A Natalie Observed

Tag: family

  • 11:11

    11:11

    One year ago, I arrived at the hospital for rounds anticipating guidance on removing your life support. The medical team informed us the day before tests confirmed you were not responsive. Your brain did not register any of the pain you definitely should have been in. I already knew. I knew when the neurosurgeon named Natalia told me on November 9th to keep hope up, to talk to you and play music. She told me we never know what kind of healing the brain can do and while I knew she was right, I knew you were not coming back. You did not have it in you to heal from this. We did not know how long you did not have oxygen when I started CPR. She introduced herself as Natalia when I arrived at your room. I remember because I tried to address her by title, as Doctor, but she corrected me. “I’m Natalia”. She’s the only name I remember from that week because her name was close to mine. She asked if she could hug me before leaving. I said yes and she gave me a strong, sturdy, caring hug. I played Reggae Saturday on KEXP because you loved Reggae Saturday. That’s what we would have listened to. I held your hand. I told you I loved you and that it was okay to move forward. I am realizing now you were the first of two people I have told this year it was okay to move beyond this life to whatever is next. The second was Grammy.

    After Natalia hugged me and left, I sat in the room listening to Reggae Saturday with you alone for a couple hours before others arrived. I do not remember who came or when. I know your sister was there and your brother. Your dad and his partner. My parents were making separate journeys from Chico. I had not slept while staying at Adam and Randy’s. I lay awake and cried, in shock. I got to your hospital room by 6:30am. Dottie was staying with Adam and Randy because I could not leave her alone. I sat on the sofa in your room and focused on breathing. Inhale, 1-2-3-4. Hold, 1-2-3-4. Exhale, 1-2-3-4. Even today when I have box breath like that to help my body settle, I remember sitting in that room on the pleather sofa that was easy to clean. I remember looking at lifeless you and out the window at the oranges and yellows of fall. I remember the beeping as they tried to thin your blood. The machine did not work and the nurse was so kind as she overly explained that “this happens sometimes”.

    I was hugged by your neurosurgeon on November 9th. On November 10th, we learned your brain was unresponsive. That you felt no pain. My mom and I walked to your room and a doctor asked to speak with me in a quiet room down the hall. I knew she was going to tell me you were not responsive and actively thought “remember this hallway Natalie, it’s going to change you.” I remember the wall of professional photos of the medical team. I wondered who the interior designer was of a hospital and how did they get that job. As the doctor told me, a conversation I cannot remember, a woman walked in on her phone seemingly unaware I was learning you died. That woman was probably stuck in her own nightmare. Not getting the hint from the palpable despair in the space, the doctor who told me you were brain dead asked her to leave. The woman startled, apologizing for intruding. My mom held me as I wept. We went home. There was nothing left to do. I told Facebook you were not going to wake up and the first of many panic attacks gripped me. Sitting on our sofa in our home, I lost my breath and hyperventilated as I attempted to touch the reality of you dying. The same reality I still struggle to touch. The energy of trauma is other-worldly and powerful. No wonder it splits us.

    On November 11th, I arrived at the hospital a little late for morning rounds. My parents were with me, and I think I asked them to stay in the family waiting area until I knew what was happening, although I cannot remember. I did not want to crowd your room and we were only allowed so many people. The medical team stood lining the hallway and I parted the members of your family blocking the entrance to your room so I could set down my water bottle and jacket. Was it raining outside? Or was it sunny? I think it was gray? So many details I cannot remember. I squeezed your hand and told you hello. Your eyes were half open, the sparkle no longer adorning the cerulean anymore. There was a thin layer of white crust under your eye lashes as your eyes attempted to keep moisture in them. I grabbed a tissue and wiped it away. I tucked your hair behind your ears. I joined your family in the doorway to your room and tried to understand what the medical team was talking about. They gave updates about your nutrition and fluid intake.

    I think it was on the 11th, although I cannot remember exactly what happened and when, that your sister said the quiet part out loud on behalf of all of us: why are we gathering to discuss your nutrition and fluid levels when your brain died? I did not understand what we were doing at Morning Rounds and was so grateful when your sister interrupted their updates to ask. We arrived on the 11th expecting to be talked through pulling you off life-support, but here we were getting updates on your nutrition. Your sister knew you would not want to be laying there like this. We all knew you were not supposed to be suffering any more than you already had. It was not what you or any of us wanted. I did not hear the reasons and went back to your bedside. Someone told me we were supposed to meet with a team at 10am. Everyone dispersed for a walk, a cry, tea, or coffee. I do not remember where I went.

    On the 11th, at 10am, your father, his partner, your brother, your sister, myself, my mother, and my father all sat in the room where I learned you died just the day before. Across from us, two women introduced themselves before quietly and kindly discussing next steps. They asked us to talk about who you were to us. I do not remember much of the conversation. Eventually, they explained organ donation and how it works and I realized they were preparing us for a conversation I had not anticipated. You were an organ donor, and your body had not completely died yet. Just your brain. And, amidst all of this, we could help you help other people. Several of us indicated approval of the idea. It was unquestionably what you wanted. The donor coordinator asked your dad one final time if she had permission to move forward. He made eye contact with me and I nodded (or did I say something?) and he looked to the coordinator and confidently said “it feels like a no brainer. Let’s move forward”. Here we all were in a situation where you were brain dead, having opted to be an organ donor. It was a literal no-brainer. The air in the room hung heavy as everyone quickly assessed if we should start crying over this remark or start laughing. I started laughing, tears filling my eyes. You would have thought it was funny. We looked at the time, and it was 11:11am. So, on the 11th day of the 11th month at 11:11am a group of us defined a day meant for Veterans and Hope as something else entirely. We formalized your time of death.

    Today, I woke up at 5am and could not fall back to sleep. I cried as I remembered where I was one year ago and what it felt like to not know what would happen to you. I tried to exercise but quit one-third of the way through because I could not stop crying while on the bike. I canceled the massage I scheduled because I poorly planned it to take place at 10:45am and I knew I could not stop crying or relax as 11:11am passed on the clock today. I am sitting in my dry, but sweat drenched clothes, wearing the KEXP “You are not alone” shirt your dad got you and your Eddie Bower printed fleece pullover we bought that one time at U-Village. I carved into a candle my mom gave me yesterday. The candle was made by a shaman to burn on 11/11, the angel number, the number of hope and remembrance. My mom had been saving it for herself for years, always out of town on the day or not able to get to it. She handed it to me last night after I made Grammy’s cookies for her memorial on Friday. “I realized you could use it more than me”. I carved the words “love”, “healing”, “wholeness”, “alignment”, “rest”, “peace” and “laughter” on one side. I carved your name on the other. I am going to sit here and watch it burn in between episodes of whatever I end up watching. Because today marks one year since you died and I do not know what else to do but try and remember and focus on what’s to come. David Kessler once said “Anxiety” is the Present and the Future while “Grief” is the Present and the Past. I’m firmly in Grief today. It is a relief to be here.

  • The Wisdom of Ruth Anne Cline

    I took today off because I did not know what I would need. I still do not know. After drinking a cup of coffee, catching up on Marco Polos, and watching an episode of Dawson’s Creek, I felt like I would crawl out of my skin. I thought about running errands, but going to the grocery store is something I would do for Future Me. And today is not for Future Me. Today is for Past and Present Me, for Grief. Instead of filling my gas tank, I walked in Upper Park for almost three hours with Dottie. We walked from the parking lot to the end of Yahi Trail and back up Middle Trail. We were mostly alone aside from a jogger, a cyclist, the man who cleans the portable toilets, and a dog walker with a blind dog. The cloud cover hung low and I could not see the top of the canyon. The creek was silty from the recent rainfall. Leaves were finally succumbing to cooler temperatures and dashes of crimson and gold and chocolate accentuate the oak and sycamore trees. Birds rang the alarm as we entered their territories. A breeze whispered. Dottie smelled everything and kept alert to any sound behind us. I listened to a podcast and kept walking. One foot in front of the other. I’ll know when I’m done and it’s time to turn back. One podcast ended and I turned on another. I could have walked forever except eventually the spiderwebs got thicker than I wanted. We turned around. As we walked out of the canyon, blue skies framed the landscape. There is a metaphor there somewhere, but I do not have the creative bandwidth to know how to better articulate it.

    My grandmother, my mom’s mother, died on Wednesday evening. On Tuesday, my mom called me while I was throwing a tennis ball for Dottie at the dog park that is too small for meaningful acceleration but will do the job. It was 3:29pm. I never heard my mom sound like that before and I knew she was not in her body. She has 24-48 hours. Edita was with her, a close friend. I’m glad she was not alone. I knew I needed to get Dottie home and immediately go visit Grammy. My mom was not in town attempting to visit my sister, my nieces and nephews, and friends before completing a training in Texas. That psychic said my mom would not be in town when Grammy died. I knew I needed to be there with my uncles while my mom and Phil figured out getting her back. I put Dottie in the house and drove to be with them. I hugged them and witnessed them reassure their mother it was okay to go, that Jesus would hold her. That her siblings and mother were waiting. Tears lurked in all of their eyes. The last time I saw one of them cry we were at breakfast after his house burned down in the Camp Fire. Flashback. I hung back when they left so I could have a moment with her alone. I told her I was proud to know her. That mom was coming. That Hailey wanted to thank her for being a safe place when we did not know we needed it. That I wish she could help me understand what I am navigating with losing you. That I love her.

    My mom did make it back on Wednesday morning. She wanted to go directly to the place my grandmother was cared for. I met her and Phil there. I knew it would be difficult for Phil. We were in the week that Phil lived exactly one year ago. He lost his mother, Marie, the lady who loved yellow, on the 25th last year. My parents were going to face losing their mothers the same week one year apart. Eventually Phil left and my mother and I spent Wednesday afternoon with my grandmother. There is poetry there somehow. My mom’s brothers came in and out as time allowed. Eventually needing a break and to wrap up some work things, my mom wanted to go home. We watched a Leanne Morgan sketch on Netflix and I remember watching the same one while in a hotel room driving from Seattle to Chico the week you died. Leanne Morgan is funny and I will not let my sadness and trauma over you taint that. After watching, my mom and I went back one last time. We were tired, but there was not a good reason not to see my grandmother. I kissed her forehead before we left one last time. It’s okay, you got this, I said to her. We knew this was coming. Dementia was there for ten years and cancer most recently. We read the text on Thursday morning. My grandmother passed on Wednesday evening after we left. God keep her. I’m not even religious, but God keep her.

    I do not know how to place these two griefs in the same universe, let alone in my body. As I watched the body of my grandmother labor to keep breathing so we could all say goodbye, I kept thinking about how much this was the way death is supposed to be. This is the loss we prepare for. The loss we expect because of age, because brains cannot function forever, because bodies eventually get cancer. And your death, your loss, is not the way death is supposed to be. People are not supposed to die at 41 because of alcohol used to medicate their mental illness. We were supposed to grow old together, or at least reach five years old. Today, we would have been five years. What am I supposed to do with that?

    I have wanted to ask my grandmother so many questions since you died. How did she recover when Lloyd passed away? Lloyd was a soul connection unlike many of the others. My grandmother and Lloyd were so in love. Hailey and I could feel it as kids. There was this radiant kindness to him that saturated the way we grew up. It matched Grammy’s in a delicate way, still holding the strength and subtle beauty of gossamer. What did that feel like to her? To have him one moment, then not the next? Did they talk about it together? How did he reassure her about life after him? Or did he? I came back from the class trip from Washington DC and I knew immediately by the look on my mom’s face something was wrong. Lloyd passed away while I was touring this country’s ode to patriotism. My mom, sister, and I lived with Lloyd and my Grammy after my parent’s separation and eventual divorce. I watched what happened to Lloyd and felt it, even if I was across the country when he graduated to the next experience. But I was in junior high, too young to know what that could feel like for his partner. For her. And I wonder all the time now.

    A year ago, you guided me through the butterflies at Pacific Science Center. We turned four years old. It was a day that made me feel hopeful, that reminded me of the good parts of us. The parts of us who were curious and wanted to know things. That wanted experiences. That knew we could be so much more than the life we were living. You opened a part of me that let you lead me through the butterflies even though I dislike the idea of their wings brushing my skin. We talked about what we wanted for our wedding, the idea of eloping in Muir Woods for all the obvious reasons. Even with everything going wrong, I trusted you completely. I knew we would navigate it together.

    I knew I would need today off work as I try and grapple with what it means that we could have been five today. We could have been living in this apartment I am in now, together. We could be going to family dinners on Friday, together. To the California coast on weekend trips. Walking Dottie in the park. But you died. In twelve days will be the anniversary of when I found you on our dining room floor. We were four and then we were nothing. It took my family years to get used to the idea of my grammy dying. Will it be the same way with you?

    I have been so terrified of the ways in which losing you will alter who I am. Will I ever trust anyone again? Will I always be afraid they are lying to me about their alcohol use and die? I keep telling myself I would rather be alone than settle for less than I deserve, but did losing you unreasonably raise the bar? I am working so hard to heal. And then my Grammy died. And I do not know how to hold both things at once. I feel like I am in a snow globe trying to decide which flakes to notice. There is glitter everywhere. My attention is fragmented.

    On Saturday, I completed an already scheduled Grief Art Therapy session because I knew I would need time to understand what it means that we will never turn five. I processed what it means to be in two different griefs, to not understand them as both being part of my life and how I am supposed to function. I was so in my head. My mom named on Sunday morning that her feelings need to be processed privately, not in front of others. I instantly understood something I have always felt: there is not always space for our feelings all together, the energy of our feelings together is too overwhelming. No wonder I had not cried while staying with my mother. There was somehow not space. Not on purpose. But how does one process this loss? After Grief Art Therapy, I raced back to my mom’s because her brothers were coming over to reminisce about their mother and help me write the obituary. My mom had signed me up for the obituary which makes sense. I am the writer. I had to write my Grammy’s obituary the same week we would have turned five. What is that?

    It is one of the most distinct privileges of my life to sit at my parent’s dining table with my mom and her four brothers as they remembered who their mother was, how she made them who they all are. I am upset I did not record the conversation for us all to remember. Not one of my grandmother’s children has the same experience of her. There is two decades age difference between them. My grandmother was fifteen years old when she became pregnant with the oldest, and thirty when she birthed my mother. All five of them have individual experiences of anger at my grandmother for abandonment, for the ways she did not always perfect motherhood. And those experiences are incredibly valid. Yet, all of them told stories of her kindness, of her generosity, of her quirkiness. All of them articulated how she impacted them, taught them to not judge others, to hold the complexity of multiple stories, to have Faith. For all the flaws, for all the ways she might have hurt them because we all eventually learn our mothers are humans dealing with the weight of human problems, she modeled always loving them. And they all see and feel that love. There really was nothing my grandmother was prouder of than her children. As I sat documenting and witnessing all of them tell their individual experiences of her, and add more kindling to the story-fire, I felt so aware of how proud she would be of her legacy: these five humans and the love they continue to show everyone else was her gift to all of us and to everyone who knows us. To me. And to you. It is because of my grandmother that I eventually met you. She taught me the generosity, and the love needed to hold the storyteller in us that wanted to grow past four years old. I feel I suddenly understand the answers to all the questions I wanted to ask her. It is her values that allow me to know I will survive losing you. It took losing her to learn that. Because if she could survive all that she did and still have these beautiful children, my family, to show for it, then I can survive losing you. Grammy taught me Love leads everything. And loving you is something I will always be proud of. It’s what she would have wanted.

    When I got back from the park, I made myself breakfast and then committed to being a blob all day. Except to write this, today is for feeling sad about the fact we will never turn five. Tomorrow can be for everything else.

    Grief for Grammy
    Grief for You

  • A Brick Wall

    I am overflowing and suffocating. I have felt so stuck, so unable to write. The depression is palpable, the negative bitterness spilling over from what I now see is the deep, crimson and leaded impression of pure rage. I wish I were touching the heat of a brick wall. I could dismantle the structure, feel dirt under my nails and my nails break off as I carved out the chalky and dry mortar to finally throw the bricks. I fantasize about doing this destruction often, of hearing the sound of my Rage as it reverberates off of every horrible, intrusive, and debilitating betrayal I have experienced in my life. It sounds like the heaviest xylophone falling the longest distance. An echo into forever. There is not enough cardio or weightlifting for this. Not enough words. Not enough paint. Not enough weed or alcohol. Not enough walks with Dottie or days by the pool. I am trying to climb the brick wall and the heat is singeing off my flesh, peeling away layers of my hope for the healing here. I can see parts of me stuck to the wall, remnants of my skin left to wither and die unsupported. I go places to get coffee or lunch and wonder: Can everyone here feel my seething? Rage.

    Your father wrote a poem about your mother, about his connection to her even since her passing. It was beautiful because your father is a brilliant writer and understands how to articulate longing. I read the poem and, as if reaching through time to put your hand on my shoulder, I felt you. I felt your grief. I felt the way you avoided talking about the loss of your mother. I saw you in her picture and instantly felt every piece of sadness you carried without being able to express it. And I felt your rage. For a vibrant, brief moment, my rage had someone else’s to sit next to. My rage found company. I feel rage thinking about it now. I finally understand this piece of you and you are not here to hold my hand and witness me. You died and I lost my witness. We are two shadows locked in aspects of time some fantasy novel tried to solve before. But love is still not enough in this memoir. I am exhausted having to keep learning this lesson. You died because you drank yourself to death and I cannot write you love poems. The words that come forward are so full of rage. I am scared the Rage will and is changing who I am. It’s like looking at Pandora’s Box and I know I have to open it. What will happen if someone actually sees who I become when I let the Rage come out? Will they still love me? Will I always be the parentified child who is too afraid to trust that people around me can hold all of me? Rage.

    I sobbed by the pool as I realized what you must have felt with the loss of your mother. I also sobbed as I simultaneously confronted the jealousy I have of those who can write such poems. I cannot write that poem for you. Not right now. I’m mired in fear that I might never trust anyone again. I am terrified I will be alone forever because not only do I not trust anyone, I do not trust myself. I never have and you did not help me learn how. There is history here. I picked a marriage that failed because the person did not know who they were when they married me. Before that I dated a drug addict in active heroin addiction during our relationship, a fact I did not learn until a decade later. And now you, an addict so steeped in their mental health trauma that you drank yourself to death. You said all the beautiful and correct things I needed to hear so I felt loved and trusted and adored. I wanted to believe your words, but the words of an addict leave an impression and a blank page, disappearing ink. This new version of me is exponentially more skeptical because I did not listen to myself with you. Again. Rage.  

    I was telling Randy about the Rage, about finding Rage while doing art therapy in my grief support group and about how I feel like I cannot show it to anyone. Randy then told me about the quiet his brain feels since taking an ADHD med. His description of the quiet reminded me of how it was when you started Adderall. It took forever to get the care, but you finally got prescribed last summer after being diagnosed AuDHD. The med made you so clear and you regulated your emotions with ease. You did not drink in secret. There you are, I thought. It felt like I finally had a clear picture of you, of the version of you I created my future with. As I remembered that feeling, I connected to the part of me, the Storyteller, who still feels madly in love with the man I knew was inside you. The man of my dreams. The man who was calm, intelligent, and thoughtful. The man who knew and had pain, but understood how to manage it. Who encouraged me and cheered me on. Who planned their life with me. Who wanted children with me. I feel grateful for this part, for the part of me who reminds me why I stayed. We told a beautiful story together. Until you could not get a renewed prescription because the pharmacies were out of stock. Until you died from the drinking attempting to quiet your overflowing mind. Rage.

    If my life were on film, I envision a 5 second clip that shows every warm feeling of us followed by a sprawling image of a deep, dark, cavernous Pit filled with Despair. It’s a horror movie. Aubrey Plaza is right, grief is like trying to navigate The Gorge. How can both versions of us, the good and the bad, exist in my relationship to you? I keep trying to see the depth of the gap, but there is no amount of squinting to make this clearer. I feel crazy when I try to see it all. It is with this thought I remind myself of what I tell clients all the time: “if you’re wondering if you’re crazy, the relationship is probably crazy.” Therapist Me is right.

    Rage.

  • The Storyteller and Betty

    One year ago, you asked me to marry you. It was a surprise. We had talked about it, but we were going through so much last summer with your Autistic Burnout. That you had gone through the process of securing a ring or that you would ask when you did, shocked me. On July 23, 2024, clients canceled and I had free time. The afternoon was sunny and warm, so I wanted to walk Green Lake. I was trying to walk more, a ritual I return to when I am overwhelmed. And our life had been overwhelming. You were in a cycle we were just beginning to understand, the burn out pattern of sensory overwhelm, meltdown, dissociation, and laying in dark rooms with no sound. We were both so desperate to figure it out. I threw as much resource as I could at it, found the right psychiatrist and a therapist who specialized in Autism. I read and researched everything I could find. It felt like something in your brain was short-circuiting. So, on a suddenly free and beautiful summer afternoon, I wanted to take a walk. I wanted to experience life outside our apartment, outside the space that had become an overwhelmed and depressed representation of yours and my mental health breakdown. And then, on the walk, you asked me to marry you. And I was surprised.

    My parts are still confused on how to feel about all of this and they are yelling at me. My brain is in a constant argument about what happened to me. To you. To us.

    One Part tells the story of our engagement, of how we talked about getting married, about wanting kids. This Part loves to focus on how at the location of our first date, you told me “I don’t know what the rest of my life holds, but I do know I want it to be with you.” It was so honest, and I felt seen. Everything you said acknowledged an appreciation of what I was navigating while trying to support you. I was excited and proud of how we were learning to balance the complexity of our life together. This Part of me, The Storyteller, was and is so proud to say yes to you. I knew we were figuring it out, that the metaphorical structure of support being built was the right one and would be strong.

    And then a different Part of me says firmly and with her whole chest: “But I was not sure.” And then I change directions to the part of our engagement I am embarrassed and ashamed to feel. I focus on the things I knew were wrong with us. I remember how you yelled and called me names during your meltdown the weekend before and then again on Monday. How you threatened to kill yourself. How in the Fall a couple months later, I started finding bottles of vodka. This Part, lets call her Betty, kept tabs on how exhausted and overwhelmed I was, on my depleting and declining mental health. Betty is mad at The Storyteller. Betty is the one who knew I am struggling under the weight of your mental health and that I needed help. That I needed you to get more help. That I was drowning in a problem so massive I did not know how to talk about it. I did not tell my family about most of it. My friends and therapist knew flavors, but not the extent of what we were navigating.

    I knew what was happening clinically. These episodes only happened when you were in sensory overload which, I learned, is something that happens to many Autistic folks because their brains go through synaptic pruning at a rate on average 40% less than neurotypical people. What does this mean? Autistic folks feel the world more. Your sensory sensitivity coupled with PTSD from your extensive trauma history caused you to dissociate when having a Meltdown. The pattern was predictable: after running an errand, after tutoring, always in the late afternoon. You would meltdown into a fit of rage before realizing you needed to lay down and go to sleep. In the beginning, I would have to convince you to rest, that maybe it was time to turn the lights out, put ear plugs in, and turn on rain sounds. Eventually you learned to do this for yourself. But there were times, you could not do it at all. The Meltdown was too deep and your body too overwhelmed to manage it. Those times are when you were cruel and I would leave the house with Dottie. We agreed to my doing that. We talked about what to do and created a safety plan verbally we both agreed to. We had a safe word. My leaving signaled you crossed the line and needed to go to bed. And that is always what happened. Within thirty minutes to an hour, I could come home to you asleep. Once asleep, you would sleep until the next day, your body exhausted from the overwhelm. Sometimes you needed two or three days to recover. Then something else would trigger you. This was the pattern all of 2024. But in summer we figured out the Autism of it. And some of the things we tried were working. Progress was being made.

    We always talked about it the next day. I would fill you in on the gaps in your timeline. You would apologize and we would dissect what we learned for next time. There was always accountability from you and no two incidents were ever the same. But, I was exhausted. I am still exhausted. Even now, as I am writing this post, I grew tired remembering all of it and took a break. It was and still is so much. And yes, we were stuck in a what many people would quickly label as a Cycle of Abuse. The Storyteller really struggles with this assessment, the idea that what we were doing was unhealthy. That I did not deserve the way I was treated and lied to. That I deserved better. The Storyteller thinks I am smarter than to be in that love story, the one of delusion and harm. Betty is really not sure.

    The Storyteller feels like I am betraying you to wonder about it. Because I love you more than I can imagine I ever loved anyone. I saw all of your Parts. All of the ones who were suffering and trying to get a space. The Genius who wanted a witness. The Part who was articulate, witty, intelligent, and charming. All of your Parts wanted more for you. So did All of Mine. We felt like we met because even with things being so hard, we were in that love story. The love story where all our Parts are witnessed and loved without condition, even the ones we felt shame about. The love story where our astrological charts said our souls were supposed to meet. Our Storytellers loved the narrative. I said yes because I believed in you. I believed in me. I believed in us.

    Betty: But was the story real? Or were you stuck in a fantasy?

    Fuck off, Betty.

    I feel betrayed by how much you drank in secret because it led to you hurting me in so many ways. You bailed on healing every time you drank. You stopped being able to even try to get better, started drinking more and in secret. Your Meltdowns got more severe and meaner. When you drank, I felt scared of you and what you would do. It was never physical, but I was scared of what was happening and what could happen. I struggled under the weight of it all and Betty was getting louder. As the result the of cycle we were in, I became this person plagued with self-doubt in a deeper, more extraordinary way. I ping-ponged between Betty and The Storyteller. I could not talk about my doubt because I was so afraid of everyone telling me to leave you. Leaving you felt like giving up on The Storyteller. Whether I trust her or not, The Storyteller is a part of me who wants someone to love her. Who wants happily ever after. When we tell someone to leave their relationship before they are ready, when we tell them we do not approve or that we are disappointed in their choice to stay, we ignore the Part of the person who wants to stay. Who wants everything to be different. Who knows better and is afraid to confront knowing. Who knows it is not working and still loves them. Who is very good at seeing the potential of relationships and people because growing up in a home where conflict makes the body an unsafe place means you spend time dreaming more than you do learning how to love yourself.

    One of the hardest parts of grieving you is you are not here to remind me of the Parts that felt good about us. The best part of loving you was feeling seen by you. And you are not here anymore to see me. Instead, I am alone with the experience of us to sort by myself. You are the only one that can answer my questions. Part of me wants to know why you asked to marry me when you did. Betty thinks it was manipulative. But the Storyteller is not sure. It is confusing. You died and our cycle broke. And as horrible as I felt within it, at least I knew what it was. This new place is a vast, empty dark hell. And I hate it here.

    I said yes to you because I loved you that much. And if love could be this unique and strong, we could get through anything.

    The Storyteller: You can even get through this.

    Betty: But I’m taking the reigns for the time being.  

    I think that is probably the way it is supposed to be, Betty a bit louder than the rest of my parts. And if the gift of us was I get to finally help Betty do that, The Storyteller thinks it was worth it.

  • A Maelstrom Here, a Grief Meltdown There.

    I keep looking for the words to explain the fragility of all of this, but they elude me. I write something, I read it, I edit, I delete it.

    I resided myself to participating in the things I want to, even if I have to go alone. Somewhere inside of me, I know I need to leave my house. I am so bored. I am bored of having edibles and watching tv and reading. I am bored of talking to Dottie, of sending Marco Polos to humans who care about me far away, of feeling like this. I posted recently on r/Widowers about boredom and received the most traffic on a post I ever have. Boredom was not an aspect of Grief I would think to detail, but it’s there. An unofficial stage. We should add it.

    The air is thick which feels unique to Chico. At 7:53pm it is still ninety degrees, but it feels warmer because the air is applying pressure to my skin. Humidity 41%. Not as high as in the Southern United States, but high for Chico. We are also on the overcast side of sunny which makes ninety degrees feel softer. The street is quiet. It is a Monday. The students are gone. There is very little wind. And, as I mentioned, the air is thicker than we are used to. No one likes to be outside in thick air. Except me. I am sitting on the balcony while I type this so I can feel the air awaken the cells that alert me to the feeling of density. I have missed moisture and, while different than Seattle’s, this feels comforting. It is a feeling on the outside of me aiding in the distraction from the Maelstrom happening inside of me. I have not felt this disorganized since the weeks after Jeffrey died and I am scared of it. It is consuming. I cannot focus on what I am watching and keep having to rewind things. I cannot read a sentence without rereading it. I drove around my block twice yesterday on accident.

    I am trying to live my life outside this apartment, but it is really soul shattering to carry this Grief into spaces and pretend like it is not the entirety of what I am thinking about. I have little to contribute to conversations when meeting new people because the third question after “what is your name?” and “where do you live?” is some version of “what brought you to Chico?”. I am avoiding investment in conversations with strangers because I do not have the capacity to answer this question and hold space for the responses. Do I be honest and tell them my partner died? That answer yields so much variability in responses. It stops conversations. It creates a depth of connection and intimacy with a stranger that is too overwhelming. So, do I lie? Avoid the thing I cannot avoid? This period of my life is the most socially inept I have ever felt and there are very few chapters in my life that do not include a large insecurity of social ineptitude. I run through conversations in my mind, play out the various scenarios and imagine my responses. I imagine how I will feel with each potential answer and then I am so exhausted after casting the entire skit of possibilities, I do not want to leave the house. But I leave the house anyway. I want something, anything in my life to not be about Grief. I keep looking for it. But your absence is in every fucking thing I do. The thickness of this damn air is you.

    I cried on my way to Pride. I almost did not attend because I was tired and mired in feeling the loss of you. But I went because I need to live my life and find ways to cope with this. I will keep looking for relief until I exhaust all possible solutions. As I drove to Pride, I Marco Polo’d with my sister and admitted that I was struggling with going because you are not here. I needed someone to know. I am attending this event because you died, and I have to figure out how to live my life now without you. I really cannot adequately explain how absolutely fucked that is.

    Chico is small as towns go, so you have to look harder for queer joy than you do in Seattle. Chico Pride was everything I could want it to be. I was so happy to be amongst drag queens, leather daddies, trans joy, and queer love. I wanted to attend because I miss this community. While I identify as cisgender and heterosexual, the LGBT community has always felt like family. Plus, I was married to a woman even if I did not know she was a woman the whole time. There still is not a letter for those of us with that relationship experience. A gap in our language.

    I also attended Pride with two objectives: 1) to see if I could find volunteer information with a queer organization and 2) to see if there was a queer therapist collective and introduce myself. I give myself homework when I attend things alone. I have to talk to at least one person I do not know and introduce myself to at least one other person. Two points of contact. These tasks help me mark time and give me something outside of Grief to focus on. I found the therapists first, but I feel like I botched my introduction. I had not practiced what I would say to them and the dysregulation from crying in the car translated into an awkward answer to Question Three. Hopefully they forget I exist by January 2027. That is when I can finally licensed to practice with people in California. I’ll reintroduce myself as a cool potential colleague they should definitely know/work with… I digress. I also got contact information for volunteering, whenever I decide I can do that. I left Pride after an hour, after feeling the fourth drip of sweat fall from my thighs and onto the concrete. I am not acclimated to ninety-six degrees and direct sunlight. I completed my objectives. I was done. I needed to rest before Shakespeare in the Park. I needed to ground.

    On Sunday, I attended Bonfire Storytelling, and it destroyed me. On the heels of the day before, I woke up Sunday more mired in my aloneness. I wanted to tell you about Shakespeare in the Park and ask how old you thought the sycamore tree was behind the stage. I wanted to know if you noticed we were sitting under the Big Dipper. I wanted to know if you knew Shakespeare was clearly a feminist based on Beatrice’s Monologue in Act 4, Scene 1. I wanted to know if you felt like Chico was Stars Hallow. We never got to talk about that. But, you were not there on Sunday morning because exactly 7 months before Sunday, I found you on our dining room floor not breathing. You drank yourself to death. At Pride, a woman with resources for suicide awareness told me her husband completed suicide eleven years ago. I answered her “my partner died because of drinking seven months ago and while not the same…” she cut me off and informed me “it’s the same.” I did not and do not disagree although I did not love her telling me what happened to you when I am struggling with it.

    I can feel the Maelstrom in what I am writing. This story feels all over the place. There is not a flow to it. And I keep trying to fix that, but I cannot. This story is much like what is happening to me. A choppy series of events with the only common entity being my disoriented and traumatized brain trying to see it all and remember.

    While I sat amidst my Sunday Morning Maelstrom attempting to take inventory of which thing to pay attention to, I remembered I spent money on a ticket, that I promised myself to experience my life, that I would regret not going Bonfire. So I went. I cried in the car on the way there. I stood at the edge of the room for a while before deciding to get a glass of wine and find a place to sit. I paid for the wine with cash, not realizing one of the one dollar bills had a “In Trump We Trust” stamp before handing it to the bar tender and feeling like an idiot for having such a ridiculous bill at an event that could not be less interested or less protected by our president. I found an empty seat next to two chairs with fuscia Post-Its that said Marie and Anne. “I bet they are safe”, I said to myself, “those are safe-people names”. Two women with more experience than me took Anne and Marie’s seats. We introduced ourselves. Neither Anne or Marie got to Question Three. I was right. They were safe.

    Bonfire Storytelling is structured such that one storyteller represents each decade and tells a story on theme. For this month, a person in their 20s, 30s, 40s, and so on stood on stage to tell a Pride related story to Kiss and Tell. I cried listening to young, new love blossom, to the hopefulness of those who just got married after finding themselves and their person. To the joy of finding gender, sex, and sexuality when so many systems continue to tell them not to do so. I connected to what it felt like to feel hopefulness with you and I cried for everything we will never ever be. For the kids we will never ever have. For the questions I will never ever get to ask you. For all the stories you will never ever tell me. I masked the crying well, wiping tears from my eyes before they fell down my face. I splashed cold water on my face at intermission. I took breaths of fresh, ninety-five degree air.

    The final storyteller, Decade 60s, took us through the journey of his life. He described the men he met and was not ready for, the love he looked at, grabbed, and lost. Decade 60s lost his soul mate to AIDS. As he explained grief as being like wearing gloves for protection but missing the feeling of a cold door handle, I audibly lost my breath. Anne (or Marie?) gave me a tissue. It soaked up every tear as I listened to Decade 60s explain what it is like to feel what I am feeling. To feel emptiness and weight as you move about the world. To miss Before and resent After. Then, he explained the part I do not have experience with yet, the one I keep wondering about, and am scared of. He explained what it is like to find love again but still have a hole limiting the ability to truly experience lightness as you did Before. This was the part that broke me the most. This man was so much further along in his grief journey, but still so present with its atrocity. This [motions to the space around her] is really never going away. This is forever. You died. And I am never going to be in a life without you. In fact, if I do this right, I will live more of my life without you, than I did with you. I am not getting happily ever after. I am getting [motions all around her more frantically] this. His story ended and I took inventory of how many others were crying. Quite a few, but not in the way I was. They were crying in a fear of that loss, in an extrapolation, not in the reality of it’s tessellation. There is a very big difference.

    The musical guests, vocalist Andrew Kinley and pianist Vianna Boring, performed two songs for us to complete the show. The first song was Rise Up by Andra Day. And no, I cannot make this shit up. For those who do not know the lyrics to this song, I included them below. Listening to the liquid nature of Andrew’s voice as these words wrapped around me was once in a lifetime. I feel like all I need is hope, but I am struggling to find it. I am supposed to be rising up, and I am, but I do not feel lighter or better for it. I feel emptiness all the time, even while sitting in a  room full of people who probably know this feeling better than anyone. For as much as there is Queer Joy, there is Queer Grief. In some ways, the grief is what makes the joy so much more palpable.

    The final song was Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Again, I really cannot make this up. Where is the proverbial knife twisting inside my body? Why, or why, can’t I?

    I cried the entire drive home. I cried as I parked and sent Heather a Marco Polo of me crying, of how horrible I was feeling. I cried as I thought about how many people I will inevitably to have to help and guide to understand this feeling because I am learning a lesson at 36 most people my age will not learn until they are much older than we are now. I cried because this is so unfair.

    I got it together enough to walk Dottie around the block for her final outing. We took our time. She has become very leash reactive and does not seem to trust me while on a walk. I am really working on retraining with her because I know I can do better. And while I feel like an utter failure of a pet parent, I think I can be a good dog mom. As we rounded a corner toward the backside of the block, a rainbow hovered above Bidwell Park. Because the air was thick and the sun was setting, light beams refracted color. I laughed before I started crying again. I wondered if I was bleeding out from that proverbial knife. There was nothing about yesterday that would let me escape your loss. It was everywhere I went. As if I could forget about it. As if I have a choice in the matter.

    I am starting to understand more deeply why people become addicts. Anything but this constant barrage is starting to seem appealing. And when I imagine a lifetime of you not being here, I start to wonder what I am doing this for. Then I have the first edible I have had in a couple weeks, watch an episode of Love Island, and go to bed at 9pm to start over again the next day. Maybe tomorrow will be different.

    Rise Up by Andra Day

    You’re broken down and tired
    Of living life on a merry go round
    And you can’t find the fighter
    But I see it in you so we gonna walk it out
    And move mountains
    We gonna walk it out
    And move mountains

    And I’ll rise up
    I’ll rise like the day
    I’ll rise up
    I’ll rise unafraid
    I’ll rise up
    And I’ll do it a thousand times again
    And I’ll rise up
    High like the waves
    I’ll rise up
    In spite of the ache
    I’ll rise up
    And I’ll do it a thousand times again

    For you
    For you
    For you
    For you

    When the silence isn’t quiet
    And it feels like it’s getting hard to breathe
    And I know you feel like dying
    But I promise we’ll take the world to its feet
    And move mountains
    Bring it to its feet
    And move mountains

    And I’ll rise up
    I’ll rise like the day
    I’ll rise up
    I’ll rise unafraid
    I’ll rise up
    And I’ll do it a thousand times again

    For you
    For you
    For you
    For you

    All we need, all we need is hope
    And for that we have each other
    And for that we have each other
    And we will rise
    We will rise
    We’ll rise, oh, oh
    We’ll rise

    I’ll rise up
    Rise like the day
    I’ll rise up
    In spite of the ache
    I will rise a thousand times again
    And we’ll rise up
    High like the waves
    We’ll rise up
    In spite of the ache
    We’ll rise up
    And we’ll do it a thousand times again

    For you
    For you
    For you
    For you

    Ah, ah, ah, ah

  • Presence

    I feel like I am looking into a kaleidoscope. Every turn I make I see new silhouettes, new refractions of color against the tiny mirrors. As time passes, the sun changes the shapes. Is that a rainbow or the feeling of you?

    I do not know how to write about this, the complexity and the layers to the experience leave me wanting more words to describe it. A dainty, brunette woman around my age wrapped her arm around my waist while at the Gang of Four show on Friday. She needed to move me from one place to another so she could reach her group at the front of the stage. I can feel it now, her hand sliding from my left hip across my back as she parted my dad and me so she could continue her journey. I watched her touch everyone in my line of sight the same way so I know I did not misconceive the feeling. Time slowed down. Why did she touch me like that? Do I still have my things? I felt for my purse. Still clasped. I do not know why anyone would steal from me at a show like this. Then, a memory of you touching my waist poured itself into my body like wet, heavy sand. People do not touch my waist without permission. No one has touched me like that since you did. I shattered.

    Outside the trains don't run on time
    He believes it's not coincidence

    Jon King reminds me why I am at this show, to see him and this band. To see the energy he has been bringing to vocalizing post-punk anthems since 1976. This is the first time my dad is seeing Gang of Four after listening to them contour his young adulthood. This is the first time I am seeing a concert like this with my dad, as an adult child hanging out with her adult dad. As an adult in my life without you. We are in San Francisco at the Chapel. Only 500 people are experiencing this tonight. I want to be here with them. But I am having a panic attack. Because a woman touched me around the waist and no one has touched me there since you did. No one touches my waist without permission.

    I got this demon on my back every day
    It’s the hope that will not fade

    Tears stream down my face and I close my eyes. I feel my heart reverberate in my chest as music folds around me like the fog this city is famous for. I feel both cold and warm. I feel my sore feet anchoring my body to the Earth. I flex them to give relief to their screaming. I feel my stiff legs wondering why I am still standing after a Peloton workout and 15,000 steps. My body can do amazing things. I am breathing. I count to four and inhale. I count to four and exhale. I hum the words I do not know and remember you cannot have a panic attack while singing. I do not know all the words the way I wish I did. I make up words.

    Blinkered, paralysed
Flat on my back
My ambitions come to nothing
What I wanted now just seems a waste of time
I can't make out what has gone wrong
I was good at what I did

    I cannot stop the tears streaming down my face and I wonder if I need to go outside. The cold air would feel so lovely. But people would see me. And I do not want to tell them why this is happening. Explaining your death to strangers is a gamble I do not have the bandwidth for. Why would she touch me there? No one has touched my waist since you did. No one touches my waist without permission. If I go outside, my dad will know something is wrong. It is not that I do not want him to know. I am not afraid to show him I am shattering, that the kaleidoscope is stuck in a rotation I cannot stop. But I do not want to ruin this once-in-a-lifetime experience for him. The members of this band are in their late-60s and early-70s. Two of the original members have already passed. This is their last tour. To see all of Entertainment! played in its entirety is a privilege. To be here in this city, at this venue, and with my dad is a gift. They say one of the quietest places on Earth is in the Hoh Rainforest in Washington State. They say when you are there you can hear the trees breathing. I am striving for that level of presence. I want to bathe in my own wonder of how my life got me here. I want to feel it all.

    I also do not want to ruin this once-in-a-lifetime experience for me. I battle on. I am so angry another woman did this to me. Girl Code died. And yet, I do not want to let her win. To let grief win. Because I want to hear the trees breath. I want to feel this music in my body and notice how the audience is the same age as my dad and wonder how long these grown men have worn that matching pair of perfectly crimson pants. I want to feel anything other than what I have felt for months. I want to remember what it is like to not feel consumed by your absence. Why did she touch me there? I am in a room full of people and in an experience entirely alone. No one has touched my waist since you died. No one touches my waist without permission. Keep singing, Natalie. You can’t have a panic attack when you’re singing.

    Look at me, ain't I fine
Brand new me, dig my mine
I parade myself

    The show wraps with an encore of Damaged Goods, played already in the first set, but again for us. A second bite of tiramisu. A replay of Sound of Music. A second chance we often miss in living. A second chance I am not getting with you.

    Sometimes I'm thinking that I love you
But I know it's only lust
The change will do you good
I always knew it would
You know the change will do you good

    This is when I have the thought I scribbled down in the Notes app of my phone: Is “total presence” the blessing of your death? I feel so acutely aware the moments of my life are passing by, that I am doing what I need to do to survive them. I feel robbed of my hope for Gang of Four because a woman I do not know touched my waist without permission. I am angry another woman did this to me. I know, I know she was probably high on something where touching feels appealing. Yet, even with that generous interpretation of her behavior, she should not have touched me without permission. She robbed me of my first time letting someone touch my waist since you died on my own terms. She took something important from me I can never get back. I do not know how to make that make sense. The kaleidoscope keeps changing the shapes of your shadow, of your light. Is that a rainbow or the feeling of you?

    I experienced every second of that show as best I could. I stayed in it. Present. I saw a couple grow closer together as they bobbed their heads in unison. I observed the blonde in front of me get looser with each refill of her wine. I saw Hugo Burnham’s smirky grin as he banged on his drums despite breaking his leg and cancelling a show a few days earlier. I got to see my dad the way he probably was before and even just after I was born, a once upon a time 20-something wondering with awe how he got here. My dad also tries to listen to the trees breath. We are the same that way. What a beautiful life indeed.

  • Grief Goblins

    Tonight I finished the third season of Lincoln Lawyer. We started it when you were alive, finished the first episode but did not get further. I really enjoy this show and I so enjoyed hypothesizing the scenarios for the ending with you. I know the cases will all come together, that the cast of characters and a pug will figure out how to get the innocent person saved. But I never know how the saving will unfold and am always pleasantly surprised.

    As another intense cliff hanger ended the season, I felt the strongest urge to know what you thought about it. My brain imagined asking you. Tears started to form in my eyes as I felt the missing of you, the intense empty space where you used to sit on our couch. Then, at the exact moment I registered how much I missed you, I also felt a feeling that caused my heart to heat up and I knew immediately what it was. I felt the feeling of love and the glow of adoration for you. I have not felt that feeling in so long, I think I forgot about it. It was… everything. The brightest, softest and briefest light. I tried to sit in the feeling but as brilliant as it felt, it faded, the grief goblin taking his fill.

    Registering the warmth, I started crying in deep sobs disturbing enough for Dottie to come lay on my chest and start incessantly licking my face. She somehow knows the distraction will help me to catch my breath, to start focusing on breathing. I do what I do when she does this and start counting breaths in and out, keeping rhythm while I pet her so I can attempt to relax both of us. It works.

    Lately during my Peloton workouts, I start sobbing on the bike, mid-workout. I cannot really figure out why, although I know it makes sense that it is happening. The crying is never at the same time, during the same style workout, or triggered by something said. I’ll be climbing some hill, out of breath, sweaty, and trying to beat the fastest person even though I never do, and an overwhelming feeling of sadness consumes me. And, no, I am not describing a feeling that believes “this is so good I am crying”. My crying is a feeling whispering in a mothering voice, “this life has been so incredibly difficult for you. And that part, the part of it being so difficult is really, really sad.” I find this entire experience confusing. Why while working out, during my endorphins capture, is my body releasing the darkest of feelings? I cannot even work out without Grief saying hello? Really?

    I told my therapist today I have a very strong instinct to feel this experience I am having, that I do not want to biohack my grief. There are so many somatic therapies that could and probably eventually will help me heal the trauma living within me. But part of me just knows I need to feel all of this, to study its impact on me, to learn what my body can do to heal itself and help me through this. Sometimes I feel like that is positive side of losing you, even though that feels incredibly horrible to say. Is there a positive side of any of this? If there is, it is that I am getting to know myself in a way I never would have without you dying. It is humbling, to say the very least. I told my therapist it is ironically the least anxious I have ever felt. Go fucking figure.

  • Five Seconds

    I keep trying to remember the details of what happened when I found you on the dining room floor, but I cannot remember it all and it is frustrating. I walked in, I found you on the floor. I called emergency services. I told them you were not breathing, my name, and my address. The first person transferred me to another person. I told the new person you were not breathing, my name, and my address. It seemed like a waste of time to repeat myself, but there was no time to question it. The person on the phone talked me through how to do CPR and counted with me as I pressed as hard as I could on your chest. I remember them telling me to speed up a bit and I followed their guidance. I remember hearing the sirens. I remember Dottie’s scared, shaky body under the dining table. I remember the man standing with me in the kitchen documenting every action taken on a laptop. I remember all of our furniture strewn about the apartment, part of the coffee table in the kitchen and another part behind the couch. I remember the dining table shoved against a wall. I remember one paramedic opening our windows to let in the cool November air.  I remember them hanging an IV bag from the hook in the middle of our ceiling. The hook was used for a blanket fort, I explained to everyone in the room who could hear me because for some reason I felt I needed to explain a hook in the middle of the ceiling. Cringe.

    I remember your vomit still on the floor where I found you. I remember them calling out to each other as each round of CPR and electric stimulation to your heart completed. I remember questions about what I knew about your circumstances. I remember listing out all your medications and health conditions, your age, and family history. I remember telling them the things I knew about the timeline, that you had been depressed and anxious with the election, that you were drinking more. I remember telling them sincerely I was not aware of any drinking other than the half-empty pint bottle on our dining table when I found you. That the amount of alcohol I found did not make sense for what I was seeing. I did not know then how many bottles I would find around our home when I moved. I did not know you lied to me as much as you did.

    I remember texting my mom, dad, Heather, and Randy that I found you not breathing. I remember one paramedic yelling down to someone in one of the two fire trucks that they had recovered a heartbeat, that they needed a gurney. I remember my mom calling as I told a different paramedic which medications you were taking, that I was sure you took them because I checked the pill sorter and Friday Morning was gone. I remember sending my mom to voicemail and texting her that I could not talk. I remember seeing Scott, our apartment manager, standing in the hallway and him mouthing to me “is everything okay?”. I remember telling him things were not okay. I remember a paramedic telling me they would need to take you to the emergency room, that I could ride in the ambulance. I remember debating whether I needed to grab my backpack or not and deciding to take it with me.

    I remember so many things. So many. But I do not remember how emergency services got inside our home. Did I let them in? If I let them in, that means I stopped CPR on you. Would that have happened? Did I stop trying to save you to let other people try to save you? Did I leave the door unlocked? It does not shut without the deadbolt, and I cannot imagine a habit I formed after eight years of locking that door did not happen on this day. But then again, I do not remember letting anyone in. So maybe I intuitively left it unlocked. Maybe they let themselves in through magic EMTness? I do not remember the seconds after I stopped CPR and someone took over. I remember them bringing you from the dining room to the living room, but not how they got to you. It bothers me. I wake up in the middle of the night and think about it. How did the emergency response team get inside? It could not be more than five seconds of time. Five seconds that continue to haunt me alongside everything else.

    Recently during a session with a client, they processed how nice it was to sleep separately from their partner. As they detailed the deepness of their sleep, the ability to read instead of watch television, I asked questions to help them develop more insight into the benefits of sleeping solo. Then, with the sharpness of a shard of glass, a flashback of you reaching across the bed to touch my shoulder as I tossed and turned interrupted my focus. The heat of tears filled my eyes. I pinched my arm with my fingernails, attempting to refocus on my client. I took deep, intentional, counting breaths. I could not feel the depth of how much I missed you while in session with a client. I could not start crying. I am a therapist, and this moment with my client was not in any way about me. I recovered, and nothing gave away my human, grieving, unideal moment. I did not miss a beat in my questions, in my reflections, in my mirroring. But it happened. I felt you right there in the room with me. And I missed you. I missed us. The way we knew the other was not sleeping well. The way we reassured each other we were not alone by touching the shoulder. A comfort in the night. I miss it.

    My last touch with you is touch you were not alive for. I do not know how to rectify that with my present reality. I run through what happened in an attempt to grasp it, like capturing pathetic fireflies in a jar, but my jar has holes. I keep hoping your death will settle in so I can feel anything else, but then I get stuck in five seconds I cannot remember about the last time we touched. They are five seconds I may never remember and it feels unfair. I want a rewind and replay option. Instead, I sit here as a cool breeze brings relief to warm temperatures to which I am not yet acclimated, wearing a Sierra Nevada t-shirt you got me from a delivery driver while at The Duchess. How am I here, and you are this entity that only exists in my memory? My memory minus five seconds. It is maddening.

  • Muscle Memory

    Last night, something funny and endearing happened on Big Bang Theory. I’m watching the series through because I have never seen it and I need dumb, low-stakes television. I turned to see if you also thought it was funny, my brain tricking me for a split second into thinking you were seated in your usual seat on the couch, but you were not there. You died. I lost language as I gasped for air between tears, attempting to recover from the impact of Grief Whiplash punching me in the gut. It took 93 days for me to look for you in the same room, a sadistic muscle memory and a refreshing reminder that I was not always devastated by you.

  • Bend

    When I cry, Dottie jumps into my lap and lays her chest on mine, her paws at the exact points where I imagine my lungs process oxygen and release carbon dioxide. This causes me to catch my breath, the pressure of her paws activating my Vagus nerve as tears fall on her tongue. It is never very long before my sobs stop. Dottie then moves off of me to sit guarding me diligently from a different angle of the room. I wish I could convey to Dottie how much it means to me that she is here dealing with me. Let this stand as an official note of my gratitude, not that she will ever know it.

    I canceled my workday on Tuesday because I could not stop crying. Before logging in for my own therapy, tears fell down my face. I knew at some point I would need to cancel work to cry, so I guess I have done that now. I described to my therapist how it felt to pack up mine and our life in five days. I explained how the sun was out for the entire trip until the last day. I expressed an incredible and inadequate amount of gratitude for my mom and Phil helping me. Then I sobbed as I described how stupid I felt finding the first, the second, the fifth, and the tenth bottle of vodka hidden in my home. Ten found in my home since the day you died. Ten. As I sit writing this in a new apartment in a new state, I still feel like I will find them and noticed I brace for impact when I open a drawer. I hope that stops.

    Yesterday, I had a massage with the masseuse who also does Reiki. She described feeling a lot of confusion as she focused on my heart chakra. “Yes, that’s about right” I muttered choking back tears. I am so confused. I feel like our relationship was not real. I can tell myself all the logic of why you hid so much alcohol in our home, of why you concealed it from me, from yourself, but I still feel like an idiot. While you lay unconscious in the hospital room, I told your family I thought things were getting better, but now I know just how much they were not. A bottle of vodka hit me in the face as your father and I pulled your clothes out of the closet to sort them. A bottle was hidden behind the recipe books. In a backpack. In a jacket. Under the bed. In a hat. In another hat. In the sock drawer. Your bedside table. Between couch cushions. I feel crazy. When was all of this happening while I lived and worked from our home?

    I am jealous of those who lose their loved ones, and they get to be angry because they died. Because the illness won. Because… insert any reason not related to killing yourself through alcohol overdose into the blank space here: _________________________. I hate myself for feeling jealous or admitting it. Loss is profound, unique, devastating, and breathtaking for everyone. I know that. I keep wondering if you even loved me or was I the gullible optimist who provided somewhere safe to stay? Would we ever have created our own family? Gotten married? Found happily ever after? I do not see how any of that would be possible with the secrets you kept and my senseless naivety. You died, and now I wonder these things. What would it be like to not have to wonder? I will never know. You will never ever be here to again reassure me the way you used to. Instead, I sit here with Dottie on my chest, trying to remember how to breath so I can mitigate another panic attack.

    I set aside your clothes I thought would make an interesting quilt. Your dad helped me go through your closet and told me stories about the memories he had with you in the clothes he knew. The bike race here. The camping trip there. A shirt from your mom’s race. A New Orleans Saints t-shirt. A Loyola sweatshirt. Shirts with bright bold patterns like you liked. Shirts I bought you. Shirts you kept that did not fit. They are sitting in a box marked “KLEENEX, SHEETS, ETC”. I am too angry and devastated to consider making something in your honor yet. I trust that this feeling will evolve, but right now, it is smothering me and I hate you for it.

    To quote Middle Kids song “Bend”:

    I am one bend away from a break

    I am one step away from the precipice of crazy

    I am holding all the pieces in place

    But maybe you’ve got to break me to see what I’m made of