Lately, it seems as if any and every project I have going on is halfway there, with no completion in sight. There’s the half-finished garden path Sarah and I are installing, a fence we are putting in around the vegetable area, still half-built, a half-stained deck, a “mostly” painted bedroom, and one of three cars has been cleaned and waxed for spring. At work, it’s much the same. It is constantly busy, but nothing is completed other than minor computer problems that I fix on a day to day basis.
I’ve taken a few weekend trips to the woods over the past few months, and half of those were cut short because, well, I just came home. My big personal project, filming and producing videos with the intent of sharing useful knowledge and experience to those who would like to take their own trips to the woods has stalled, totally.
I need to complete something. Anything, really, that’s bigger than a five minute task. Ultimately, my life has been a series of constant projects that get “almost there”, but not quite. Including my marriage to Megan.
In honor of Sarah’s late-fiance’s birthday, I’ve decided to write him a letter, man to man. It’s something I haven't done in awhile, and today, of all days, seems most appropriate.
So, today’s your birthday. It’s kinda hard to believe you would have been only 33 years old. You had way too much left to do. Hell, you were just getting started.
Anyway, enough with all the “far too young” and “taken too early” crap. You know as well as I do it’s all cliches and fluff that people spout off when they don’t know anything else to say. Point is, you got to experience some pretty damned cool things in your life, and with a damned good woman by your side for the last few years of it. That’s more than a hell of a lot of people can ask for.Read more
Way back when I started writing here for Soaring Spirits, I had posited a statement that when “my switch flips from suffering to determination, it is simply not possible to feel more powerful”. At the time, that was related precisely to losing Megan, and wading through the grief until I finally got up off of the couch, wiped the snot off of my face, and got to work.
I felt as if I could power through anything. A workout. A stressful day at work. Chores at the home or a general busy day. I quit feeling sorry for myself, effectively pulling my widow card as an excuse to be lazy, and breezed through anything with ruthless efficiency.
For the past year or so though, I felt as if I aged 10. I’m sore, tired, slow, and gaining weight. I’ve let the doldrums of everyday life evolve into a bad thing, and my determination, initiative, and drive has slowly waned.
I was “suffering” from complacency, not loss or grief.
The switch had flipped.Read more
Megan’s younger brother will be having a little boy sometime around late July, right around her birthday. He’s getting married in October, just after my birthday. Shelby is ten now, getting her straight A’s and growing like a weed. This past sunday, Sarah, Shelby and I attended a baby shower for two friends that were originally close to Megan (they both have Cystic Fibrosis), but who were there for Shelby and I through her rejection. They and Sarah have also begun forming a strong friendship, as they have welcomed her into our lives, and there's an underlying feeling that they have known each other forever.
Recently, there has been an ongoing parade of happy news and big milestones from persons that were close to Megan. Persons that are close to me. I cannot imagine Megan being anything other than ecstatic...
...and it sucks in a way.Read more
It’s no secret lately that I share my outlooks, experiences, and emotions with ruthless integrity, perhaps bordering upon over-sharing that information. Private anecdotes become public, once a week, as I write here. The quiet grumbles or “bad moods” that friends and family may see me in become soap-box seminars when it is in digital form on the internet. They morph into baring my very soul for all to see on a blog, when in person, the only indication of stress or deep thought may be the distinct lack of my underlying sillyness.
Suppose that it is the anonymity then, that brings forth this behavior. Barring Sarah, no one hears or sees my “grief” emotions via an attentive look in the eye or a cupped ear. It is only through your screen, dear reader, that I share my life and its many complexities. A simple electronic series of ones and zeros that organize themselves into something that a grieving person may need to read, even if it is only a “me too” thought or a “wow, at least I’m not THAT bad” comparison.
My writing here, initially, was simply allowing a bleeding wound to flow freely. Allowing it to flow into the deepest corners of the room and drip onto anyone nearby. I let the pain out by screaming it to the world. As time has progressed, the bleeding has slowed...the wound of Megan’s actual death is all but closed. Writing has become more of an examination of old scars.Read more
I’m a mess lately. Around the start of this past holiday season, I began regressing to a point where I am again a cynical, grumpy, and in general, angry person. It has nothing to do with Sarah, Shelby, work, or even the holidays, really. It truly does have everything to do with the fact that Megan is no longer here.
It’s not her death, specifically though, that caused this descent into a person I once was. It’s the remembrance of where she and I were at this time of year, not long before her death. It's the knowing that there were things that we were “working on” that were quite obviously put on hold when her organ rejection appeared. It’s the sense of any progress we had made being “all for naught” upon her death.Read more
Just two weeks ago, I wrote of a friend that was, at the time, fighting for her life in the ICU, hoping for a lung transplant. She was on death’s door, and no one could guess if she would make it another week, waiting for a donor.
I am happy to say, that, as of yesterday, she received her transplant. A call came in late in the night on Sunday, and by 8:00 AM, she was being wheeled into surgery. That’s all well and good. It’s great news, in fact. It’s one less person that is going to die from Cystic Fibrosis this week. I witnessed Megan’s brother Jason in almost the exact same state, back in 2005. He didn’t make it. I witnessed Megan in almost the exact same state in 2011. She DID make it. It’s always hit or miss, but in this particular case, it was a “hit”.
But. There’s always a “but”.Read more
When you are a widow or widower, and you’re dating, It truthfully doesn’t matter how “good” you think things are going. There will always be some aspect of your new relationship that becomes amplified quite simply BECAUSE you are a widow/er. It may be a perceived slight in comparison to how your pror person treated a situation, or it may be an observation that your “second chapter” (I hate that term, by the way) actually does something better or more desirable than your first. It can be good, or bad; it doesn’t matter, it’s amplified.
Each time one of these moments arises, one can’t help but think “well, it wouldn’t be this way if my first person hadn’t died”. It can bring up emotions that are deep seated, yet hidden. Emotions that you did not know even existed, and perspectives that you had never thought about.
One of these moments occurred between Sarah and I on Sunday night, where we both were trying to explain ourselves clearly and with love, yet emotions only continued to rise.Read more
The other day I received a text message from a friend of mine, who happens to have Cystic Fibrosis herself. This friend was there for Megan and I when Megan was going through her 6 month decline, and I can’t describe enough how she (and her husband) went above and beyond for us.
They would visit at the drop of a hat, when I just needed an hour away from the ICU, and Megan needed an hour away from my ugly mug. They would bring clandestine snacks for Megan when she had cravings, as she almost never had an appetite, but when she did, she needed broccoli and cheese soup (I can no longer stand the smell) or M&Ms RIGHT NOW.
I spoke with her every day during Megan’s hospitalization, giving her status updates, vital statistics, and news. She would get all the gory details, and, if I happened to be running late with the call, I would get a text not long after, asking how Megan was doing. She really did care whole-heartedly.Read more
It’s 2017. This is the 35th time that my body has traveled around the sun on this little rock called earth. In those 35 trips, I’ve been witness and participant to milestones of education and career, love and marriage, childbirth and parenting, sickness, and death. I’ve seen friendships both grow and wither. I’ve evolved from a curious child, to an outgoing teenager, then a determined Marine, followed by a devoted husband and father, on through to a caretaker, and then...a widower. I volunteered my twenties and early thirties to the life of a woman that I knew would not be with me to old age. We created a beautiful child that anyone would be proud to call their own.
Two years ago, on the first day of 2015, that life had abruptly come to an end. I was no longer a husband, but rather, a widower. My years of education and youthful curiosity were far behind me, a relic of my adolescence. I was beyond the pride that came with earning the title of Marine, for my country deemed me too old to serve by that point. My caretaking services, as sharpened and experienced as they were, were no longer needed in the advanced capacities they were capable of.Read more