Wilted Lettuce

I threw away the last of the flowers today… and the wilted shredded lettuce that I told him to grab the night before. My blue nail polish is faded and chipped from the July 4^th vacation. The house resembles an ordinary life. The laundry is still in baskets in the laundry room. The open toothpaste container is still next to the sink. The phone charger is still on his side of the bed. A single lottery ticket is propped in his car’s cup holder. His phone will occasionally ring. I can put the television on now. I moved his ‘important papers’ pile. I am moving within a space we called ‘ours’. I left the house last week. I left the house last week to go to the mall. I left the house last week to go to the mall to buy a funeral dress. It’s a time like no other when the living world touches the grief world. It’s as though you can almost hear the crash. Eye contact is non-existent. Things need to be accomplished but you only want to retreat back to your safety net. If you have ever lost someone very special to you, then you already know how it hurts, and if you haven’t, then you cannot possibly imagine it. But, unfortunately, someday you will. You see, there is a club that you never want to join. But you will one day. When just one person is missing, the entire world feels empty. We will all feel it at one time in our lives. It’s God’s funny way of reminding you what is important. “Every love is carved from loss. Mine was. Yours is. Your great-great-great-grandchildren's will be”. And you move, even when moving is all that you can do. Moving without a plan and moving within a stillness that has no description. When you look at the world through tears, you see things that dry-eyes cannot see or feel. Immediately nothing matters; not the bills; not the laundry; not the workouts; not the vacuuming. Nothing. So you take a step forward…and then another step…and the next thing you know you have another day coming to a close. But you count them, much like a new mother counts the days of her newborn. Two weeks. We are at two weeks. Our loss is two weeks old. In 16 years I have never gone two weeks without seeing him. I have never gone more than 24 hours without talking to him. So I listen to the one text message from months ago saved in my voicemail just to remember what my past sounded like. It’s amazing what people can accomplish when tears are streaming down their faces.

I spent 8 hours, without sleep, writing the hardest story I have ever written. I had to write the most important story of all true stories. All the English classes in the entire world do not teach you how to write the obituary of your husband. The story of a man who left us years and years before he should have. I wanted to simple say: “Wally Christopher Kelly left this world on the night of July 11, 2019 and this is complete BULLSHIT!”. He always said I never listened to him. He always rambled on and on about things he had accomplished in his life. I have rolled many an eye to the stories he so loved to tell. Well, guess what honey, I listened. I remembered. I remembered the stories through a foggy brain and a shattered heart. It’s odd when your ‘co--rememberer’ is gone. Sixteen years of ‘inside stories’, kindergarten graduations, little league championships, family vacations, nights dancing in a Hawaiian hurricane, new business ventures together, room service in bed, our favorite restaurant in New York, our secretly despising the same people, the snowstorm of 2008 when we felt like the only people in the city, knowing exactly how each day begins and ends, and then… dissecting it. And then you realize you are the only one left that has that memory bank. I didn’t plan on doing this thing called  life without him. Muhammad Ali said that every fighter has a plan until they get hit. We got a one-two punch smack in the face.

There are images of Jackie Kennedy standing on the tarmac when her husband was assassinated. Pillbox hat. Blank state. Deflated. Unless you’ve known sudden and devastating loss I do not think that you can relate to that image. A picture says a thousand words and that photo says what words cannot describe. Deflated. Crushed. I read the funeral program today. Two weeks later. I am sure that I read it that day. I don’t remember. A gauntlet of grace from friends and family surrounded me, but my only thought was inhaling and exhaling. I have never experienced this in my life. The ability to be present but not. I remember thinking that it hurt to smile. I could hear myself breathing in and out and not much more than that. I wanted soft places like bed, pillows, arms, or laps, not the sterile reality of a wooden church pew.  I remember not having the strength to wipe the tears rolling down my face.

I know the sound that a heart makes when it breaks. It does not simply hurt inside one’s chest. It crumbles and thrashes. It wells up inside. It explodes with ferociousness. It is felt to the ends of your fingertips. It shakes. It wipes away worries and thoughts and plans and steals you of your strength. It leaves you lying on the floor begging God to wake you up from your horrible dream. It makes you remember and forget all at the same time. It makes your brain race through every memory both good and bad. It makes you replay and replay every word said to each other that last time together. It makes you retrace their steps in hopes of feeling them again. It makes you light candles. It makes you sit in silence. It makes you scream and curse at them for making you do the rest of life’s crap alone. It makes you look directly into the face of the ugliest giant there ever was. It makes you mad that the world is moving forward but you are stuck. See, when great hearts break they make a sound that you will never forget; a sound that feels like silence mixed with commotion. They say when you die your entire life flashes before your eyes; a broken heart causes the same results. It makes you see yourself from the outside looking inward. It makes you want to comfort the person that you see. It makes you watch this person that you know to be you but do not recognize. It has brought many a great man to their knees. It makes you pray to a greater God for the ability to stand when your knees are giving out. When a heart breaks it gets confused with what to do with the empty space within it. They say that the chemicals in tears when a loved one dies are not the same chemicals as in other tears. I tasted one (lots actually). They are different. They drip in my mouth sometimes when I am just too numb to grab a tissue.

I can’t begin to describe the feeling of the funeral. I sat among hundreds and hundreds of friends and family representing a life well lived. The service conducted around me, but I only heard myself talking to my husband. I watched him as he was placed in the front of the aisle of the church. I told him that this room was filled with all of his connections he made for the last 62.11 years. I have never felt more loved and alone; of which these words have no space within the same thought. I asked him why. I cursed him. I thanked him.

One-week prior we were on the streets of Coronado, California watching the Fourth of July parade. I watched the videos last night. I listened to him talking in the background. It was our tradition. It was part of ‘what we did’ every year. Little did I know that one week later I would be sitting in a church back office picking out psalms for his funeral. I heard it. I replayed it. Over and over. There in the background I hear his voice. My phone is recording the bagpipes marching down the street. I don’t remember the conversation at all, but it is there as my witness. I say, “Honey, we could have bagpipes at your funeral” (another inside banter we had following the death of his mother). “Now that would really hit the ball out of the park” he replied. One week later four pipers marched my husband out of the church…son holding his urn…blessed by our priest. You see, life does not fucking prepare you for this bullshit. Goddamnit!!!! Why the fuck? I don’t want or need these lessons in my life, God!

As I sit here and write this I know that he is still with us, although he is placed behind me in a beautiful blue urn, surrounded by mementos of his life. A life well lived. We feel him move around the house. I haven’t been able to let anyone in my/our bedroom. I told my Ashley that I feel like he is in there. An energy. I laughed when I told her that I am keeping him trapped in there and not letting him out. She replied that he would hate that. “I know”, I said. I know. God dammit, I KNOW! I know too much about this person. I hear him. I feel him guiding me. CS Lewis wrote, “As if God said, “Good; you have mastered that exercise. I am very pleased with it. And now you are ready to go on to the rest…”. But God, I needed him here. HERE! My only comfort is thinking about why God reached down and pulled him from us. I can only imagine that a man with so much power and drive and larger than life personality down here with us would only be just as strong of a powerful force up there…as he watches over us…and writes the next chapter of our lives under his direction.

Mother's Day Guilt

I think there’s a reason why I finally developed those videos sitting in a dusty box labeled “To Do” in my linen closet. I think there’s a reason Parker asked where the videos were, of him as a baby. I believe greater forces are pulling us in directions in which we are unaware. I know my mom and grandmother are directing my life from somewhere above the clouds… directing events to occur at just the right time. I clicked the envelope on the screen from the online memory company, which developed my memories. They say you can never go back, so enjoy the times while you live them. Bullshit, I pressed the cursor and immediately was sitting in a living room at 29 years old, in a home somewhere in Plano, Texas, surrounded by the theme of motherhood. They say when people die they get a birds eye view of their body from above and can watch their loved ones surrounding them in their final moments. I felt the bird’s eye view as I inspected every inch of my surroundings in the video on the screen. What was I wearing? What are the kids doing? How did I decorate? Was the house clean? Who was I? What was I thinking? Was I overwhelmed or tired? Was dinner on the stove? I spent hours watching my life. I spent hours watching what I forgot for the last 20 years. Did the girl on the screen know the adventure she was about to embark on? Was she even worried about that at all? I have read many ‘Letters To Self’ that people create in their blogs. I have read stories from older women and what they would tell their younger self if they could. I was overwhelmed with thoughts as I watched our long lost home videos. I wanted to tell the young mom in the video so many things that she had no idea were occurring or going to occur at the time of filming. Was my younger self just being a new mom and focused on the present or was she too tired to think past each day? I can only imagine how I felt when I hear myself say on the video to the kids, “Grandma left today” following her helping me with my new baby. There I was on a couch somewhere in Plano, Texas with a 4 year old, a one year old, and a three-day-old baby.  Now what? I watch with anxiety but I didn’t appear anxious at the time. I watch with worry although there was no worry in sight on the video. As I view the tape I am filled with more anxiety and worry than I had at the time. Was she going to do it the right way? Would everyone feel loved? Will she not fuck this up? “Why isn’t she worried”, I say to the screen. “Why isn’t she hugging them harder or picking up her two year old when she asks”. Goddamnit Amy! They want things from you and you didn’t hear the request…. It’s hard to watch your younger self maneuver an ordinary day. My father used to say, “If I knew then, what I know now…”. True! If she only knew what I know now! If she only knew then she would know that there would be a day some 20 years later when she is watching herself on a screen in a kitchen that she will cry. If she only knew that she would be alone with three dogs and children either at work, on vacation, or in college while she watches her younger life. If she only knew that the laundry would be done because the loads are practically nonexistent since she became an empty nester. She would know that her older self would gladly trade places with her younger self, sitting on the floor with a newborn, a one year old, and a 4 year old, while still with a hospital bracelet on her wrist. She would know that she should have listened more intently to the stories her 4 year old was telling her about the days her mother was in the hospital for the delivery, and what she missed at home. She would know that she should hold onto that 1 year old that climbed into her lap a little tighter, because those days are short lived. She would have known that she should have stopped time. I want another chance. I want another chance at it. I want it all, again. I want to say to her that ‘You got this’. I want to tell her how beautiful her babies were going to grow up to be. I want to tell her about the soccer games and the football games, and the dance lessons, and the horse back riding. I want her to know that the children loved the proms she chaperoned. I want to tell her that the girls will someday call you their best friend. I want to tell her that she got her wish for some peace and quiet, or even a ‘break’, and that she would hate it. I want to feel the feeling of being a human jungle gym again. I want to tell her to smell the babies and feel the babies and kiss their little foreheads. Again and again and again. I want her to know that she will be turning the big 50 this year and let her know not to worry about aging because it only means that she lived. I see her gently hold her babies. I see her wipe their tears and change their diapers and strategically maneuver herself through her new little world with so much grace. I want to tell her that she looked beautiful even though I know she didn’t feel it at the time. I want to tell her that she is doing a great job. I want to tell her that when the children are older they will tell their friends stories about their childhood, and that she will hear them say it and smile. I want to tell her that the next 20 some years were successful because of what was happening in that little home in Plano, Texas; the one I was watching on the videos. I want to tell her that we are all who we are today because of all those sleepless nights she had…all those days when she thought it would never end…all those days that she wished she could get a minute to herself. I want to tell her that, well, you will get a minute to yourself…actually you will have minutes that turn into hours that turn into days by yourself. I want to tell her that she will spend those hours wishing she was on a floor somewhere in Plano, Texas, with a diaper in her hand and a toddler on her waist. You see, 20 something year old Amy, all your hard work got us to where we are today as we embark on this next chapter of your life. So if I have to tell my 20-year-old self anything it would simply be, “Thank You, we got this”.

Superwoman

Sometimes you have to take the words of someone else and let them be your guide... your thought process for the day... Words hold such an important place in my life...with quotes...cards...journals...books... and yes, sometimes Youtube poetry readings...such as this....Enjoy, and Happy Sunday to you all !!!!

Chili Fritos

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One year ago today (12/27) my husband died.

For 3 minutes and 27 seconds.

Who knew that 3 minutes and 27 seconds could last so long…

In 3 minutes and 27 seconds I learned everything I needed to know about life.

In 3 minutes and 27 seconds I saw lives unravel. I saw hearts break. I saw families collapse. I saw chaos. I saw pain. I saw devastation. I felt loss. I felt loneliness. I felt tears of pain. I felt anger. I was confused. We were scared. We were devastated.

For 3 minutes and 27 seconds we were changed.

…and then he lived.

I knew something wasn’t right. When you live with someone for years upon years you just know when something feels different. So I called 911… and we took him in to the ER for some tests. My Ashley dropped everything and met me there.

Things you notice in the emergency room:

Very young doctor; nurse is a big burly guy that probably rides a motorcycle; lady next door won’t stop hacking up a lung; and a strange excitement for the lobby vending machine.

Ash and I shared chili flavored Fritos and watched a Navajo family check in their grandma. She clearly had some diabetes issue. The family was not the epitome of health. Funny how events become tattooed in your mind; otherwise worthless points of reference. Enough time had passed, and I had diagnosed the entire lobby at this point, so we returned to the ‘patient’.

You know when you are a kid and you think that there are monsters under your bed and even though you check every single night you know there aren’t any under there….. well, imagine if just one time you checked and there were googly eyes staring back at you….that feeling in your chest….the shock of it all…..ok, now imagine that feeling but walking down the hall to your husband’s bed in an emergency room.

Time stands still at this point… I remember every single second… I remember facial expressions… I remember faces… words… thoughts… papers….needles. She met me in the hall and said, “Are you Amy? Your husband went into cardiac arrest and we are trying to revive him. It’s been 3 minutes”…..

3 minutes!!!!!

Three minutes ago I was eating chili Fritos in the lobby commenting on a Navajo family and their diabetes issues. 3 minutes ago I was sitting with Ashley in a way too cold lobby in a hospital down the street. 3 minutes ago I was a wife with 4 kids barely middle aged. I was texting and looking at Instagram and checking Facebook. I was normal and normal was good.

One thing you will never be able to explain (and I hope you neverrrrrr can) is the feeling when they have you come in the room where a minimum of 9 doctors and nurses are working on a ‘coded’ patient. You may not know this but when a patient ‘codes’ it is all hands on deck…every single doctor and nurse have to present themselves… it’s utter chaos. As Jodi Picoult stated, “Did you ever walk through a room that's packed with people, and feel so lonely you can hardly take the next step?”. I remember a very young security guard was standing outside my husband’s room and I remember him saying, very nonchalantly, “I’ve never seen a patient ‘code’ ”. Well join the club, Mister…. And as I stood over the man that was my husband… the man that was about to make me a widow…and a brain rapid firing a gazillion things that need to happen…I stopped and looked at the doctor and said, “You had me come in here to say goodbye, didn’t you?”. I have never been surer of something in my entire life. I KNEW my purpose. I understood with 1000% clarity why I was called in there. I could see my daughter collapsed on the floor outside. I could see a central line in my husband’s groin. I saw his head hanging off the table. I could see his eyes wide open and, as they say, “no one was home”. I saw a heart monitor with a flat line. I saw the end. And I stood there and I folded my hands and for some reason made eye contact with that security guard and said, “Pray hard!”.

I remember repeating, “please please please please please please please” over and over and over and over. Eyes closed. Hands clasped. Complete surrender…. And then 27 seconds passed and a man said, “We have a pulse but it’s a faint one”. I grabbed my husband’s head in my hands and shut his eyes for him. The nurse told me “Ma’am we aren’t concerned with his head right now”, but I was…I was… I was concerned with his head and his heart and his body and his family that was collapsed on the floor outside room 27 in the emergency room in a hospital down the street.

Funny how life sucker punches you from time to time. Little pieces of reality pie. Death never really comes at the right time, does it? So you make yourself strong because it's expected of you. You turn into the person others need you to be. And you roll up your sleeves and say “Let’s get dirty”. And you throw yourself into the moment. I like to think that December 27, 2017 was ‘so last year’, but when death knocks at your door it doesn’t matter if you answer it or not, because hellooooo tag you’re it!

It isn’t anything I have talked about. I didn’t Facebook it. I closed my circle. I let a few in. Some came in regardless and without abandon for their dear friends. I slept on a waiting room couch in a fetal position as 2018 rang in. I learned about blood. And hearts. And visiting hours. And coffee….lots of coffee. By the way, hospital cafeteria hours suck…..

But he lived. We lived. We love… and continue to love. You never really know the strength of a family until you see it break down. It is a beautiful sight to see although that sounds like the worst kind of sight there could be. Ohhhh you want to know how you did as a parent, well, throw in the death of a loved one and the pain associated with it and BINGO you get to see the fruits of your labor. UGHHHHH why does it have to be like that? Why does pain bring out the best in people? When the world falls apart, and it will from time to time, look no farther than left and right….those are your people…your family. Your pain is their pain. Like the saying goes, “We bleed together”. We're all pieces of the same ever-changing puzzle. You see, within 3 minutes and 27 seconds my ‘circle’ dropped everything, and I mean EVERYTHING and came to a hospital down the street to Room 27 on December 27^th  to watch and pray over a heart line on a monitor that held all the answers to the past, present, and future of a family collapsed on a hospital floor.

Why do I tell my story, now that a year has passed? Because life, it turns out, goes on… And the mundane activities become your focus and bills are paid and dentist appointments are missed and kids go to collage and dishes pile in the sink and you forget. You forget what happened in Room 27 on the 27^th. Then you get a call from you husband and he says, “Honey, let’s go to the casino today to celebrate my one year death anniversary”. And you realize those are words that at one point in time, when 3 minutes and 27 seconds lasted an eternity, that you never thought you would hear again. And I clasp my hands and close my eyes and quietly say to myself, “But I already won”…..

Green Ball

I look for inspiration in writing almost daily. I rarely write when I don’t have a strong, overwhelming NEED to write. I felt that pang to write today. I initially was going to write about something as small as a molecule.  Yup, a molecule. Something so small that looks like a whole other galaxy under a microscope. With all the memes and Facebook videos streaming through our lives, one in particular has stuck in my head. It depicts a giant green ball being led by a rope that appears to be walking it, as if it were a family pet. The title of the video was “This is happiness”. I’ve included it as the photo for my blog. So freaking cute. A myosin protein dragging an endorphin along a filament to the inner part of the brain's parietal cortex which creates happiness. Who knew that a protein is so adorable. I initially was going to write about all the myosin proteins swirling around in our bodies during Valentine’s Day and what not. I initially was going to go into depth into my myocin thresholds yada yada yada. Not today. And please hold that thought about the protein while I go off on another tangent.

I watch the Olympics for the sport of it, of course. I love to see people pushing their limits and living their dreams.; however, it’s more than that to me. I like to watch the ‘aftermath’. After the runs, the twirls, the racing, etc….I like to see who the athletes run to. I like to see a semi-god of an athlete, an epitome of determination and focus, …become a real person. One who searches the crowd of photographers and fans to find their ‘happiness’; their ‘love’; their ‘reasons’. The 17 year old Gold medalist who finishes her half pipe and whips off her snowboard boots and her helmet and says “where’s my mom”.  And as tears of joy run down their faces, which minutes prior were steadfast and focused, I always think that I want to collect their tears. WTF Amy (I can hear you saying that now). I want to take a little vial and collect the tears of these athletes when they are at the pinnacle of their lives. I wonder if their tears, much like the myosin protein, look different then the tears of perhaps someone who is sad, or scared, or reflective. Do their tears have a zillion tiny proteins on leashes walking around in them? Freaking happy protein parade? Do sad people have different looking proteins walking in their tears?

Watching the news this morning we are reminded of the school shootings happening in our lives. They flashed to the Sandy Hook attack. A photograph showed children being led out of the school after the massacre. One little girl’s face in that photo promoted this blog post. Utter fear and terror was on her face. But within her grimacing look I could see that it wasn’t so much what had just occurred within her peaceful little school, but it was a look saying, “I need my mom/dad”. You could actually see that expression. And her tears were steaming down her face and landing on her once dry rainbow t-shirt. That innate NEED for someone or something. I thought of her tears, too! What a contrast there would be if we could see them under the light of a microscope against those in a completely opposite tearful moment. All the events that are occurring inside of us that we don’t even know are happening. I hope that little girl and all these young people have those happy molecule walks that will far outweigh any of the bad stuff.

The shooter…a troubled boy…lived with some family friends, ‘since the death of his mother’ as stated on the news. Perhaps when his body was at it’s lowest point and he couldn’t feel that happiness microscopically running through his body he was also looking for his reason out in the crowd; perhaps that was his mother that was no longer there. And in all the pain and hatred and anger that this horrible, horrible person did to his former classmates, you see how people, whether the gold medalist athlete or the worst possible person imaginable, to the innocent child or the guilty adult; that there is one thing that we all have in common. It can’t be seen but we feel it ever day. It can’t be seen but we show it daily. It can’t be seen but it drives us in both positive and perhaps negative ways. It’s that damn little protein on a leash looking for all the other little protein friends in this big beautiful body of ours. It’s the happiness we feel when we know we are loved and we know we can love that person back, whether we are on the top of a mountain going for the gold or in the darkest depths at the bottom of your hill and see no way out.

My wish for you is to always search for your ‘faces in the crowd’…the ones who make your happiness walk around in your body a million miles over…and never lose faith that rainbows after the rain will dry up someday and you can be at the top of your mountains once again.