felt so lucky to have met, and fallen in love with, such a good man. And to have you love me back.
I'm getting long winded (I know, surprise, surprise). I should let you get back to unlocking the secrets of the universe - which is what I always hope that you're getting to do. Maybe having conversations with all of the great people in history. You'd love that. I'm serious about you letting me know that you're there. Work on it - please.
All of my love,
Kate
I heard your voice yesterday. Usually, I can't even bring myself to look at your name in my voicemail box, but yesterday it was almost full, and I had to delete some old messages. I always do this insanely carefully, making sure that I don't accidentally delete yours - it's like cutting the correct wire on a time bomb. After I was finished deleting a few yesterday, I stared at your name for a while. Then, I had to listen. I wanted to hear you say that you love me on my birthday.
I have three messages saved from you - two are just you saying chicken in your silly voice. The third, though, is the message you left me the morning before you died - a happy birthday wish because you had forgotten to say it before I left the house that morning. Thank goodness you were so sleepy that morning - otherwise you wouldn't have needed to call me, and I wouldn't have this record of your voice. Now I just have to make sure I never lose it.
It wasn't as jarring as I thought it would be, listening to your voice. It was a comfort, at least for as long as the voicemail was playing. I listened twice. I haven't forgotten what you sound like - I remember it perfectly. Hearing it sounded like you were right there, and that I'd be on my way home to you soon. I have dreams like that - that we're just apart for some reason, and are supposed to be seeing each other again soon. But, in the dreams we never get there - I always wake up first. And then of course, in real life, I know that I won't be seeing you soon.
There are no words for how much I miss you. I know I tell you this often - when I think of you and start talking to you, it's almost always the first thing I say, I think. But then sometimes I get lost in talking to you and I don't finish - I get distracted, or if I do it at night, sometimes I'm so tired I fall asleep in the middle of it. But I do try to talk to you. Do you hear it? Are you listening? You never talk back, and I wish you would. That sounds trite, but it's simply true. I know you probably can't talk to me in the traditional way, but I wish you'd give me something to work with - some way to know that you're hearing me. If you're sending signs, I'm not catching them. Am I just too stupid? I'm trying, I really am. Maybe you need to be more obvious. But not scary. Don't scare me in the middle of the night or anything. Be obvious in the daytime, when I can handle it better, You know I can't handle scary. There's a reason that I always left the room when you were watching scary movies.
So anyway, I try to talk but I get distracted, so I thought I'd write. I'm clearly getting distracted doing that too. I'll try to do both - talk and write - more often. I can't believe I haven't seen you in two years. The other day, I drove by the church where we had your funeral. I drive by it every day of course. But that day, it suddenly struck me, with ferocious intensity, how that was the last place I ever held your hand. And I can still imagine how it felt - when I held it that day, and when I held it just a week before. I have a true tactile memory of it. I want to hold it again. I want you to come, and wrap your arms around me, and let me cry as long as I want, and support me telling me everything will be okay. And you're there - so it will be. No one can make me feel better like you could. So, now that I need someone more than ever, it's a double whammy that you're not hear to make me feel better, Everyone tries, but it's not the same. And, for this, there's really no such thing as feeling better, Not totally. I won't wake up one day and say "Oh good, I'm all better now. Glad that's over".
So, I have a few things I want to say. I'm sorry that I couldn't keep you here. I tried really hard. I didn't realize at first what was happening, and I reacted slowly. But I don't think it would have made a difference. I couldn't keep you here, but I wanted to. And I would give nearly anything to fix it and get you back. I don't beg for it as much as I used to - only when I'm having my worst days - because I know that it's not possible.
Sometimes, I think you knew that something was coming. I looked through the house intensively to find some trace that you knew. You told me weeks before that you were starting to sell off some of your collections (I wish you'd done better with that), and that you were trying to connect with old friends. You mentioned a strong desire to drive through your hometown. And when I told you about the baby, you reacted strangely. I don't know exactly what was strange, but you seemed almost bittersweet about it. I probably just caught you off guard. But sometimes I think you knew something wasn't right with you. I don't know why it would matter, whether that would make it better or worse, but I just think about it. A lot. I think about everything a lot. I'm often lost in my head.
And about the baby - she's wonderful. She's my everything. If you're reading this, then I'm sure you're able to watch her too, so I'm probably not telling you anything you don't already know, but you would be head over heels for her. She has such a fantastic little personality. The temper I could do without - but I think it's a sign of a headstrong girl, and that's a good thing. She's simply the most beautiful child I've ever seen. She loves reading books - sometimes she babbles aloud while she's looking at them, as though she's reading out loud. She knows her shapes (star, circle, square, heart), and colors, and believe it or not, she's learning some letters. "S" is her favorite. Today we learned "G". She looks at family portraits here and at your parents' house, and identifies everyone in them. She points at you and makes a "Da" sound. And Ryan, I hate to flatter us so blatantly, but man did our DNA combine well. She's perfect. It's a sin of the highest order that we can't make a couple more like her. I think of that often, and it ties my stomach in knots.
I love you. And I love you some more. Thanks for leaving me that voicemail two years ago so that I can hear you say it back to me every now and again, and so that I have proof that it wasn't all a dream. Sometimes I have a hard time looking directly at your picture, or thinking about you for too long - because it still hurts a lot. There are certain memories that make me especially sad - because I know I'll never make more of them with you. People who say that I should cherish the memories mean well, but they don't understand how sometimes memories can just be reminders of a lost future. I think about seeing a movie with you, and all I want to do is go see a movie with you. And, of course, I can't, so it's just a lot of turmoil. And to know, at my age, that I will NEVER get to do a certain thing again, is very hard. The finality in it. But then, you know all about finality. Oh Ryan, I wish I could change things so that you could come and be with your daughter, keep doing the job you loved, learn everything you wanted to learn, be with your family. You still had such a bright future. It's not fair. I say that a lot. But it's true. It makes life feel very random and meaningless. A person like you should have gotten to live a century. I want you to know what a good man I thought you were. I was married to the best man I knew. I felt so lucky to have met, and fallen in love with, such a good man. And to have you love me back.
I'm getting long winded (I know, surprise, surprise). I should let you get back to unlocking the secrets of the universe - which is what I always hope that you're getting to do. Maybe having conversations with all of the great people in history. You'd love that. I'm serious about you letting me know that you're there. Work on it - please.
All of my love,
Kate
Sunday, January 11, 2015
Resolved
I've never been much for New Year's Resolutions. That is, I've never been much for telling people about them - it doesn't mean I don't make them for myself. But as long as I don't tell people, then when they don't work out, it's not a big deal.
And, they're extremely likely not to work out. Most people give them up by halfway through January. I think I've heard that by January 19th, most people are done. I always feel like it would be more productive for me to make new resolutions every month or so, rather than a bunch at the beginning of the year - taking on too much seems to be the road to failure. But there's something so enticing about the beginning of a year - a clean slate, a chance to start fresh after a busy (completely unproductive) December. So I always do make them, thinking this year will be different. And the worse my last year was, the more unspoken resolutions I make. I don't tell people about most of them. They just sit in my head, or, sometimes I write them down. I'd guess I have about a 25% success rate with this system - not great, but not a total embarrassing failure.
This year, I feel like I have about a thousand of them. Throughout the past three months or so, I just kept collecting things I wanted to accomplish. But, with a job that peaks in November and December, it's next to impossible to set out to accomplish anything new in those months. Forget it- if I do it, I fail miserably, and feel terrible about myself later. So instead, every time I thought of something new, I said to myself, "Okay, that will be for January". After three months of treating my every whim this way, I have a "to do" list three miles long. Oh, and I can't remember it, because I didn't bother to write most of this stuff down. (Mental note: add to my list of resolutions that I should write more things down.)
Most of the items on the list are of the "self care" variety. I've started with the old New Years' standards - get back in shape, and eat better. I've vowed to meditate for a couple minutes every day (except for today. And yesterday). I'll take more time for myself. I'd like to find time to write more, and about different things. I've promised to read a certain number of books this year, as I've fallen out of the habit of reading. I'll watch a movie at least once a month - I think I only watched three this year, and that's pretty sad. I've resolved to connect with old friends, to be a better friend in general, return emails and calls faster. And to meet new people. I want to find time to take Sophie places, do Mommy and Me classes, oh yeah, and maybe take a class myself too - even just an online one. I've resolved to begin the ugly process of cleaning out my storage unit (really begin it, really find more permanent homes for things). Maybe find a new home for many of Ryan's things. Look for a new place to live, maybe. Start my life again.
And, I've just described about 200 hours a week worth of material, once you add in work, sleep, and my other responsibilities. How does one organize this type of to do list? Yet again I've created for myself a mountain that seems impossible to climb. All of these little things go into starting my life again. It's important for me to define again who I am, what makes me special and unique - be something other than a widow and single mom. So I need to do all of these things for myself. But, I'll never get all of this done, touch all of these items every week, and I'll feel like I'm letting myself down when I don't.
Which brings me to my number one resolution - the one I can do my very best to commit to and keep. I've been seeing a grief counselor for many months - I see her once a month at this point, and she has a piece of advice that she reiterates to me at just about every session. When I tell her that I'm overwhelmed, that I have no time to move myself forward because I'm bogged down, she always says that I need to change my perspective. Instead of saying "I can't believe I didn't get more done today", say "It's the end of a busy day, and I've done the best, under the circumstances, that I can." So this year, every day, that will be my mantra. It's the end of a busy day, and I've done the best that I can. But I will add one thing to it - I'll try to say I've done the best that I can, and MEAN it. I have to try hard enough during the day, that at the end of it, I can honestly say I've done the best I could.
In 2014, I didn't always do my best. I tried, but I know I didn't always rise to the occasion. Sometimes, I just wanted to give up. The day-to-day single mom/widow baggage is enough, but throw on all of the problems that came up with the sale of my house, and it was a trying year. And I struggled. And sometimes, if not often, my attitude was just bad. When I look back and try to tell myself I did the best I could under the circumstances, I know that some days that was true, and some days it wasn't. And I don't even think that's wrong - 2014 was tough. It was the first full year that Ryan was gone, and it was my first full year of motherhood. It was the first time I've ever sold a home - a home I never wanted to have to sell on my own. It was a lonely year - and a year where I realized that I will probably feel lonely for a very long time, just because I don't fit in with people very well anymore. I'm in a pretty small demographic. It was a year of coming to terms with my new reality. And a lot of trial and even more error. I think it's okay that I had a sour attitude for a lot of it. I struggled. I still do - a lot. The path forward is murky, it feels treacherous, and I have no idea what's on the other side of it. But, then again, neither do you. Even if you think you know where your path is leading - you really have no idea. It could take you anywhere, and you might not like it. Of that, I am living proof. I don't know what's ahead - but that is the great equalizer.
But I can't stand still. This is not a place that I want to settle down - I want so much more in my life. Most of what I used to want has gone away - or seems unlikely or impossible now. So I have to make a new way, and that is big and scary and tiring. And, I want it now. Every little setback is crushing. You would think that after the loss of the love of my life, I'd be better at not sweating the small stuff. But the small stuff often feels likes it's just piling on my broken heart and stopping it from healing. Any little bump in the road feels devastating, or like some sort of preordained bad luck that I'm cursed to for the rest of my life. It becomes very easy to be negative, very easy to expect the worst, very easy to just stand still.
So this year, I promise to do anything but stand still. I must try. I must take the list the I went through above, my 2015 "to do" list, and get through some of it. Do a little each week. This week I did particularly good with reading, dieting, and exercise, for example, but not as great with the other things on the list. It's okay - I did something, and I tried. I did the best I could, most days- and I mean it. Try again next week- and the week after that. And one day, I'll climb the mountain.
And, they're extremely likely not to work out. Most people give them up by halfway through January. I think I've heard that by January 19th, most people are done. I always feel like it would be more productive for me to make new resolutions every month or so, rather than a bunch at the beginning of the year - taking on too much seems to be the road to failure. But there's something so enticing about the beginning of a year - a clean slate, a chance to start fresh after a busy (completely unproductive) December. So I always do make them, thinking this year will be different. And the worse my last year was, the more unspoken resolutions I make. I don't tell people about most of them. They just sit in my head, or, sometimes I write them down. I'd guess I have about a 25% success rate with this system - not great, but not a total embarrassing failure.
This year, I feel like I have about a thousand of them. Throughout the past three months or so, I just kept collecting things I wanted to accomplish. But, with a job that peaks in November and December, it's next to impossible to set out to accomplish anything new in those months. Forget it- if I do it, I fail miserably, and feel terrible about myself later. So instead, every time I thought of something new, I said to myself, "Okay, that will be for January". After three months of treating my every whim this way, I have a "to do" list three miles long. Oh, and I can't remember it, because I didn't bother to write most of this stuff down. (Mental note: add to my list of resolutions that I should write more things down.)
Most of the items on the list are of the "self care" variety. I've started with the old New Years' standards - get back in shape, and eat better. I've vowed to meditate for a couple minutes every day (except for today. And yesterday). I'll take more time for myself. I'd like to find time to write more, and about different things. I've promised to read a certain number of books this year, as I've fallen out of the habit of reading. I'll watch a movie at least once a month - I think I only watched three this year, and that's pretty sad. I've resolved to connect with old friends, to be a better friend in general, return emails and calls faster. And to meet new people. I want to find time to take Sophie places, do Mommy and Me classes, oh yeah, and maybe take a class myself too - even just an online one. I've resolved to begin the ugly process of cleaning out my storage unit (really begin it, really find more permanent homes for things). Maybe find a new home for many of Ryan's things. Look for a new place to live, maybe. Start my life again.
And, I've just described about 200 hours a week worth of material, once you add in work, sleep, and my other responsibilities. How does one organize this type of to do list? Yet again I've created for myself a mountain that seems impossible to climb. All of these little things go into starting my life again. It's important for me to define again who I am, what makes me special and unique - be something other than a widow and single mom. So I need to do all of these things for myself. But, I'll never get all of this done, touch all of these items every week, and I'll feel like I'm letting myself down when I don't.
Which brings me to my number one resolution - the one I can do my very best to commit to and keep. I've been seeing a grief counselor for many months - I see her once a month at this point, and she has a piece of advice that she reiterates to me at just about every session. When I tell her that I'm overwhelmed, that I have no time to move myself forward because I'm bogged down, she always says that I need to change my perspective. Instead of saying "I can't believe I didn't get more done today", say "It's the end of a busy day, and I've done the best, under the circumstances, that I can." So this year, every day, that will be my mantra. It's the end of a busy day, and I've done the best that I can. But I will add one thing to it - I'll try to say I've done the best that I can, and MEAN it. I have to try hard enough during the day, that at the end of it, I can honestly say I've done the best I could.
In 2014, I didn't always do my best. I tried, but I know I didn't always rise to the occasion. Sometimes, I just wanted to give up. The day-to-day single mom/widow baggage is enough, but throw on all of the problems that came up with the sale of my house, and it was a trying year. And I struggled. And sometimes, if not often, my attitude was just bad. When I look back and try to tell myself I did the best I could under the circumstances, I know that some days that was true, and some days it wasn't. And I don't even think that's wrong - 2014 was tough. It was the first full year that Ryan was gone, and it was my first full year of motherhood. It was the first time I've ever sold a home - a home I never wanted to have to sell on my own. It was a lonely year - and a year where I realized that I will probably feel lonely for a very long time, just because I don't fit in with people very well anymore. I'm in a pretty small demographic. It was a year of coming to terms with my new reality. And a lot of trial and even more error. I think it's okay that I had a sour attitude for a lot of it. I struggled. I still do - a lot. The path forward is murky, it feels treacherous, and I have no idea what's on the other side of it. But, then again, neither do you. Even if you think you know where your path is leading - you really have no idea. It could take you anywhere, and you might not like it. Of that, I am living proof. I don't know what's ahead - but that is the great equalizer.
But I can't stand still. This is not a place that I want to settle down - I want so much more in my life. Most of what I used to want has gone away - or seems unlikely or impossible now. So I have to make a new way, and that is big and scary and tiring. And, I want it now. Every little setback is crushing. You would think that after the loss of the love of my life, I'd be better at not sweating the small stuff. But the small stuff often feels likes it's just piling on my broken heart and stopping it from healing. Any little bump in the road feels devastating, or like some sort of preordained bad luck that I'm cursed to for the rest of my life. It becomes very easy to be negative, very easy to expect the worst, very easy to just stand still.
So this year, I promise to do anything but stand still. I must try. I must take the list the I went through above, my 2015 "to do" list, and get through some of it. Do a little each week. This week I did particularly good with reading, dieting, and exercise, for example, but not as great with the other things on the list. It's okay - I did something, and I tried. I did the best I could, most days- and I mean it. Try again next week- and the week after that. And one day, I'll climb the mountain.
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