Category: death

Working for the Weekend

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Oops! I did it again. Sorry to steal your line, Britney, but it keeps applying my life. What have I done this time, you ask? I’ll give you 3 guesses and the first 2 don’t count.

When last we spoke, I had gone to an officially official job interview. You’ll maybe recall that I was completely ridiculous and absolutely inappropriate to the point where perhaps I was self sabotaging a bit (as we know my history with getting a job over the last few years since my husband made his journey to the other side thereby leaving me to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to be doing all by myself, which is not really the easiest task I’ve been, well, tasked with given my proclivity to indecision, social anxiety and all around not wanting to work for someone that I can’t just flash my boobs to fix any problems I may have caused – I’m not a prostitute (or former prostitute) in case you were concerned, my last boss was my husband and that’s how I solved any mistakes he claims I may have made – a little sexual distraction went a long way with him – just kidding – sort of. Also, he wasn’t really my boss – we were co-bosses but that didn’t stop him from thinking he could boss me around. Insert eye roll here.)

Anywho, that was a really long tangent to bring you up to speed – I was offered the job. And guess what? I accepted the job. I had an appointment to meet with Human Resources to sign my life away to this new 40 hour per week, 12 month per year position that was certainly going to change my life for the better. I ordered new clothes since the last time I actually went to work, the uniform was jeans, a Turf’s Up OBX t-shirt and whatever pair of sneakers I chose for the day – one is not really picky about wardrobe when you’re slinging beers, inappropriate jokes and publicly picking on and equal parts hitting on your husband for a living. I broke the news to my kids, my family and my closest friends – most of which were mostly supportive, some of whom were a little questioning. It took a little convincing for the boys to get on board, after all, if I’m not around to be at their beck and call, how the hell could they go on living the life to which they’ve become accustom. But eventually, they decided they could continue living, they’d just use Mimi for said beckoning and said calling.

Then the nightmares started. Every night, every time I fell asleep, I dreamt that I was falling – off a bridge, over a cliff – and every night, right before I met my doom (or possibly my late husband), I would wake up in a panic. All day long, all I could think about was everything I was giving up to go back to work, the sacrifices that not only I would be making, but my children and my mother and everybody else in my life that would have to pitch in to help raise my children. And then the straw that broke the camel’s back – Colt got sick this weekend – started with a sore throat, morphed into a high fever, didn’t go away – he’s got strep throat. On the day that I’m supposed to meet with Human Resources, I can’t go because my son is sick, my mom is out of town with my dad, Ash’s mom is 80 with a heart condition that doesn’t need to be around sick children and I’ve got to call in sick. On day 1. And that felt like a whole new sign trumping the sign I thought I had received from God, Jesus, Ash, Bogey, Grandma or some totally random deady looking out for a gal.

Now, I know what you’re thinking (or maybe this is just what I’m thinking), what a little bitch baby – get your shit together and go to work like a normal fucking human being. But the thing is, I’m not a normal fucking human being. I don’t have to be a normal fucking human being. Ash and I didn’t get a lot right, but one thing we did do is plan for if the worst should happen in our lives (or pretty close to the worst). And damn if the (near) worst didn’t happen. He died. DEAD. AS. A. DOORNAIL. But he (we) had a plan. For whatever reason (probably God, Jesus, Grandma or some totally random deady looking out for a cute albeit feisty couple), we got life insurance very young, and when you are young and healthy, they like to give you the max policy for the minimum premium because they are banking on the fact that you will live past the 20 year term and they will not have to pay out the big bucks. Well, in your face Farm Bureau, we take your 20 years and we lower it to 10 and now you do have to pay out the big bucks. Ha! We showed you, didn’t we?! Also, for some reason, both Ash and I became a little real estate obsessed and decided to start investing the money we did have in couple of houses. And I still have those houses and they are rented year round and provide enough income for my boys and I to live on. That was another really long winded side note to say that financially, I do not have to have a regular job. And I think it’s high time I be ok with that.

I’ve told you all that to tell you this – there is no one on this planet that is judging myself more harshly than, well, me. I realize that this back and forth on the job thing is absolutely ridiculous. The thing is, there is no manual on how to kill it as a widow (other than the one that I am obviously writing, you are ALL so welcome, my fellow widows and widowers). There is only you – only you can walk in your shoes, only you know exactly how you feel at any given moment on any given day – and this is true for all humans, not just us confused as fuck widows/ers.

But here’s what I am telling myself to get over the harsh way I’ve been treating myself lately. Could I have handled this whole situation differently? Yes. As always, I want to try not to suck but guess what? Sometimes I suck and in this instance, I sucked. Deep down, I knew when I was asked if I wanted this job that I did not want this job. But I said yes anyway. Why? Because sometimes it’s hard to admit the truth to ourselves. And the truth is, I do feel like I should be doing more with my time. But on the flip side of that, working some job that’s taking me away from the things that are most important to me is not the answer. We have been through so much pain and hardship (as everyone has – we’re all different and we all handle the difficult and depressing shit differently – I can only tell you about mine and how I feel – not that anyone asked but I’m telling you anyway), we have put in so much work to heal our mangled hearts, those hearts that we are still attempting to heal every single day. I still have days where my only accomplishment is getting my kids to and from their activities. That is the cold hard truth. Should I still be having days like that? I don’t know. Again, I haven’t found the manual on how long we are supposed to feel sad when our spouse kicks the bucket, I only know how I’m literally feeling. I have days that I am so grateful for the life that we are living, so grateful that I don’t have to go to a job that I don’t love and do things that I don’t give a shit about. I have days where I hate myself and nearly everything around me and wish I didn’t have to keep going but obviously do because of all the love I have surrounding me. And, I think, all of that is ok. It’s ok that my job is my children and these goddamn dogs and making sure the house doesn’t fall down around us. It’s ok that our lives aren’t the norm because, well, our lives aren’t the norm. It’s ok that sometimes we’re tired and sad and lonely but all we want is to be left alone. And it’s ok that I don’t punch a time card every week. Instead, I punch these kids every week. Just kidding. I don’t punch anyone. Anymore. Sorry, Ash. Also, it was more of a slap, not a punch. Moving on…

To sum up, I got the job, I accepted the job, I quit the job before I even started the job. And while I shoulda, coulda, woulda handled it differently, I didn’t, and that’s ok, too. Sometimes (nearly every time), you gotta learn the hard way. Try not to suck but know that sometimes we all suck.

Abrasive

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Monday night I did not feel well. It was a normal enough evening. It was colder than a witch’s tit out. It was raining. It was a perfect evening for potato soup. We had some friends over for dinner. I had one glass of wine. Pretty normal. By the time I went to bed, I felt like shit. I lay there, unable to get comfortable, tossing and turning. My stomach literally felt like it was going to explode. I kept going between thoughts of “shit, my appendix is minutes from bursting” and “lord, please don’t let my children find me dead in the morning” and “holy fuck, how the hell am I going to get to the hospital because certainly if my insides are exploding, I shouldn’t drive, and my driver went and died on me and I don’t want to call 911 because what if I’m really fine and just have a bit of gas, that would be super embarrassing, and I don’t want to call my parents because they’re probably sleeping and they don’t generally sleep well so I definitely should not disturb them and I don’t want to call any of my neighbors for the same reason I don’t want to call 911” until I finally go to this thought – my husband felt like this, but far worse, every fucking day for years. And that one thought stopped me in my proverbial tracks.

I am the type of person that is generally pretty good about compartmentalizing. I can come off as abrasive and uncaring, I think. Which isn’t true. It’s just how I deal. I can remember being at the park with Jack when he was around 2 years old. This was before I’d really made any other mom friends, and Ash was working all the time, so it was just him and me, hanging out, parking it up, doing the mother/son thing. He was playing on the slide. I was sort of paying attention, sort of day dreaming about what I used to do for fun before watching 2 year olds climb up the ladder, slide down the slide, giggle, repeat. Again. And again. And again. You get the picture. Next thing I know, I see Jack tumble off the side of the slide about halfway down and land with a big thump in the dirt. There are other mothers and children around. I hear the gasps and the “oh no’s” and the “is he ok’s”. I calmly get up, walk over to him, help him up, look him over one good time and tell him “tough boys are tough.” (Now, before you get your panties in a wad, Jack came up with the saying tough boys are tough and used to say it all the time whenever he took a tumble or got a scratch or anything like that – I wasn’t just being a bitch. For the most part.). I also then heard more gasps but of a different nature this time. These were the “I can’t believe she just said that to her hurt child” gasps. Here’s the thing, the fall hurt, there’s no doubt about that. But I knew he was fine. I knew the bigger my reaction, the bigger his reaction. I also knew I was being hardcore judged for my seeming lack of empathy and hightailed it the hell out of dodge.

Exhibit B – Jack played on a travel baseball team when he was 9 (he was on a 12u team and my point to that is not to say how good he is, my point is that he’s young playing against much bigger and better players, especially pitchers). It’s the weekend before Ash passed away. I’m sure I’ve told this story, but my point is different this time so I’ll allow it. Jack is up to bat and takes a fast ball to the face. And he hits the deck. I mean, he falls out. And what do I do? Nothing. I stand at the fence and watch until finally the coach yells at me to come to Jack, he’s down and he’s bleeding. So I went to him. I didn’t panic. I didn’t cry. I didn’t coddle. Hell, I didn’t let him skip the next game. I mean, I sort of gave him a choice but he’s my kid and he chose to play. I grabbed his tooth out of the dirt, gave him so ice and returned him to the dugout to cheer on his team.

I’m not big on coddling, I don’t get sad because my children get older (that’s the whole point of life, if you’re not getting older, chances are you’re dead), it’s rare that you will see me cry in public and I will make more jokes about my husband being dead than is deemed proper (is it ever deemed proper??? Probably not. But I deem it proper and Ash knows who he married so I’m willing to bet he deems it proper as well). It’s who I am. I can lock things up in my brain, and I can throw away the key or I can only let them out on my terms.

So Monday night, while I’m lying in bed convinced I’m dying, I thought of my husband. I thought of all the pain he endured and I thought of all the living he did while he was in that pain. And I felt shame. Because I never fully grasped what he was going through. I never actually put myself in his shoes and imagined how he must feel; partly because I had no idea how much pain he was feeling, partly because I had my own shit I was going through and partly because I literally couldn’t. I let myself imagine it Monday night, mainly because I thought if I was feeling even a fraction of the pain he felt, how the fuck did he not only endure it, but keep living his life while he did it? And how selfish was I to keep pushing him to do things? To complain when he didn’t feel like doing things? To feel sorry for myself for what I was going through? I’m a fucking prick. And that’s when I lost control of my emotions, weeping uncontrollably while still trying to determine if my appendix was rupturing. (Side note – it wasn’t. I’m fine.)

But all of that has led to me to this – God made me abrasive for a reason. He made my brain work the way my brain works because I have to survive. If I were to constantly think about what Ash has been through, what my children have been through, what our family has had to endure, there is no way in hell I could function. It is just too hard to bear. When I let my mind really go there, I become paralyzed with grief and despair and loneliness and unending sadness and shame and guilt and so many other feelings that are difficult to function with. So God gave me the tools to lock it up. I can let it out when I need a release, when I need to remember, when I need to feel that pain. But I can also put it back in the recesses of my mind and go on being a mother, daughter, sister, friend and pain in the ass. I can be me. Sarcastic, witty, abrasive, me.

Purgatory

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Disclaimer: There is much cursing, sadness and self pity happening up in here…

Am I in hell? Purgatory? Some days it certainly feels that way. I’ve heard you must pay for your sins here on Earth before you can make it to the pearly gates. And I’ve got to say, I’m sick of paying. I’ve sinned. Lord knows I have. But when will the debt be settled? How much longer will this Groundhog Day continue? I’m guessing for the rest of my life. I understand that there are different chapters in life, and to get to it, you must go through it. But I’m fucking sick of going through it.

I’m being a bit dramatic, I know. But 2 years ago, our lives changed forever. August, 2 years ago Ash really started feeling like shit. Unfortunately, we equated it to his liver disease and didn’t really think much of it. I’m not sure it would have a made a difference had we sought help sooner as he was diagnosed with rare, no cure cancer, but that’s one thing we will never know. (Although, let’s be fair, the outcome would have been the same.) For some reason, though, this month 2 years ago has really been weighing on my mind. We were ignorantly happy, working, playing, enjoying ourselves and then BAM, life was never the same again. Hell, Ash was so used to feeling like shit, I/we didn’t even notice how bad it had gotten, how much he had thrown up, how much weight he had actually lost. And all these things are spinning through my had like a hamster on a wheel, over and over and over again.

We did our best while he was still around but everything changed. My role as wife became something completely different. Nurse, caretaker, fetcher, pharmacist, waitress, masseuse, (although, let’s be real, some of these things I was doing before devastating cancer news) we were still friends, we still made each other laugh but everything wife was no longer what one thinks of as a typical wife. He fought for 13 long (and very short) months. For a while, on the chemo, he did great. And then it stopped working and nothing else worked again. And that poor man suffered. He suffered so much. Yet, if you knew him, he never let on to how bad he was truly feeling. Which, also if you knew Ash, was very unlike him. Men get fussy when they’re sick. They like to be babied. Unless they are dying. He was tough as nails. He fought so hard. He was my hero.

And now, I just can’t stop thinking about the hell he went through and the hell we are still going through. Which, again, is dramatic. I am aware that we are extremely fortunate and have so much to be grateful for, and we are, but I am also aware that there are a few things for which we are not so grateful. Losing Ash – husband, father, friend – we’re not feeling very appreciative of that. Almost immediately following that, as if our lives and routine weren’t fucked up enough, enter global pandemic – not really appreciating that one either. Remember the movie Groundhog Day? That is what this new normal feels like. I am trying to keep alive and entertain 2 children, who I fear might not actually like me anymore (they love me, but like, that’s a bit questionable these days). Possibly because our “pandemic” started 2 years ago. And we’ve all changed. So, so much. Because of course we have. You can’t lose the. nucleus of the family and come out unscathed. We have bad attitudes, we are constantly irritated with each other, we are short on patience, we are tired no matter how much sleep we get. And we are so sick of it. We want out. We want life to go on. We want our new normal to be, well, more normal.

And I understand, we all feel this way. Shit is crazy for everyone right now. But this is my pity party, and I’ll cry, bitch, moan and complain if I want to. It doesn’t matter how much we do, how many loved ones, friends, family we surround ourselves with, there is still this bottomless pit of loneliness deep inside that I am desperate to fill. And sometimes, it does fill like I’ve done a good job of filling it. Until it doesn’t again. That bone deep sadness and loneliness always comes back. And I wonder – is that just how it’s going to be for the rest of my life? Will there always be a void? Will my heart always feel just a little bit broken? As mama always says, time will tell. I hate to wish my life away, but I wouldn’t mind fast forwarding just a little bit to get through this shit show we’re in right now.

We’re really ok. We have so much. We love so much. We are so loved. But, we’re also a little bit not that ok.