"I want my old life back."
I've heard a lot of widowed people say that, as I have, and continue to, some days.
I miss a lot of little things about being married to Mike. It was a comfortable, familiar life, after nearly 14 years of marriage. I can still hear him shuffling across the tile floors, whistling. The refrigerator door opening and closing. The toilet flushing. His computer game blips coming from his room, or the strum of an ukulele from the porch. Maybe his truck pulling up outside after a run to the dump. The thwack of an arrow hitting his archery target outside.Read more
Last weekend a friend who is dear to me and was dear to Mike since nearly the day we moved to Kona in 2001 had a terrible asthma attack. This young man was 11 when we met him. He is now 25, so we have seen him grow up into a young adult. He and his mom were devoted students of Mike’s for many years in martial arts, and since his father was not present in his life, they became like family very quickly. Mike’s death has just wrecked them both, I know, and it has been a long journey of grief for all of us, losing his powerful and reassuring presence in our lives.Read more
I spent a day unearthing minute details of Dave's death the other day. Not because I wanted to, but because I had to.
The manner in which his death was hastened has a lot to do with the care he had and that has led to an investigation of sorts. It came to a head last week and I felt the physical blow which accompanies the rehashing of the day he died.
I felt my brain try to reject the awful visuals this information brought up. His last moments were not with his loved ones.
I was driving home from work recently, singing along to the radio in my own little world, when I passed a car the exact same model and colour as my husband's. Next thing I knew I was instantly transported back to That Day.
The last time I saw my husband, 11 months ago, was around 8am as he kissed me goodbye and left for work. But he didn't go to work that morning, he drove an hour away from our home, parked his car in a hotel car park, checked in and took his life.Read more
The other day, I was watching the Yankee game, and the Yankees were playing at home, against the Seattle Mariners. Now, if you know anything at all about baseball or the Yankees, you might know that Robinson Cano left the Yankees at the end of last season, and signed on with the Mariners. It is complicated and has to do with contracts and negotiations and things, but the bottom line is that Cano got a better offer, so he left. Yankee fans are pretty split on how they feel about Cano - some think he is being disloyal to the Yankees by leaving for money, others say "I don't blame him. I'd take the money too. There's no loyalty left in sports anyway." I tend to agree with those people, and I know my husband would have too. He would have said:"Good for him." So, during the game, the first time Robinson Cano came up to bat at Yankee Stadium, in a Mariners uniform - there was lots of booing. The Yankee fans booed him. I was watching the game alone, in my bedroom, and as I heard the chorus of boos, I looked to my right and said out loud to nobody: "Awww, honey. I don't like that they are booing him. Real fans would give him an ovation to recognize the incredible talent he added to our team." There was no response. Why would there be? My husband is dead, and generally speaking, dead people can't take part in commentating baseball games.Read more
In the hospital, suffering from myocarditis, Dave accidentally pulled the heart pump out of his vein. This meant that he'd have to have a new heart pump inserted. Instead, while waiting to get the new pump, he crashed. That heart pump had been helping his terribly damaged heart keep plugging along and without it his vitals went downhill fast.
The doctors threw everyone else out of the room and I never saw Dave conscious again. From that room, he was transported by ambulance to a bigger hospital where they had better technology. I wasn't able to ride in the ambulance with him. He died in that ambulance.
I just finished looking through our pictures again. Sometimes, fearing I've imagined my former life, I need proof that it all really happened. Italy, our house rehab, Hawaii, Yellowstone, the hundreds of pics you took of your beloved students scrolled before my eyes. I sobbed and sobbed, scaring the cat with the sounds of my heart breaking, and what I really wanted to do, what I wish I could do, was smash everything in the room to pieces.
I wanted to feel my fist connect with glass and hear it shatter, with the drywall and feel it crumble under my fist. I wanted to throw the computer to the ground and stomp on it until it’s in countless pieces. I wanted to scream and scream and scream.