Category: writing

Amarillo By Morning

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Music is an amazing, albeit sometimes unwanted, trigger for our memories. Well, at least for mine. I guess I shouldn’t speak for everyone. I was just driving from Target back to Jack’s baseball practice when George Strait’s Amarillo By Morning came on. And boy did it trigger. First I felt happy, it’s a great song, and then the tears came. But they weren’t all sad either. Because the memories are happy.

In May, 2008, after 2 short years together, Ash packed up his shit and moved to Durango, CO. In August, 2008, I sold most of my shit, packed what I could in my little Jeep Liberty, grabbed my mom, some Harry Potter books on tape (side note – I hate books on tape. I don’t think we made it through 2 chapters. Fuck a book on tape. No offense intended to those who enjoy them. They just don’t work for me) and hit the road. It was one of those trips I will never forget. I was moving far, far away from my family and everything I’d ever known. I quit a great job. I left amazing friends. But I was moving to something. To something wonderful and awful and perfect and stupid and beautiful and ugly and fun and mundane and just everything (as is the nature of meaningful relationships).

My mom and I are extremely close. So it was only natural that she accompany me on my journey out west (move over Fievel). That and she would have been terrified to send me all on my own! (Ash used to call her worst case scenario Geri because, well, her mind instantly goes to the worst case scenario possible in any given situation, you know it’s true Mama! 😘). Our first stop was Tennessee, where I got pulled over for doing absolutely nothing wrong. Apparently, he couldn’t see where I was from on my license plate (even though it was just one state over and our license plates are pretty distinctive what with either a lighthouse or the Wright flyer on them) so he stopped me to find out. He also had many other questions for me – where I was going? Why I was going? Was I going to college? All sorts of weirdness. I also hit a bird in Tennessee and believe I screamed when I did it! My mom probably thought the poor bird was stuck in the engine which would cause said engine to fail, which would lead to the whole car blowing up, us included. Haha! Just kidding! Sort of!!

Our next stop was Oklahoma City, if I’m remembering correctly. It was a long time ago. We took turns driving. We talked incessantly. We sang (probably off key) our hearts out. Oklahoma City was a little scary, at least where we stayed so we got the hell out of there as fast as possible. We stopped in the small town of Elk City, OK for a quick breakfast. But if we’re really being honest here, we stopped in Elk City because, at the time, we were a wee bit obsessed with bull riding, a wee bit more obsessed with professional bull rider Justin McBride, knew that Elk City was his home town (stalker much?!) and figured we’d certainly run into him because he would obviously be craving an egg McMuffin at 6:30 in the morning at the same time as us. I’m guessing we probably just missed each other by a few minutes. But, much to our hearts’ dismay, we did not catch even a glimpse of him.

When we got back on the highway, I think my mom was driving, Amarillo By Morning came on the radio just as we passed a highway sign for Amarillo and the miles left. I screeched (because that’s what I do, I’m a screecher and a woo girl and I am not ashamed). I thought it was pretty ironically cool that Amarillo by Morning just happened to be playing as we passed the highway sign indicating how far Amarillo was from our location and that we would in fact be traveling through Amarillo just that morning.

I was so excited to get to Ash we drove straight through from Oklahoma City to Durango. I can’t remember how long it took. But I do remember knocking on Ash’s door, I was wearing gym shorts, an old white t shirt and tennis shoes, he opened the door, we shared an awkward, somewhat uncomfortable hug (it had been months since we’d actually seen each other) and he told me I’d never looked more beautiful. We moved inside, into my new studio apartment that I was sharing with this boy that I couldn’t help but love, and we, let’s just say, reacquainted, ahem, ourselves in the closet while my mom took a shower (sorry Mama).

I haven’t thought about that journey in a long time. Hearing that song this evening brought it all back (ok, not all because it was a long time ago and I’m not as young as I used to be). And thinking about it now brings back so much. So much that I don’t even know how to put it into words. Ash always pushed me. To be brave. To take the leap. To go on the adventure. And while his adventures were cut short, mine are still going. His spirit, his passion, his love will always live inside of me, pushing me, as always, to live. As he would have lived. Well, maybe not exactly but pretty darn close.

S@$&’s Gettin’ Real

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Ash was probably the most private person I have ever met. Which is funny because private I am not. Clearly. He never wanted to know about any of my past relationships, hated seeing old photos, especially if I was drunk in them, which let’s face it, was pretty much the entirety of my first 2 years of college. He was tight lipped on his own previous relationships also, which drove me absolutely batty!!

He was always evasive, never answered my questions and just generally gave me no information regarding his life pre-me. I guess I eventually learned to accept it. Or it at least didn’t send me packing.

Ash never met my parents until my brother invited him to dinner, shortly before he moved away. I guess I had adopted some of his habits of keeping everything private? I don’t know. I think I was just so enamored with him, I didn’t want anything to screw it up! (Not that my family is crazy or anything, I just suffered from massive anxiety (still so) and just wanted him to love them like I love them) It was different for me. My boyfriend in college became an extension of my family. I mean, shit, he spent more time with my mom working on puzzles than I ever did! But Ash was different. He grew up worlds apart from me. His family life was unlike any one I had ever been a part of.

And I use that “a part of” very loosely. I didn’t meet Ash’s mom until we were living together in Durango, CO and Ash didn’t exactly tell her he had a girlfriend, much less a girlfriend that was living with him. So that was fun. I don’t think I met his dad until I was already pregnant with Jack so it was really too late by that point if I decided to say fuck this noise! Which I may have had I met him a little earlier in the relationship. Kidding. Mostly.

Ash’s dad was a horse of a different color. He did not welcome me into their lives with open arms, he did not seem to like me and I’m pretty certain he would have preferred I never existed. In his life anyway. He’d probably have been fine if I was alive, just maybe not anywhere near him. He sat me down (after I upset him greatly by eating too much of his cantaloupe – he even bought another cantaloupe but informed me I couldn’t have any – true story) at one point and asked me what my intentions were. Ash and I were already engaged, I was pregnant, I thought it might be a little late at this point in the game for this talk. Either way, my gut reaction was to say to get the fuck out of dodge. Luckily, back then I was much better at holding my tongue and said something along the lines of I intend to marry your son in my home town in a month and that’s where you’ll find me until then.

And that’s what happened. I packed my bags and went home while Ash stayed in Texas and rented us an apartment as close to the hospital as humanly possible. Ash’s dad and I never bonded, he mostly looked at me like I was stupid, but he did learn my name so it wasn’t all bad.

Where we come from shapes us into who we are. I love to know the details. It’s in the details that you figure out a person, why they are the way they are, what makes them tick, how they handle obstacles thrown in their direction and how they even find joy and purpose. I understand why Ash stayed so guarded. It was a defense mechanism. But I regret that I know almost nothing, to this day, after 13 years, 7+ moves, 2 kids and 2 dogs and one hellacious cancer journey, that I barely know a damn thing about his past. And likewise, he didn’t want to know about mine.

Perhaps that’s why I’m an open book now. I never don’t want to know about the people I love again. I want it all. Even the ugly and the awful. Because If we can’t be real, what the hell is the purpose of any of it?

Lucky Number 7

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Dear Jonesie:

What can I say? This sucks. You being gone sucks. There’s nothing lucky about the past 7 months. And unfortunately, your death has been trumped by the whole entire world turning into a steaming pile of donkey shit. It’s also raining again. I wish I had kept a log of the number of days it has rained since you died. I’m not saying you have something to do with it (yes I am) but it sure has been a ridiculous amount of rain. It’s kind of like our grief – we get glimpses of sunshine and then the sky opens up again.

Jack just yesterday declared 2020 the worst year of his entire life. Which is really saying something because I didn’t know it could get worse than 2019, you know, the year we lost you for the rest of our lives. But this new normal is anything but normal. It sure would be easier, in ways, if you were here with us. But then it would also be awful because following rules wasn’t really your jam. And it is my jam, mostly, so a lot of arguments would have been had I imagine. But it doesn’t really matter what I imagine because you’re not here and therefore, we’ll never know.

After weeks, maybe months, hell if I can keep track of it, we have finally re-emerged (I may have turned our kids into recluses for a bit of time. Sorry about that). Spending time with our friends and family. A semblance of baseball is back in our lives, which is really delighting Jack, not so much Colt. We spend as much time outdoors as possible (when you’re not reminding us to still be sad via down pouring rain). Just so you know, the rain is no longer working for the boys (so why don’t you go ahead and ease up). They get excited because they get to have an inside pajama day filled with movies, video games and laziness.

I often wonder what Jack and Colt remember about you. They don’t talk about you much. When I ask them, they don’t have much to say. And I don’t say that to be mean. It’s just incredible, the mind of a child, the strength of a child. Especially our children. Maybe all children. I don’t know, I only know ours. But Colt no longer pees not the floor (thank the maker), he never breaks down anymore crying for his dad. He’s happy. He’s funny. He’s sweet. He’s remarkable. He’s becoming quite the fish slayer. He finally got to go on the boat with Uncle G this week and loved every second of it, as he usually did when the boat was ours. He said he had a trout on his line but the fish bit his bait in half. But that’s all he needed. It brought him so much joy just feeling the tug and trying to reel it in. They went cruising, too, just like you and I always liked to do, and absolutely loved it. Our little waterman.

Jack is like a little man. He takes care of me. He’s the one consoling me when I’m having my moments. But he never has moments of his own. He’s so mature. And understanding. And compassionate. Is he happy? I think so, but he’s in that phase of life where hormones are taking over so there’s a little more discontent and a lot more attitude. He tries to help me parent Colt constantly, which, as I’m sure you can imagine, drives me insane. Baseball seems to be going well, but I don’t know for sure, because I can’t always watch, which, you know me, I absolutely hate because crazy baseball mom. It’s good though, he needs some space away from me to do what he loves without the pressure of thinking I’m disappointed. Which how could I ever be disappointed but we know how his innocent and sensitive heart works. What I do know is how happy it is making him, which is absolutely what he needs in this self-declared worst year of his life.

As for me, I’m still a mess. Mistakes should be my middle name because I seem to be making them constantly. The loneliness can be all consuming which has led to latching on to ridiculous and inappropriate things, which then of course leads to let down, which is the last thing I need. You’d think I’d learn. But I’m only human, and a bit of a broken human at that. You would think, after all this time, things would start being better. And from the outside looking in, they are. But deep down, I’m just as broken today as the day we found out you had terminal cancer with 8-12 months to live.

I miss you. I know it’s repetitive but it’s true. We should be arguing about travel ball and how expensive it is. We should be teaching Colt about fishing and boating and how to swim and arguing because your expectations are too high and mine are too low. We should be arguing because the governor won’t let us open Turf’s Up and we’re really starting to stress about the future of our business and money and what it will look if and when we can reopen. All of these things would be more favorable than life without you. But we didn’t get a choice. And it is what it is.

I’m down 30 pounds, which is a huge accomplishment. Unfortunately, I need to lose about 20 more to still be just a little chubby. Ha! I’m thinking of getting a new tattoo – not of the one you hoped for – your face on my left breast with your tongue reaching, well you know, but, as weird as it is, I want a reminder, not that I ever really need reminding, of you, of us, of our life, our love and our hate. We’ll see.

Bogey is still brown and grumpy and groany. Her tumors continue to grow but Nattie has brought some life back into her. Nattie, for all my bitching and moaning and wanting to give her away for a while, (to be fair, you had just died and taking care of a puppy while going through all that was about one of the more overwhelming challenges I’ve taken on, which sounds ridiculous but true) she is the sweetest, most loving little girl on earth. She is finally potty trained, she sucks at walking on a leash and she loves us something strong.

I hate that I never dream of you. I hate that I never see your face anymore. They say your loved ones come back to you in your dreams, but I guess you’re wherever you are, living your best life. You always were out of sight, out of mind! I guess I kind of forgot.

I love you. I miss you.

Until next time,

Poopsie

Life is for the Living

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If you are wondering if I just quoted Harry Potter, you would be absolutely right! I’m a nerd that way! But, like, a cool nerd!

I got a little mopey the last few weeks. I’m not going to lie. It wasn’t my best couple of weeks for many reasons. I won’t go into all of those reasons, but I’ll just say it was raining, I felt alone, I was attempting to mend a broken heart, and I just didn’t feel like doing anything. I shut out the people I love. I shut out family. I shut out friends. I shut out the world.

But also, while drowning in my own self induced misery, some really fucking awesome things happened. Jack tried out for a travel baseball team out of state and was offered a position on the spot. Ash, if he had a grave, would be rolling in it, as we always said that Jack didn’t need to play travel sports until maybe his teenage years. That was, however, before the whole world shut down including all youth sports.

Now, I’m going to justify our reason for joining the travel team just a bit (especially so Ash can hear it and stop with all the dramatic theoretic grave rolling). Firstly, I did not realize how depressed my 10 year old son was until I saw him happy again. Read that again. I did not realize how DEPRESSED MY 10 YEAR OLD SON WAS until I saw him happy again. Call me daft, call me blind, call me selfish. I could be considered all of those things. But the boys and I have been trudging along, thinking we’re doing the best we can. I took Jack to one baseball practice and he turned into an entirely different child. A child that I had not seen in quite some time. He was laughing, he was telling hilarious jokes, he was engaging in conversation with me. All things that I didn’t realize were missing until they returned. My sweet, happy child had come back. With one baseball practice that lasted no longer than 2 hours. 

Secondly, so far in his short 10 years, Jack has an aptitude, enthusiasm, love and talent for sports, especially baseball. And he has gotten to the age where we (we as in his family – me, PawPaw and Uncle G) cannot teach him anymore. He’s at the age where there’s nothing he doesn’t know, nothing he can’t do and absolutely nothing we can teach him, We’ve reached the preteen, prepubescent, pre “holy shit will mama survive this” stage of life. We can no longer help him due to excessive attitude, eye rolling and heavy sighing (lest we backhand him multiple times a day, which, I’m told, is frowned upon). So in the interest of saving all of our relationships (and potentially our lives), it’s best that he seek his baseball counsel elsewhere.

And lastly, (and I’m sorry, but this is going to sound a little braggy here, but if you can’t brag about your kids’ successes and whatnot, what can you brag about?) he deserves it. He deserves to learn from the best. He deserves to play with the best. He also deserves to work hard and earn his spot, earn his position, earn his right to be with that team, especially given that the current dream is to play Duke Baseball in 8 years. 

We didn’t say yes right away, though. I left it 100% up to him (which is very unlike me, I tend to lean a little more towards the Tiger Mom side of momming so kudos to me!!). Jack has a lazy side, and with everything we’ve been through, it would not have surprised me at all if he had chosen no. Instead, he made a list (very Ash like in nature). He made a list of the pros. He had a list of the cons. He weighed them heavily. And he said yes. So our lives are about to get a little crazier, but in the best possible way. Because we’ll be living.

I finally re-emerged with family and friends. We’ve gone to the beach, we’ve had cocktails, the boys have played (outside of course) with friends. We’ve conquered the biggest slip and slide I’ve ever seen. We’ve played our own games of baseball. Jack and I have started jogging together (much to his dismay) and doing all sorts of other training tools that are necessary for him to play on his new team. And I do every one of them with him. Because it keeps him motivated. Because he likes having a partner. Because we are living.

Colt graduated from preschool. Certainly it looked much different than years past. But it was beautiful. We were surrounded by people that absolutely adore my Mr. Tolt. He received his “degree”, he felt special, he rode around the parking lot with his head sticking out of my sunroof. And we were living.

This next part is not easy to write about but I’m going to write it anyway in the spirit of living. I think I am being flirted with by a hilarious, handsome, tall, perhaps a touch younger than me man. It’s been a long time since I’ve been flirted with so I could be getting it wrong. But, in all honesty, I do hope that I am not wrong. Because I feel like a woman again. I feel desired. I feel beautiful. I feel feminine. And these are things I have not felt in quite some time. And I like it. Because it feels like I’m living again. And life is for the living. And if nothing else, we deserve to live the shit out of whatever life we have left in us. 

 

Midnight Melancholy

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Disclaimer: This post is depressing as hell. Ye be warned.

How is this my life? Am I allowed to be depressed? There are some times when I feel fine, good even. But then there are other times where everything feels absolutely hopeless. Like now, for instance, at 1:00 in the morning. When I should be sleeping, but I’m not. Because I feel like shit. Not physically, physically I’m fine. Technically, that’s not true either because I somehow sprained my wrist today playing baseball with my 10 year old because that’s just what happens when you reach a certain age. You try to do things with your kid and you end up hurt. And it hurts like hell. But I’d gladly feel wrist pain every day for the rest of my life if I didn’t have to feel this emotional pain that still tries to consume me.

Night time is when it always gets the best of me. Whenever everything gets quiet. When everything goes dark. When it’s just me and the sound of the stupid clock ticking in the background. When I go into the bathroom to get 1/2 a Xanax to help me shut my brain off, but open the cabinet and see my dead husband’s anti-nausea medication staring me in the face. Because my husband had anti-nausea medication for his terminal cancer that ended his life.

I suffered from postpartum depression for nearly 2 years after having Jack. At the time, I had no idea that’s what the problem was. I just knew that I felt emotionally dead inside. I’m a cryer. I’m sensitive. These are facts about me that have been true since the day I was born. But for 2 years after the birth of my first son. I didn’t cry. I didn’t feel. I was nothing. I felt like no one. I lost myself. And I had no idea.

Now, I’m well aware of how I’m feeling and that feeling is fucking broken. And guilty. And alone. Growing up, and probably well into my 20s, I used to always think how lucky I was because nothing tragic, truly tragic, had ever happened in my life. It’s like I was tempting fate. Like I decided I was untouchable from tragedy. It happened to other people. But not to me.

And then I got married. I had a child. I suffered from an unknown depression that left me empty.  I fought with my husband nonstop. I wished he would go away. I threatened to leave him. And now he’s gone. And I can’t help but feel somewhat responsible. Yes, in my rational head, I know that’s not how these things work, but we can’t always control where our thoughts lead us. How irrational our thoughts can become.

I’m having a hard time enjoying my life. Certainly, I live and breath, my heart beats for my children. They are my absolute everything. But I’m not the same. We’re not the same. Life is not the same. Which is a stupid thing to write because of course we’re not the same. How could we be? But, fuck, do I miss my husband? His friendship. His love. His advice. His support. His touch. His kiss. His humor. His passion. His ugly ass feet. His beautifully perfect eyelashes. His nonstop chatter. His awful driving. His intolerably lengthy shopping habits. His appetite. His passion. His adventure. His dreams. His irresponsibility. Just him. All of him. The perfectly imperfect man, husband, father and friend that he was.

This isn’t my finest hour. When is 1:30 am anybody’s finest hour? I just wonder how it all came to be, why it all came to be? How is this my life? It’s certainly not how I pictured it to be as a young girl who’s main dream in life was to get married and to have children. I guess I should have specified that I would prefer my husband also stay alive to help raise said children. Rookie mistake. In reality, Ash did make my dreams come true. He made me a wife and he made me a mother. Unfortunately, he also made me a widow. What a dick. That wasn’t part of the plan. We had a plan. Create successful business, raise successful children, pray said children want to take over said business, retire, move to The Villages and spend the rest of our days soaking up the sun, playing golf and making out like teenagers. But, alas, fate had other plans.

Don’t mock fate. Don’t take for granted what you have. Don’t settle for less than what you deserve. Soak it all in. Please. For all us widows wondering why the fuck, what the fuck and how the fuck?

Home

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I have never been good at making decisions. I probably never will be. It’s not that I am indecisive, when it’s important, I know what I want, but in the words of Monica Gellar, I have an uncontrollable need to please people. And that’s not the best feeling in the world because you can never, ever please everybody all at once, which then leaves you feeling jittery, anxious and actually quite down on yourself. I loathe confrontation, until it’s absolutely necessary, and then I kind of let anger take over and go too far in the other direction. I want everyone around me to be happy to the detriment of my own happiness at times. Ash was very good about helping me jump through these hurdles. He was the exact opposite of me in this regard. The only person he cared about pleasing was himself (I don’t mean that to sound as negative as it does, it’s just the truth), he did not bend to make others happy and while it may have taken him slightly longer than an eternity to make a decision, he was rather decisive when it came right down to it.

Recently, I made a huge decision that “they” (fucking them) say you’re not supposed to make within the first year after a major loss. The funny thing about this decision, for me, it wasn’t difficult. Ash and I moved into our current house because it’s what he wanted. Our prior home had 3 levels, many stairs, bedrooms on the top floor, laundry on the bottom and with his health (even before the cancer), it was too much for him. Too many stairs, too much yard, too much house, too much maintenance. Our current house is all one level and perfectly fine but has never felt like home. Add in the fact that Ash, husband, father, passed away in the living room, and I’d just assume burn it to the ground than live in it. (Don’t worry, I’m not planning to burn it down, just making sure you get the picture.) It’s never felt like “home”, we have no emotional attachment to it, the boys are so uncomfortable in it, they share a room even though they each have their own rooms, all our memories here are of our husband and father being sick and ultimately watching that sickness literally suck the life out of him. Which in a way sucked the life out of our “home”.

This past Friday, I officially purchased our new home site. It was a decision that I did not make lightly. As a hobby, I am a bit obsessed with real estate. I’m constantly watching the MLS, tracking homes, land, prices, etc. I get notices when things go under contract, when prices drop, when new listings are added. Seriously, it’s a bit of an addiction. You’d think I could make a career out of it, but then add in the part with all the people and negotiating and back and forth with all the people, and it all becomes just a little too, well, peopley for me. Anyway, I decided pretty immediately after Ash passed away that we needed to move. The boys agreed with me. I started scouring the MLS immediately. I looked at a few homes, seriously considered purchasing one but thought better of it because there were some issues that were absolutely unfixable. We live in a unique area where home prices don’t exactly match the caliber of the home. We’re in a small beach town and you pay the price for living in paradise.

Anywho, obviously, I decided building was the way to go. I found 2 lots that I loved. One of them was already cleared, already had the water line hooked up, backed up to marsh land and was really quite nice. The other is covered, and I do mean covered, in brush, trees, hills and valleys but was also beautiful and backs up to the sound. I asked for advice from what felt like thousands of people (that’s a very large exaggeration, I do not know (or like) thousands of people) but I asked many, because again, decisions and me don’t go hand and hand. I asked professionals, I asked family, I asked friends, I asked acquaintances. They all had their opinions and most of them, including the professionals,  chose the lot where the work was already done. And while I valued those opinions, my heart told me otherwise. I tend to lead with my heart. A lot. Which can be problematic, hence why all the asking opinions from other people. And it was really hard not to have my husband to talk it through with me. Although, if he were here, none of it would be happening, so there is that. Your fault, babe, as usual.

Anyway, two of our closest (and wisest) friends went with me one evening to look at both lots. They fell in love with the first one, the one that was cleared and “easy”. Then we went to the other one. They saw what I saw, they fell even harder as I had fallen even harder. We stood there, we took in the views, the serenity and the peace and I knew I had my answer. They posed the question “what would Ash do?”. And I knew right then. Ash would choose beauty, serenity, peace. He would choose the place that reminds us why we live on this tiny little beach. And then it was easy. The decision came natural. And the thing is, I always knew in my heart which one I wanted, where the boys and I should make our new home, our new life, our fresh start. But second-guessing myself, and my heart, is something I excel at.

Same thing happened with house plans. I asked all those people again. I had narrowed my search down to 2, again, knowing in my heart what I wanted, but seeking out other opinions. Which is not a bad thing. And again, the majority chose the one that I did not. The easier build, the cheaper build. But, again, I went with my heart, chose the more difficult road and can’t wait to see our dreams come to fruition.

I have a hard time trusting myself. I struggle with making decisions. I seek approval from others far too often. But what I continue to learn is that I am capable of making tough decisions, I know my own heart and my own mind, I am strong, I am smart and while I will continue to ask for guidance all the time, deep down, I know that I will make the right decision because it is my decision.