Author: Kellie

Kellie is a 43 year old widow/wanna be child but really just stays home with her own two children. She loves to read and get a suntan. Preferably at the same time. She's now delving into the big bad world of blogging! Be kind, Strangers!

Worrisome Wording

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Words. Words can affect us in so many ways. When someone says I love you – it can make your heart soar. When someone gives you a compliment, it can make you stand a little taller, feel a little better (not me, they just make me uncomfortable but I’m weird that way). When someone criticizes you, it can ruin your whole day, maybe even your whole perception of yourself.

I have been riddled with anxiety for as long as I can remember. Losing Ash, hasn’t changed that, although, some things have gotten a little better (because my perspective has gotten a little better) and some things have gotten a lot worse because, of course they have. I was given some words last night that were probably intended to make me feel one way, but they did the exact opposite. “I worry about you.” I expect these words from my mother because a. that’s her job as my mother and 2. she’s a worrier by nature.

Someone unexpected shared these words with me last night (regarding me if that wasn’t clear) and it took an unexpected toll on me. At first, it sort of made sense. My husband is gone. The father of my children is gone. We are delving into elementary online learning/learning from home. We are stuck at home. I guess, in a way, we’re all a little worried about one another. These are crazy, unprecedented times.

But then, my brain did a 360 and spiraled in the other direction. Why are you worried about me? What have I done to cause you to worry about me? Am I not functioning? Am I not performing my job well? Am I screwing up my kids? Myself? My life? Am I not doing as well as I think I am? Because, given the circumstances, I do feel like I am kind of kicking ass and taking names. I get up every day. I take care of my body every day. I provide my children with most everything they need every day. We put one foot in front of the other every. single. day. Even when it’s the last thing we want to do. I have not, not one single time, laid in my bed all day crying my eyes out and drowning in my own sorrow and self-pity even though I have felt that I could. I have not given up on doing the things that I enjoy doing. I have not stopped taking my children to their activities (well, I have now because pandemic). I have not stopped providing them with adequate sustenance. We have pushed through. I might even go as far as to say we are thriving. We are mostly happy. We love each other. We support each other. We drive each other crazy.

So why are you worried about me?

These words hit me so hard last night, that I believe I had a bit of a panic attack. My stomach knotted up, it felt like there was an elephant sitting on my chest and my heart was racing. My brain dove into a tailspin thinking of all the things I must be doing wrong, how I must not be as strong as I thought. I tried to dose off, but every time I was nearly there, I would jerk awake, thinking I heard a noise, calling out hello to a dark room in the middle of the night, thinking things were crashing down on me. It was a rough night. I did not get a lot in the way of sleep. My mind kept playing tricks on me. And I started to worry about me. Where am I coming up short? What am I doing wrong?

Do you know what the answer is? Nowhere. I’m not doing anything wrong. I am doing my best every day. Certainly some days my best doesn’t look very good, but I’m still trying. And the boys and I, we are doing well.

I’m certain I took the comment the wrong way. I’m sure it was meant out of love. But for the anxious, it was a hard pill to swallow. I even expressed to my friend how it made me feel. And my friend tried to take it back. But the seed had already been planted and my anxiety bloomed completely.

I feel better this morning. I realize that people being concerned for my well being is a good thing. And I’m not sure why I took such offense. I guess I just felt stripped of my armor or that there was a chink in my armor that I was unaware of. And maybe there is. But that’s ok, too.

Why?

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The dreaded question. The one that has no answer. But I can’t help but wonder, why us? Why my kids? Why don’t they get to have their father? What did they do to deserve this? How were they chosen? Is it something that God chooses? Is it an eenie meenie miney moe kind of thing? Is our fate already decided before we’re even born? Don’t get me wrong, this is not something I would wish on anyone. But I especially don’t wish it on my children. Do they ever wonder why my dad? Of course they do, but they’re kids, and they go with the flow. They feel it and then they move on. I envy them for that. I feel it nonstop. All the time. So many memories. So many good times. So many terrible times. But it all made us who we were, who we are. And I just can’t help but question why. Certainly Jack and Colt don’t deserve this. They are young and wild and innocent and beautiful and intelligent and weird and perfect and imperfect. Why don’t they get a life with the man that helped create them? The man I chose. The man that chose me. Why did we get so unlucky? Fate? Luck or lack there of? God’s plan? Well, God, guess what? Your plan really sucks for us. We are ok because we are strong, but we are not ok because a very large piece of us is missing.

Tonight was not a great night in the Jones household. That’s actually a lie. It was great in a beautiful and sorrowful way. We were sitting at dinner, just chatting and I looked over at Colt, looking so much like his daddy, acting even more so like him and I asked his favorite memory with daddy. This lead to a mad dash from the table to my (my, mine alone, just mine) bedroom to grab our “Daddy Memory Box” filled with weird and random shit chosen by the boys. Colt, in his 5 year old excitement, brings the box to the table and grabs Ash’s wedding band (one of those rubber/silicone rings you order on Amazon for $8) and declares that his favorite memory of daddy. Ok. What about anything you did with daddy, I ask him. His reply: legos and golf were my favorite things to do with daddy. Mine too, buddy. Well, not Legos, they’re not my favorite but golf, that was definitely a favorite.

Jack then decided to take his mad dash from the kitchen table to gather all the memory/photo books we’ve created over the years. We paused our eating and just flipped through them. And we cried. We cried because we made so many great memories together. We had so much fun together. We also created some pretty awful memories, but the beautiful thing about life, and death, is that once someone is gone, even the bad becomes the good. Because it’s something to hold onto. It’s something that you learned from, something that seemed important at the time, but in reality, didn’t matter one damn bit. It’s not that someone becomes perfect once they are gone, it’s that you realize how much you loved the perfect and the imperfect. Because it helped shape who you were, who you are and who you will be. You can look back and laugh at what once caused you so much anguish. You can find the hilarity in the awful, the beauty in the pain, and the love in the hate.

Ash and I were passionate. We fought with passion and we made up with passion. And what I wouldn’t give for one more fight and one more makeup. I can remember the last time we lay together as husband and wife (you know, in the biblical sense). It was January, 2019. We were in a Residence Inn in the Brier Creek area of Raleigh. It was the day before chemo. We didn’t know then that it would be the last time, at least not consciously, maybe subconsciously. It wasn’t our best effort, either, for obvious reasons. It was a little clumsy, we both cried the entire time and it was short lived. It wasn’t passionate but it was full of love, full of trepidation, full of fear and full of sorrow.

I’ve dreamt of Ash twice in the last week. In the first dream, we were riding in the back of a pick up truck. Our children were with us (so unsafe). My mother was driving (she would never allow the children to be in the back of a pickup truck) and my father was riding shotgun. Ash was upset because he had just learned I’d made an offer on a lot without consulting with him (um, bullshit babe, I asked you nonstop for guidance) while my mom was trying to tell him how nice Mother’s Vineyard in Manteo is. The next one, I walked into some kind of cafeteria. He was sitting at a table with a bunch of unfamiliar faces. We locked eyes as soon as I walked in, he got up and started walking towards me as I was walking towards him, never breaking eye contact. And then I woke up. That one hurt.

So, again, why? Why my children? Why us? And why, following all of that, must we be stuck at hour homes with no outside contact? How are we supposed to handle that? I guess with the same strength and resilience we’ve handled everything else.

My parting words to you this evening are to hug your husband/wife tight. I know he/she is probably driving you crazy (especially since you’re stuck with only each other), but imagine if you didn’t have him/her at all. Would the bad times also become the good times? I’d bet my life that they would. Fight passionately and make up with that same passion. It’s all cliche but it’s all true.

End Game

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Ash and I were (technically I guess I still am) huge Marvel movie fans. They have everything a great movie needs – plenty of action, a dose of humor and even some romance thrown in the mix. We saw Avengers: End Game one Tuesday night at a large AMC at the Streets of Southpoint in Durham, NC. It was one of those theaters where you could order beer or nachos or other items that you would never have considered ordering at a movie theater (we never did venture past popcorn and a coke). The chairs were recliners (that possibly may have had a heated seat feature, I can’t quite remember), there were tables and fancy cupholders and you had assigned seats, which never failed, we always seemed to mess up somehow. It was a pre-chemo night. See, Durham is a good 4 hour drive from us, appointments and chemo always started first thing in the morning so Ash and I would go up the day before, stay in a hotel and always tried to make a date out of it (we were always very good at dating), even when he felt his worst, he always wanted to keep me happy, entertained and feeling his love.

Last night, my youngest, Mr. Tolt, spent the night with my parents. (I promise this is probably leading somewhere relevant, but maybe not. It’s hard to say where my brain might take us.) Jack and I had an at home date night, just the 2 of us. Well, the 2 dogs were here as well but they don’t really count since they don’t talk and one of them constantly ignores all of us and the other is constantly in our faces. At first he ignored me (kind of like our old brown girl), as every 10 year old boy likes to do to his mother. He engrossed himself in several Star Wars Battlefront, well, battles, for lack of a better term, until I lured him away with a delicious dinner of frozen cheese pizza (don’t worry, we didn’t eat it frozen, I’m not that bad of a mother) and Caesar salad.

After eating, he finally decided he would grace me with his presence and he wanted to watch a movie. His choice was End Game. I convinced him he needed to see Captain Marvel first, which I’ve been attempting to get him to watch with me for months, to no avail (apparently when you’re 10, and male, girl superheroes aren’t that cool, at least for him anyway – I don’t want to blanket all 10 year old boys in that category). I told him she could kick his ass and would be worth watching, I promise. So we watched it last night and he loved it, as I knew he would because Mama generally knows best. We then had a slumber party in my bed, which is a rare thing that both my boys seem to think is the best treat in the world.

We slept in this morning until almost 9 am (one of my favorite treats!). We’re actually still in our jammies now at 12:20 pm EST (don’t judge us, we’ve nowhere to go and not shit to do). As soon as we woke up, brushed our teeth and got coffee (well, I got coffee. He didn’t. Because 10 year old.) Jack turned on Disney+ and loaded Avengers: End Game. I was excited. He was excited. The movie is great, albeit a tad on the lengthy side (that’s why it worked out so well that Colt wasn’t here.) I saw it, with Ash, not too long ago (see above), and I had no idea the affect it would have on me today, watching it with our oldest son.

We’ve been so wrapped up in the Coronavirus pandemic, it’s been easy to forget what else has been happening in our world, what we’ve lost, how we’ve navigated the last 4+ months, even what we’ve gained and how we’ve grown and changed.

This morning, watching End Game, made me feel our loss again. I ugly cried for the first time in a while. It was hard to watch the end. I found myself comparing my loss to Pepper’s. She looked so beautiful and full of grace for Ironman/Tony Stark’s funeral whereas I looked drunk and loopy at Ash’s. (Also, I know it’s all fake and a movie, I’m not that crazy, yet, but it invoked feelings and when I feel it, I do it, you know.) The part where she told Tony to rest now, it would be ok, they would be ok, I never did that for Ash. Not while he was conscious anyway. On the night I ultimately led him to his death, I said it, but in true Kellie fashion, I made it a joke. I laughed. I asked if he could see the light and if so, to go on into it. I guess I told him we would be ok. I can’t quite recall. But I wasn’t serious. I never take much seriously and in this instance, I wish I would have. I had been up all night, slowly easing his pain, slowly taking his life (because I was instructed to do so – just want to make that clear – I did not murder my husband – I eased his suffering upon strict orders to do so). At 5:30 in the morning, I decided my mom and I needed coffee. I left the room and Ash left me. I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t tell him I loved him. I didn’t tell him we would be ok. Nothing. I left the room. And he left us. End Game.

Today, I watched a movie with my son. Today, after watching that movie, I am not ok. I am filled with regret – regret for not being a better wife, regret for the way I left things during Ash’s final hours, regret for making everything a joke. He deserved better. He deserved my best. And I did not give it him. That said, he loved me anyway. I just wish I would have said a proper goodbye. I wish I would have thanked him for choosing to spend his life with me. I wish I would have said I love you just one more time instead of hey baby, see the light? Why don’t you go on into it. I wish I would have embraced him one last time, held his hand all through the night. But I didn’t it. And I can’t change that. I can’t get that back. End Game.

When Life Hands You Lemons, Go Buy Toilet Paper?!

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Full Disclosure: I’m full of complaints.

Did you know that when your spouse dies, you will get a notice in the mail asking for an “inventory” from your local clerk of court office? Of what you ask? Well, it doesn’t say. Just says turn it in by March 17, 2020 or else. Ok. Currently in my pantry there are approximately 11 opened packages of noodles with about 1/3 of the contents in each pack; 4 open (and stale) boxes of various cheez its, 1/2 a jar of expired peanut butter, Oreos (both vanilla and chocolate because Jack is vanilla and Colt is chocolate) and more canned soup than we can consume in a month.

Guess what? That’s not what they’re looking for. No, they’re thinking more large scale items, like your home, car, all items of personal property including but not limited to all your furnishings, jewelry, any boats or other motorized things you may own, bank accounts, really anything of any value (they do not care about the contents of your pantry). Do you know why they want this information? It’s so that they can charge you a fee. Because the death of your loved one wasn’t payment enough. Because even though you’ve already paid taxes on all this shit you own, they’re going to charge you one more time, just for good measure. I owe the Clerk of Court nearly $1,000 because my husband is dead. That seems fair. Who else can I bend over for?

In other news, the coronavirus is of course ruining everything. No Duke for my boy this weekend. Possibly no sports at all for anyone. But it’s cool. We can just hole up in our houses and wipe our asses with all our over excessive bought toilet paper. In my defense, I subscribe to my toilet paper and haven’t quite gotten the timing right, so I do have an over abundance of toilet paper. I was cool before cool got cool. So, if anyone is in need, I’ve got 12 Mega Rolls with your name on it. All you have to do is pay the clerk of court for me. (Side note – I’m taking this coronavirus seriously enough; however, I will not give in to panic and fear. Please save your lectures on safety and hand washing and whatever other soap boxes you may want to jump on.)

It’s not all doom and gloom though. I did get an email from my new BFF – Duke Head Baseball Coach Chris Pollard. Of course, it was just an email with disappointing news. But still. He was considerate enough to make sure I knew I was going to ruin Jack’s weekend. I did, Coach. But thanks for thinking of us! He did say he’d get Jack in there as soon as he could, so BFF status still in tact.

I am grumpy. My children are grumpy. Hell, the whole world is probably grumpy right now. But at least I have toilet paper.

Urine My Thoughts

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It happened again. Right in front of me this time. I’m sitting at the computer in my home office. My dad is with me. We’re looking at house plans. And the 5 year old goes behind the recliner, THAT’S RIGHT NEXT TO US, and pisses on the floor. At first, I don’t quite grasp what I’m hearing. I turn. My dad turns. And there he is, golden shower sprinkling right into my brand new fucking carpet (ok, it’s like 8 months old, but still pretty freaking new). What in the actual fucking fuck? Hello God, it’s me, Kellie, mother of 2, widow, crazy ass crying in her car lady. Remember me? Wanna ease up a bit? Maybe give us a little bit of a break here and there?

I don’t mean to blame you, God. Although, I was told I could turn all my aggression your (Your?) way because if anyone can handle it, it is God. I know that my boys are going to go through some tough shit. I know that it would be weird if they weren’t acting out in one way or another. But does it have to be pissing on the fucking floor? How am I not supposed to react to that? I can’t. You’ve met me. I’m a fly off the handle kind of girl. I’m made up of sarcasm, competitiveness and anger. I’m not sweet and patient and kind. I’m yelling and mean and yucky. And my kids don’t deserve that. And I know that Colt is 5 and he’s sad and confused and angry but how about we channel that into, say, a deep need to clean things nonstop rather than soiling all the carpet in our home? Is that too much to ask? I guess that’s why we have a carpet cleaner in the family. Who knew it would come in so handy?

I’d also like to thank Colt for announcing in the middle of Great Clips today that “mama doesn’t have a job.” (Makes you wonder why I have a home office?!) You’re right, son, I don’t. I’m too busy cleaning your urine off the floor to go to work. (To be fair, he hadn’t peed on the floor yet at this point in the day. He was just making announcements while getting his high and tight even more heightened and tighted. I’m just letting my anger and bewilderment and aaaarrrrgggghhhhhh take over this post.) The hairdresser across from us just thought Colt was the funniest little thing and what else could he announce about mama. Luckily, he just kind of giggled and went back to staring at himself in the mirror.

In other distressing news, I cannot pick a lot. It’s impossible. Nobody can pick it for me. I know that. But it’s really hard to be a grown up and make big decisions all by yourself when you’re not used to having to make the big decisions all by yourself. Even the people that want to help can’t really help because it’s ultimately up to only me. And I’m not all that great at things that are ultimately up to only me. My heart tells me one thing. My brain tells me another thing. And I’m not sure which one I’m supposed to be listening to. (My heart tends to lean towards the more ignorant side of things, whimsy little bitch that she is, so I’m a little nervous to follow her anywhere…)

I’ve spoken to my builder. He’s given me his opinion. Is it a dick move if I don’t listen to him? Should I take his advice? Should I follow my heart? Should I just take a leak on the floor? Does that make things easier? Somehow I doubt it!! Don’t worry. I’m not going to try it. I’m going to make a decision. And it’s going to be right. Because I will have made it and I should have some faith in myself. I’ve made it this far, right?