Category: Love

4,368 Hours

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Dear Jonesie:

We’ve made it 6 months, half of a year, 4,368 hours or 262,080 minutes without you. Take your pick on whichever way you prefer to tell time these days. I’m not sure how it works where you are. Some days have been hard. Some days have been heartbreaking. Some days have been ok. And some days have even been great. But they’ve all been different.

We just celebrated Mother’s Day. I wanted to thank you for creating these 2 beautiful lives with me. They are incredible. Which I know that you know. And I know you are watching. I know you saw them bring me breakfast in bed Sunday morning. They made scrambled eggs (if I’m honest, they were a little crunchy due to the added bonus of a few egg shells and a little, let’s say, not quite done and runny), a biscuit that was reheated in the microwave and came out more rock like than biscuit like and a bowl of freshly picked strawberries. It was nearly perfect. The only thing missing was you. And just to piss you off, I let the boys eat breakfast, in our bed, with me. So ha! They remembered, though, that all of you brought me breakfast in bed last year and they were so proud to do it on their own this year. I tell you, whatever gal (or guy) ends up with each of our boys, they are in for one hell of a good life. We did good, Jonesie. Hopefully, I can keep doing good without you.

It’s not easy, doing this life without you. I don’t know what stage of grief I’m in – I think I’ve created my own – it’s called I hate everyone and everything so please leave me alone but please don’t leave me alone. I think the closest thing to it is anger, which I think is the 2nd stage of grief. I’m pretty sure I’m not doing the stages in order, though. I’ve accepted that you’re gone, which is the final stage, but I’m reverting back to the angry stage. Maybe that’s how grief works. Maybe I’m just backwards. Maybe it’s a little bit of both. I hate how I feel. I hate how angry I’ve become (which, let’s face it, I’ve always been more on the angry side than not, and really didn’t think I had room to grow in that area.) Apparently I was wrong. I’m angry with you. I’m angry with God. I’m angry with myself. I’m angry at the unfairness of it all. And if I’m totally honest, I’m angry that people’s lives are moving on yet I’m still stuck in this pit of hostility and jealousy and more self pity than I care to admit. (Although, that statement was just an admission of said self pity so there’s that.)

I recently started reading Girl, Wash Your Face and I think it’s doing the opposite of what it’s supposed to do. I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to inspire me to become a better person. But all I’m really feeling inspired to do is break shit, kick holes in doors and be the crazy, spitfire, passionately pissed off Irish girl that only you really know me to be. Perhaps when one is grieving, one should not take on reading self help books. I’m hoping that the loss of your husband can maybe excuse the fact that you’re not quite ready to set goals and show up for yourself and all that positive self talk bull shit I’m supposed to give to make myself a better person, friend, mother, daughter, sister, etc.

Unfortunately, this anger coursing through me reared it’s ugly head at our first born the other day. We had dinner with your mom as a Mother’s Day celebration. We were sitting around, playing games, just chatting and having a nice time when I remembered your voicemail, your voice still on your phone. I imagine your mom hadn’t heard your voice since she last visited you just before you left us, and even then, it wasn’t “your” voice, the one you had most of your life. It was that of a dying man. So I thought I’d play your voicemail, the one I just recently wrote about so that she could hear you again. When I went to retrieve it, the message was gone. Deleted. No longer available. I held my tongue. I had not announced that I was searching for your voice for all of us to hear again. I asked Jack what happened to it. He claimed he didn’t know. Heat flushed my cheeks. I announced our departure, we got in the car, headed down the road and my anguish exploded. I am not proud. I accused our son of deleting it. I accused him of lying. I yelled. I sobbed. I deflated. We got home and I sent him directly to bed, so upset I didn’t know what else to do. And then I wept some more. I realized my myriad of errors. I scared our little boy. I made him feel overwhelmingly sad and guilty. And I’ve never felt more disgusted with myself. I went to his room, apologized profusely and begged his forgiveness, which he offered instantly. He also apologized, said he didn’t know or remember if he deleted it but he hadn’t meant to do it. I told him over and over again how wrong I was, how sorry I was, what I huge mistake I had made, treating him that way. I hugged him until he admitted I was squeezing him too hard. And we moved on. But I am still ashamed.

Adding fuel to the raging fire already lit inside of me, I’m going to assume you saw the unexpected, unannounced and a little bit unwelcome guests that showed up at our home the other day. They came, they offended (at least Jack and me), they praised the amazingness that is Colt, said how special he is and they left. Luckily, Jack had gone back inside while Colt’s praises were being sung. Not to take anything away from Colt, because he is amazing and his praises deserve to be sung, but so is Jack and I find it so shockingly sad (and cruel) that some people don’t see him that way. You know my theories and I will leave it at that.

It took everything in me not to kick them “out” (I use the term out loosely because I did not allow them in my home because a. coronavirus and 2. I would gladly allow some unexpected guests in our home, but some, especially the offensive kind, I will not), but I did use the manners I was raised with, I was kind enough even if not deserving, I let them offend our oldest son and me and then I watched as they drove away. I may have expressed some very expletive language in front of our children and then took the rest of my frustration and anger out on the treadmill, running 3 miles faster than I have in my life to date. It’s amazing the adrenaline anger can cause to course through the body.

In other news, I received the 6 month “making sure you haven’t killed yourself or anybody else” check in from hospice. It came with a quiz this time to see if  “I may benefit from increased exposure to a support system”. I passed with a 2. If you received higher than a 5, then it may be time to call on said increased exposure to a support system. The quiz consisted of 5 questions, none of which were “are you so angry you’d like to take a golf club Elin-style to any and everything you possibly can?” so I’m not sure it was the best assessment in the world, but they didn’t ask for my opinion.

I’m really more ok than I am letting on. I think anyway. But I also do have an unnerving amount of hostility running through me with thread bare patience and a general loathing for a lot of things. But, in that hospice letter also came 20 Common Reactions as You Heal From Loss and apparently my reaction is common. So I’ve got that going for me. Which is nice.

Apparently, though, the 6 month mark is supposed to be when you’re feeling more healed than not. But some wounds never heal, some things will never be the same and 6 months is not that long.

In more positive news, I’m buying a lot (as in a piece of land, not like a lot of things) this week. I close on Friday. I’ve been working on house plans and should have a first draft in hand some time this week. The lot is well over half an acre, on the sound, full of trees, tucked away from all things I may want to hit with my 7 iron and just perfect. Or just perfect enough. The boys and I are so excited to build, to move, to start fresh somewhere we never expected to be. It feels good to have something positive to focus on, to make tough decisions, to lead myself and our little bear cubs down the path the I chose.

Lastly, you should know, I picked up Colt’s memory book from preschool. You remember last year’s, I’m sure. This year’s was just as lovely, if not maybe even a little more so. Our boy looks so happy in all of the pictures. Laughing, learning, playing. At the end, there’s a page that starts “When I grow up, I want to be…”. Colt’s response? A golf teacher. Talk about a punch to the gut. It hurt in the most beautiful way. He is his father’s son. Everything you’ve done, he wants to do. Everything you were, he wants to be.

Be proud, my Jonesie. Your boys grow into the young men they are meant to be more and more by the day. We did good. I’ll continue to do better. I will not let this anger get the best of me anymore. (We both know that’s a lie, but I strive to let it go.) I will be strong for them. I will control it for them. And hopefully soon, I can let it all go for them. And for me.

Missing you always,

Your Poopsie

PS – I have finally mastered your un-patented but should be patented hiccup cure without your guidance. It works every time. Kurt, I don’t know if you are reading this, but if you are, unbeknownst to you, your friendship with Ash Jones almost ended rather abruptly after the 2 of you went skiing together and you hiccuped almost the whole way home because you wouldn’t listen to Ash’s cure. He was so mad at you when he got home. True story. Glad he recovered from it and we all remained friends. Love and miss you guys always!

Nothing and Everything

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My husband is dead. It’s been almost 6 months. And he’s still dead. I walked into our, well, my, technically, bedroom tonight and I could smell him. And I sobbed. He didn’t even really have a particular smell. He didn’t wear cologne even though I kept buying it for him. He used whatever soap I purchased, so I guess we smelled pretty similar. His shampoo wasn’t super aromatic. But I swear I could smell him. So maybe he did have a scent.

I miss him. And yet, it’s almost as if he were never here. I often wonder how in the world did it all happen. Why did we meet? How did we fall in love? How did we come to marry and have children? And how on Earth is he gone? At 37 years old. I’m 13 days older than Ash and he always joked I would die first, naturally, because I’m so much older. But that didn’t happen.

He started getting sick in 2014. I also happened to get pregnant at the very end of 2013 so, at first, I felt like he was stealing my thunder a little bit, what with all the throwing up and not getting out of bed. That’s what I was supposed to be doing. He had countless doctor appointments and multiple hospital stays before he finally ended up with a diagnosis. Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis. It’s an auto-immune disease that affects the liver and bile ducts. I’m sure you could have guessed that if you have been reading my writings for a while. There is no cure. He may need a liver transplant 10-15 years down the road. Ash’s doctor was world famous. One of the best in his field. We were scared back then but he assured us, most people that have PCS die with it and not from it. Most people.

Ash and I changed our lives. Our marriage had been more than a little shaky for a while. At times, I did not deserve him. At times, he did not deserve me. But once he was diagnosed, back in 2014, our perspectives changed quite a bit. We learned to accept each other. We worked at it every day. And it worked. We changed. Ash had to quit drinking, you know, because of the whole liver disease thing. He started a clinical trial, we had to travel a couple hours north once a month to his doctor to check in and they were some of the most fun days in our relationship. We learned to communicate with each other again. We fell in love all over again. I guess, in a way. Life changed, for the better, if you can believe it.

In April, 2018, we were back at Ash’s liver doctor, just for a routine check up. And the words that came out of that doctor’s mouth was some of the best news we’d ever gotten in our lives. He said “I don’t know what you’re doing, but keep it up. Your numbers are incredible. We don’t see this with this particular disease much.” In September, 2018, he was diagnosed with Stage IV Terminal Cholangiocarcinoma. Bile Duct Cancer. Terminal. That’s how fast it happened. He went from what we liked to joke as a “medical marvel like Ross Gellar” to a dying man. How does that happen? Why does that happen?

I just miss him. I miss kicking his ass at Mario Cart. I miss all our date nights. I miss holding his hand. I miss just driving around doing nothing with him. I miss the way he could make me laugh. I miss his amazing smile. I miss his positive attitude. I miss how he always knew when I was about to start my monthly business based on my attitude. I miss hearing his voice. Jack has Ash’s old cell phone and the voicemail on it is still Ash’s voice. I call it, at least a few times a week, just to hear that “Hey, it’s Ash’s voicemail. Leave a message.” Simple. To the point. Just like Ash wasn’t. Ha! (It’s funny because it’s true.) Either way, I miss him. Hell, I miss the shit that I hated and thought I’d never miss. But I do. Grief is annoying like that. It reminds you that even the bad shit wasn’t really that bad. In my case anyway.

The kids are so incredible. They are so resilient. So in the moment most of the time. Sure, they have their breakdowns. But they are less frequent. I’m so envious of their strength. They are growing and learning and they are just amazing.

I don’t know the point to any of this, other than I went in my room, could smell my husband, sobbed and felt the need to write. So I did. And it’s helped in the way that only it can. My own personal therapy. Remembering him is a gift, one that I hope to only love one day.

Strength and the Lack Thereof

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I am strong. That is my daily mantra. I set the intention of having strength every day. And I’m going to brag a bit and say I do a pretty good job on most days.

Enter global pandemic. That strength I’ve been holding so tightly to has sailed away like a ship in the night. You see, in real life, we are constantly on the go between kids, friends, sports, school, eating someplace other than the kitchen, errands and other such things that make our lives an actual life. Put that life on hold, and us recently unfortunately widowed folks are left to actually have to deal with our feelings. So thanks for that, raw bat eater. I’ve got a couple of hand signals for you.

I selfishly took this past Saturday, and aside from working out, did not leave my couch. I let my children play outside, I gave in to too much screen time and too many video games. And I parked my ass on the couch and didn’t really move. Other than to blow my nose because I let myself basically cry all day long. It is not my proudest day in history, nor my strongest day in history. But maybe it was my most necessary day.

I recently complimented myself on not having a day where I laid around and drowned in self pity. I guess I planted the seed in the recesses of my mind. And that seed sprouted and turned into this past Saturday. I watched romantic comedy after romantic comedy, which was quite the idiotic move because do you know what life is not? If you said a romantic comedy, you would be exactly right. But it did unlock feelings that I guess I’ve been holding onto for far too long and I finally let them out.

The problem, you ask, with letting them out? Once they start, I’m not sure how to make them stop. There is so much shit, in the world, in my own personal life, that sucks right now. And if I’m completely honest, I’m having a hard time finding the bright spot. Yes, my children are a bright spot, we have our health and each other and all the other shit you’re supposed to say that you’re grateful for (and I am grateful for it) but I also have all of these other negative feelings and self doubt and pain that are overtaking everything good that I know I have.

And there’s really not anything to be done about it, which would drive Ash crazy. He was always a fixer, not great at the listening and just being there. If there was a problem, yo, he’d come up with several ways to solve it. There’s no distractions to push away the painful feelings. There are no friends to give hugs and love and feed me wine and tell me I’m pretty. (That’s a joke.) It’s just me. And the boys. And the dogs. Trying to pretend like we’re ok.

My poor kids, every night, something makes me cry, generally at the dinner table. My sweet Jack always asks if I’m alright and my sweet Colt always answers she’s just missing daddy. And that is true. I am missing him. But there’s so much more to it than that. So many things, that I, myself, do not understand and do not know how to navigate through.

So, for now, I guess I’ll just let the water works flow. Because what else are you supposed to do when your husband dies and then the world fucking stops?

More of the Same

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How’s everyone? Drowning in misery? Yeah, me too. I guess I have been for quite some time but this somehow feels worse. Probably being totally cut off from society (and other adults) being the culprit. Don’t get me wrong, I love the shit out of my kids, I just wish there was maybe one other adult around to love them with me. Post-widowhood pandemic is not doing great things for my mental state.

Things I’m not doing well in this new phase of life:

  1. Homeschool – I was not made to teach my child. I was especially not made to teach my child math. There has been arguing. There has been tears. We’re doing a little bit better each day, which I guess shows progress, but if we both make it out of this unscathed, well, color me surprised.
  2. Reading – I am reading 5 books at present. That’s not how you’re supposed to do it, but since when do I do things the way you’re supposed to do them. I started It’s Always the Husband while my husband was still alive. And while it held my interest for a while, whenever I did have a chance to read, I chose not to, choosing instead to hold onto my husband. I haven’t been able to pick it back up since he passed away. I stopped (mid-chapter mind you) on page 122. Next up When Children Grieve. This one is a real nail biter guaranteed to put you to sleep just by opening the cover. It should be something I make myself read, and I did for a while, and then I stopped. Next, my mom gave me James Patterson’s The Inn, telling me what a quick and easy read it was. I’m on page 59. There are far too many characters and different stories happening for my current state of ill-performing brain, so I put that one down. Another one that I pick up and put down at random is a story a bit like mine – a young widow with young children, only she lost her husband suddenly, and I knew for a while that I was losing mine. It’s called Confessions of a Mediocre Widow and it’s very relatable and very good, I just have to be in the right frame of mind to read it and currently, I guess, the right frame of mind isn’t hanging around my mind. Moving on. Last but not least, and the one I’m actually making progress on is Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine. That’s a lie. She’s not fine at all. Kind of like me, but her story is totally different. I picked it up because the cover literally said it was “Beautifully written and incredibly funny” and while I’m sure it is beautifully written, it has done nothing but invoke feelings of sadness and pity for poor Eleanor. It’s held my interest well enough though, as I’m more than 3/4 of the way through it. And while it has funny moments, I believe it to be a bit of a bold statement claiming it incredibly funny. Me thinks I was duped by that choice of words.
  3. Cleaning. Here I thought we had all this time and I could finally get some much needed cleaning done. Hard pass.
  4. Keeping my shit together. We’ve (my children and I) have been dealt a shitty hand. While we were still allowed to be part of civilization, I think we handled it all pretty well. Take civilization away, enter crazy, angry, weeping us. Apparently our people were holding us together. Take them away, you’re left with sadness from the movie Inside Out. Not really that bad, but we’re crying much more often than we used to, we’re throwing many more tantrums than are acceptable and feeling a deep void that we can no longer fill with all of our loves.
  5. Staying connected. It’s true that deep down, I’m an introvert. I like time to myself. I like the quiet. The more time I spend away from my friends, the easier it seems to not reach out. I fear by the end of this I will turn into some kind of recluse who’s book number has jumped even higher and friend count at an all time low. I won’t really let that happen, but I will deem it a concern.

But, enough of that Debbie Downer crap. On to the good bits! While trying to find a sheet of paper that Colt has not drawn planes, trains and automobiles all over, I came across another list from my Jonesie. Now, they are more of the same things he’s said over and over, but if you know Ash, you know that repeating himself in countless different ways was kind of his jam. It’s another list that he wrote for Jack and while much of it is repetitive, when can we not use a little advice on how to better live our lives, especially now?!

  1. Be open minded.
  2. Be kind.
  3. Be empathetic, compassionate and loving. Accept people. Tell people when you love them. Don’t let moments of greatness pass you by.
  4. Be strong. Don’t be easily influenced by others. Stay true to your values and beliefs. Don’t succumb to peer pressure.
  5. Choose your friends wisely. Stay away from drugs, alcohol, violence and hate. Always choose love.
  6. Set goals and work to achieve them. Start small and work your way up. Stay motivated.
  7. Maintain your hobbies – continue with your love for sports. Explore nature. Read every day (this wasn’t on there but don’t read 5 books at the same time, don’t be like Mama!)
  8. Practice, practice, practice. You wan’t to hone your skills? You have to work at it. Every. Single. Day. Hard work always pays off in the end.

Well, I was always one to argue some of Ash’s points and I will say that we worked our asses off trying to stop the spread of cancer and that one didn’t work. So while hard work may not always pay off, it is always worth trying. Stay strong my friends. We’ll get through this, one painstakingly slow day at a time. Stay connected. Reach out. And always keep an open mind.

Stage 4: Sadness

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Grief is selfish. The feelings that grief can emanate are all consuming. It is something you feel, on your own. Maybe I should rephrase to say that grief is selfish for me; I can’t speak for everyone. When I’m in the throes of my sorrow, or even the boys’ sorrow, it is all about us. How we’re feeling. How we’re coping. We work through it. We try not to burden others with it. We try to keep it just for us. We try to be strong when we enter the real world with other people.

Yesterday was a day of grief for us. Maybe more so me than the boys, but any time they see me sad and crying, they tend to join in, in one way or another. I woke up yesterday feeling broken. I tried to distract myself with cleaning (my least favorite task) but came across my wedding album and being the daft twit that I am, decided to flip through it. A couple of things came to mind – 1. we looked genuinely happy (even though I tried to call off my wedding the night before but that’s another story for another day). B. I couldn’t help but get angry, looking at how genuinely happy we looked, to the point where I “punched” Ash in the face (well, I punched his picture in the face) because he’s not here trudging through this life with me as promised. To be fair, he trudged as long as he could. I guess it’s not his fault his time was cut short. 3. The anger led to acute sadness. And that’s where my feelings remained for the duration of the day.

My dad stopped by. I cried on him. And he hugged me. And it was so nice. I went to my parents house for the afternoon so that I didn’t have to be alone (not that I’m alone because I always have the boys, but I needed adult companionship, adult conversation and honestly, I just needed my mom) and I let the sadness completely fill me and I let it out on my parent’s front porch. Silent tears poured down my face. It’s such a combination of so many feelings, this grief. I obviously mourn the loss of Ash – I miss him. There’s also so much fear. Will I feel this way forever? Will our new normal ever feel normal? Of course, our new normal keeps getting more and more abnormal thanks to ‘rona so that’s fun. Will I always be this lonely? I guess the only way to do it is to go through it. But man, is going through it exhausting. I know the answers to all of my questions. I know that time heals all wounds, or some such bullshit. Which is bullshit, I don’t think some wounds ever completely heal. You just learn how to live with a limp, so to speak.

I also had one of the best day’s I can remember having since losing Ash on Saturday. It started with an ass kicking workout followed by a fantastic beach day with my boys. We played paddle ball (we suck at paddle ball), we threw the football until my shoulder ached and fingers went numb, the boys got in the frigid cold water. We left sun kissed, tired and filled with a sense of peace. We filled our bellies with delicious takeout and then we watched one of our most favorite movies ever, Trolls. It was just a perfect day. And I think that’s what led to yesterday.

Ash wasn’t there for our perfect day. We had a perfect day without Ash. We will continue to have perfect days. But they might always be followed up with a hangover of sadness because life does go on. We move on. March forward. We continue to love, we laugh, and some days really do feel perfect. And some days don’t.

And when they don’t, it’s so easy to shut everyone out. I ignored phone calls yesterday, text messages. I didn’t want to let anyone in. I didn’t want anyone to know how shitty I was feeling, how down and out I was. I just wanted to let myself feel every last drop of sadness. I wanted to hug my parents and let them take care of me and the boys, if only for the afternoon because I needed that love, that acceptance and that time. Because grief is selfish.

 

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.