Tag: Love

S@$&’s Gettin’ Real

· Leave a comment ·

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

· 1 Comment ·

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

· Leave a comment ·

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. 

 

4,368 Hours

· Leave a comment ·

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

· Leave a comment ·

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.