New Years 2009

I wish it could be 2008 for a little longer. The year was not supposed to end this way.

For 15 months, Cindy maintained a 40-hour work week while also attending an intensive full-time nursing program. When she wasn't in nursing school, she worked at the hospital, she read the heaviest medical textbooks ever, she attended non-nursing classes at the community college (for fun in fact--classes like Intro to Tagalog, Cultural Communications, and Film Theory), and she frequently traveled down to VA Beach to care for her family. From the beginning, Cindy and I understood this would significantly limit the amount of time we could spend together. But, we knew it was relatively short-term. I said to her, "Cindy, we have the next 40 or 50 years together, 18 months is a drop in the bucket."

The end of September, before the aneurysm struck, we were heading into the final home stretch. Even Cindy knew she was so close to finishing this grueling routine: "I can get three more B's and even fail one test and still pass the program!"

2009 was going to be "our" year.

A few people have inquired with me about the next blog posting since the time between entries has definitely increased. To be honest, I have tried to write one everyday, but as the end of 2008 gets closer and the beginning of the new year approaches, the torment I am feeling about Cindy's death is rendering me incapable to connect even the simplest of words together.

How do I convey the guilt I feel about being the one left behind to live here on Earth? We all know Cindy was the one better equipped for caring for and loving people with her whole heart and body. Her smile was infectious, her hands always warm, and her voice always honest.

When I imagine the patient lives she won't get to improve, I feel a sadness for them. I think about the smiles she would have put on their faces and the laughs she would have inspired in them. Only Nurse Cindy would leave a patient's room and then stop at the door, turn around, hold her hand up to ear like a telephone and say, "Call me!"

My mind feels the heaviest when I think about Cindy's godchildren as well as our friend's children whose time with Cindy has been cut short. When I was cleaning out Cindy's car, I found so many bags of toys, books, and baby clothes that she had bought to be ready whenever she visited a friend's child or baby. For the parents who read this blog, can you think of anytime ever that Cindy didn't come bearing a gift for your child? There are tons more of these gifts all over the house too. And no matter if you had the most unruly kid or the sweetest baby, Cindy loved and held them all equally. When I think about these children, I don't have words strong enough to articulate the anguish that settles inside me.

And you would think that going back to the house in Arlington would get easier with time. But, it does not. Each time I ride down 16th Street, I feel like someone who has been bashed in the stomach with a rubber mallet. It's gotten to the point where I have to leave the car running and the door open in order to run in and get what I need out of there, or else collapse on the floor crying.

For the past week, before bed each night, I study the hundreds of photographs I have of her and I can't believe she is no longer with us. I mean, she was just here in late September. She took pictures of my friends at the Ragnar Relay, she went with me and some friends to see Kathy Griffin, she gave me the best pizza party for my birthday. How can she not be here with me now right before the start of the new year? Is this even possible?

So, I don't accept that 2008 is ending. I don't want 2008 to leave us. I don't want to be asked when my partner died and have that answer be "She died last year."

Christmas 2008

Two days before Christmas, I looked outside my window at work--white lights and flashing snowflakes lined King Street. I observed the last minute Christmas shoppers strolling up and down. There were haggard looking couples, their arms weighed down with multi-colored bags. And then there were the weary parents trying to prevent their kids from running ahead into the road before the traffic lights told them it was safe to do so. I stared at this scene for a few minutes and then closed my window shade.

Christmas was the most important holiday for Cindy and the one that drove me the most crazy.

Cindy did all her Christmas shopping the 2 days before Christmas. This tradition required enourmous amounts of stamina, physical strength, and patience on my part. And each year, I told myself to just let Cindy go off to these stores on her own and not participate in this endurance sport. After all, I almost always had my shopping done by the middle of December. But, she'd don on her Santa hat and somehow I'd find myself in the car with her with a hundred circulars on my lap that were dog earred, tabbed, or in some way marked with the sale items she wanted to get.

Every year that I knew Cindy, I tried to convince her to get her Christmas shopping done early:

JM: You know Cindy, there's this amazing thing called the Internet and you can actually buy all your gifts online as opposed to hauling ass around town 48 hours before Christmas.

CMR: Yeah, but I like to see what I am buying.

JM: There are pictures online too.

CMR: But, I have these last minute coupons I can use.

JM: Doesn't it wear you down to have to traipse all over Virginia until midnight.

CMR: It's Christmas. That's what you do.

Sometimes, the shopping would continue even into Christmas morning. I don't know how, but Cindy was able to find the one store in all of Virginia that was open from 8am to 11am Christmas day.

I, of course, followed her wherever she'd go. After all, someone needed to carry her coat and her packages. She never asked me to do this, but I felt it was my duty as I had much longer and stronger arms than her. The only times I would get frustrated would be when she would ask for my opinion on a potential purchase:

CMR: Which sweatshirt do you like better?

JM: Cindy, they are both red hooded sweatshirts.

CMR: I know. But which one do you think my Dad will like?

JM: Aren't they the same?

CMR: No, this one is thicker.

JM: Okay, then get that one.

CMR: You're just saying that.

After the final store closed on Christmas day, we would drive down to Virginia Beach to be with her family. We never missed a Christmas with them in all the years that I knew Cindy.

Today, I am spending Christmas with my family in Woodbridge. I feel relaxed and calm, but not a minute goes by that I don't think of Cindy. I actually had Cindy's Christmas presents purchased for her back in July and had them hidden in my closet (I bought her a Nintendo Wii, a strap to attach a tiny video camera to her scooter helmet, and an underwater case for our camera for when we went snorkeling again). I came across some of these items this week when I was at the house and I wanted to throw them against a wall, but I decided to just let them be for a while longer.

I keep telling myself that I am almost through this holiday. I am so close. I think I am going to be able to do it. I am almost there. But, I also know that December 26th cannot come soon enough.

E-mail Alerts

I finally figured out how to support e-mail alerts. If anyone wants to be automatically e-mailed whenever I post a new blog entry, send me an e-mail with your e-mail address and I will add you to the list.

Aperture

I stared at Cindy's hands for hours when she was in the ICU. I scanned every crack in her skin. I traced the angles of her veins. And I counted the hairs on her knuckles. I thought that if I fixated my eyes long enough on her hands that I could develop a mental photograph of them to keep with me forever--a permanent record.

Some of you may recall a time when Cindy held your hand, or gave you one of her famous massages, or placed her hand on your arm when you needed support. As I have mentioned before, Cindy was naturally affectionate and her hands served as her primary instrument for expressing comfort, kindness, and love. I will never forget how soft her hands were or how surprisingly tiny her fingers were. She often joked that her hands were perfect for work in sweatshop. And although she rarely ever received a manicure, she had the strongest and most elegant nails I have ever seen.

Anyone who knows me well understands that my memory is not the best. My lack of retention for the details infuriated Cindy. There were many instances where I would ask Cindy the same question over and over: “Wait, what are you doing after work?” “You have clinicals today, right?” or her favorite, “We’re celebrating our anniversary when?”

Cindy would talk to me on the phone and, without fail, when she knew I was distracted she’d interrupt the conversation with “Hey Memories, what did I just say?” I hated that question because I knew I had not retained half of what Cindy had just said to me. So, whenever she asked me that question, my answer was always “You said that you loved me more than life itself and that you would never leave me no matter how severe my Alzheimer’s.”

Cindy tried to understand why I could only capture fifty percent of what she told me throughout a day. I tried to explain that in my professional life, I was required to remember a great amount of minute detail for my clients. Therefore, in my private life, I could only preserve the essentials. To this day, I recall the entire outfit she was wearing the first day I met her, I can still smell the dinner she ate the night she told me that she was falling in love with me, and I remember the feel of the shirt she was wearing the night I first kissed her. These were the details that I wanted to hold with me until my death and afterward.

It should come as no surprise then that I have always identified with the lead character from the movie, “Memento.” In this film, the lead character suffers from amnesia after experiencing a trauma during a brutal attack on his wife. This renders his brain unable to store new memories. To deal with this condition, he maintains a system of notes, photographs, and tattoos to chronicle information about him and others. While Cindy found his character exasperating, I found him resourceful and creative. And I envied his willingness to go so far as to brand his body for the sake of memory.

I think back to the hours I stared at Cindy’s hands and held them in my own. I don’t think I stared long enough. I should have held them longer. I can’t remember the number of lines in her knuckles. It’s times like these when I wish I were a painter, a sculptor, or some sort of artist who could have captured her hands for posterity. Yes, I have my random memories, but as the distance increases I worry that the mental photographs will become more abstract. I want my images to capture exactly what my eyes saw. I am envious of Frida Kahlo who once said, “I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.” When it comes to that which is closest to us, the dreams are not enough.

Frankenstein

A long time ago, before Cindy and I officially got together, she took me on one of her infamous D.C. night tours (many of this blog's readers may recall the lightening pace at which Cindy drove you to 6 monuments in 60 minutes or you may remember the way your stomach churned when she shouted "Hold on! DC U-Turn!" if she found an actual parking space). That night we went to Iwo Jima, the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument, the Jefferson Memorial, the Vietnam Memorial, and my favorite: the FDR Memorial. This was also the night that I earned Cindy's long-standing nickname for me.

I believe this was in December and it had to be about thirty degrees outside, but we did not care. It was one of those nights where at the end of it, you look at the person you shared it with and you both know, without a doubt, that the experience you had together has made an imprint on your soul.

Cindy drove me home that night and I remember not wanting to open that passenger door. I didn't want to walk to my front door. And I most certainly did not want the sun to rise. But, after a while, I finally stepped out of the car and started walking away, trying not to turn around. But then I heard the car door open and Cindy ran after me. She grabbed my arm and after catching her breath said, "Hey, I really enjoyed sharing this with you." I remember not being able to respond because the words in my head were doing battle with the emotions racing inside me and I could not reconcile the two to form a sentence. Finally, Cindy said, "I think this is where you hug me goodnight." So, I stretched out my arms (like a surgeon does when he needs his medical gown put on him) and just stood frozen in place. Cindy stared at me for a few seconds before finally taking my arms and positioning them around her waist, placing her arms around my back, and squeezing me tighter than I had ever been before. After about 20 seconds, she whispered in my ear, "Good night Frankenstein" and then walked back to the car.

Waking Up in a Dream

On Sunday morning, I woke up screaming. And then I woke up screaming again.

You ever have that dream that you so desperately want to escape that you try to shake your body awake? But, instead of waking up, your mind drops you off into a second dream? It took me several attempts before I could flee my Sunday morning dream.

I knew it would happen eventually. It was the reason why I have not wanted to sleep at night. The thought of seeing Cindy in a dream, talking to her, being near her again, and then to wake up and to not have that be real was excruciating to me.

But the dream I had on Sunday was not the one I had expected. In this dream, I was talking to some random person and then she morphed into Cindy. Cindy started yelling me and was angry at me for talking, for smiling, for eating, for continuing my life. And I remember just saying the word "no" over and over until I woke up.

This Monday, December 15th, Cindy was supposed to have completed her 18-month intensive nursing program. I was invited to the graduation ceremony (the school did a special honor for her), but I could not shore up the strength to go. I just could not do one more service. I struggled with this decision and I still wrestle with the feelings of selfishness for not going.

I know, without a doubt, that Cindy would have been a phenomenal nurse. The kind of nurse that would always walk into your room with a smile, that would hold your hand when your pain increased, and that would tell you a joke if she knew it would distract you from your chemotherapy treatment. I've read the journal she had to keep during her rotations at the hospital. Believe me, if you were in a hospital, you would have wanted Cindy as your nurse.

Because of the randomness of Cindy's death, it's hard not to think, "Why her? Who not me?" It may be selfish to think that, but I bet if I asked any other widow if they thought this as well, the answer would be yes. I constantly wonder why did she have to go? Why couldn't she go on to become a nurse? Why her of all people?

And then I wonder about me. I try to make sense of why I am here, why I'm able to smile, to laugh, to experience life. Sometimes I feel like the Jeff Bridges character from the 1993 movie, "Fearless." This is the film where he portrays the survivor of a horrific plane crash. As a result of this near-death experience, he has a newfound appreciation for life. But this increased clarity comes at a price to those closest to him before the crash. And his marriage and home life suffers as he goes on this new journey without his family.

It's almost 2am and I don't want to go to sleep. There is a pressure in my head to do the right thing, to make it worth it, to prove that there is a purpose to things. But I've read her nursing journal. I cannot surpass that. I don't know what I am supposed to do yet. I do not accept a re-awakening that comes at the expense of others--living or dead.

Sonny and Cher

Because of our height difference, it was inevitable that Cindy and I would dress up one time as “Sonny and Cher” for Halloween. Despite wearing name tags to make explicit who we were portraying, most people mistook Cindy for Juan Valdez, the Colombian coffee farmer. Unlike Cindy, I found this quite humorous and begged her to keep the moustache on even after we got home from the party. I remember telling her, “Oh come on Juan, I haven’t kissed someone with a moustache since 1994.”

I was thinking of the photograph shown above as I sat in the Windsor Day Spa waiting to get waxed. Cindy had been my personal groomer for many years and I was convinced that, if given the chance, she would have made a brilliant esthetician. 

Cindy would often talk about buying a laser and starting her own hair removal enterprise. In fact, a few of this blog’s readers are amongst the many she tried to convince to go into business with her. Cindy had the return on investment statement memorized, “We’ll buy a top-of-the-line laser and then all we’ll need to do are 100 perianals, 150 backs, 200 bikinis, 500 leg treatments, and 1000 areolas,  and we’ve made our money back!”

I had always hoped that Cindy would have realized her dream because I wanted the opportunity to regale people with the tales of her auspicious beginnings doing hair removal on me in our tiny bathroom. I would sit on the toilet with my contact lenses out because I could not bare to witness the spectacle. Cindy would go warm up the wax in our microwave, and then forget it was there. Most likely, she had gotten distracted bidding on some crazy knick knack on eBay. She’d then return with lukewarm wax that did not lend itself well to being smoothly applied over the skin.

After putting some on me, she’d put some on herself (which also made her look eerily similar to Juan Valdez). As she straddled me on the toilet, I would grab onto the skin on the sides of her waist. She hated it when I did this and would always say, “Why do you always grab me in the absolutely worst area for any lady?”

Cindy would do a couple of simulated yankings before doing the actual one. This always unnerved me, but I kept my mouth shut, closed my eyes, and deferred to her expertise. 

CMR: “I am going to count to three. Okay?”

JM: “I guess.”

CMR: “Are you ready?”

JM: “Obviously.”

CMR: “You sure?”

JM: “Just do it already!”

CMR: “One . . .” [pulls the wax off]

JM: “Holy sh*t Cindy! I thought you said you were going to count to three?”

CMR: “I know, but it’s much easier if you don’t expect it.”

As I nursed my aching skin, I’d listen to Cindy attempt to pull off her own wax. You remember that scene in “Fight Club” where Ed Norton is throwing himself all over the office and beating himself up? If so, then you can visualize what Cindy looked like pulling off her own wax. Since my ears were better than my eyes in this situation, I vividly recall the sounds emanating from Cindy’s direction: “Oww,” “Ooo,” “F*ck,” and my personal favorite--“Why?!?”

After she completed the beauty regime, she would examine the hair pulled off by the wax. Then, she’d hold the strip to my eyes (since I was mostly blind) and proudly proclaim with a huge smile on her face: “Look! I just saved us $40 bucks!”

The Fountain Pen

I held the broken remains of my prized fountain pen and tried to remember how it met its final undoing.

In the months before Cindy’s aneurysm, I remember being on the verge of a semi-nervous breakdown. Although, the reasons for it seem insignificant now, I do recall a period this past summer when a combination of events had left me quite despondent. My job was consuming almost every free thought I had, I was missing Cindy (since she was working a 40-hour week, going to nursing school full-time, and constantly driving to Virginia Beach to take care of her family), and there was a lump in the back of my neck that Cindy kept telling me to have checked out.

I’d drive home from work most nights crying at the wheel and then try to pull myself together before seeing Cindy. After all, she was the one living several conflicting and back-breaking lives. If anyone deserved to lose it, it was her. But if you knew Cindy intimately, you would know that she rarely, if ever, cried over her own life. She’d cry about the unexplainable illness her sister battled, the stresses that her mom had to deal with, and sometimes she’d even cry over total strangers if they were the victim of an injustice. But, she refused to ever feel sorry for her own life. I admired her for this fortitude at the same time I resented her for it.

Because I did not want to burden Cindy with my troubles, I kept a lot close to myself. After all, when Cindy came home, she did not deserve to return to an emotional mess. Sometimes Cindy would not get home until 8 or 10pm at night and then crack open a textbook to study for a test. She slept maybe, at most, 5 hours a night. I begged her to quit her job and told her that I could support us both, but she would not listen to me.

One late night, while Cindy was at a study group, I could not sleep and decided to write Cindy a love letter. I used to write Cindy notes all the time. I‘d leave them on her pillow, pack them in her lunch bag, stick them to the bathroom mirror, or place them on her car's dashboard. And I always tried to use the pen that she had given me in the very beginning of our relationship.

It was a classic silver and black Aurora fountain pen with cerulean blue ink. When she gave it to me, she said, “Every Italian writer should have the best Italian pen. And now when you write, you will always think of me.”

She was right. I always thought of her when I touched that pen. I thought of her that night as I grabbed the pen to begin my epistle. However, right as I was about to begin writing, a wave of sadness and anger washed over me. I thought about my stressful work life, about the plans we delayed for school, about being alone in the bed, about Cindy having this schedule until December, and about Cindy never being able to sit still or accept help. All this rage rose up through my body and I threw the pen against the wall. I never wrote the love letter for Cindy that night.

I must have forgotten about the pen the next morning because I did not touch it again until last week when I going through some things in the bedroom. Located next to some books on the floor was my pen--now broken into 2 pieces. Somehow the ink reservoir escaped injury and did not splatter blue ink across the floor. My attempts to mend the pen were futile. I have placed the wreckage in its leather case for safe keeping until I figure out what I want to do with the remains.



P.S. The neck thing turned out to be harmless swollen lymph nodes.

Artaya Downs

I could have killed myself, and I did contemplate it for a little bit. But, I am kind of glad I didn’t follow through because then I never would have encountered Artaya Downs.

A couple of weeks ago I received a bill from Virginia Neurosurgeons for about $4,000. Every now and then, I receive a bill for the services Cindy received when I did not have her insurance information available. And if there is one thing you can count on in the health care industry is that they are going to be diligent about collecting their money. No less than 48 hours after Cindy went into the hospital, I started receiving bills for anything and everything related to the ambulance ride. Not one bill mind you, but a bill for each various component. I got a bill from the fire department, from the paramedics, from the doctors that saw her upon arrival.

Most of the bills I am able to take care of by calling the provider and supplying her insurance information over the phone. But, the Virginia Neurosurgeons group were unique in that they did not accept Cindy’s insurance. When the woman on the phone told me this, I laughed and said “Are you kidding me? She has Blue Cross Blue Shield? Who doesn’t take that?” After a few seconds of silence, the woman responded “We don‘t take that.”

I could feel my body tense up in the same way it might for someone who has just been told that they are going to need dental surgery. I assumed I was in for a long, painful, and expensive experience. After I hung up the phone, I wasn’t sure what to do. Who was I supposed to battle about this? The Virginia Neurosurgeons only cared about getting paid. And calling Blue Cross seemed as straightforward as walking through a corn maze.

When Cindy was admitted to the hospital, they had me sign about a dozen forms--none of which I read. I mean, what difference would it have made to read them? If I had to sign away my 2 arms and an ear, I would have done it. Basically most of what I was signing for was the understanding that if Cindy or Cindy’s insurance could not pay for her services that I would be responsible for the payment. I decided to call Blue Cross directly.

I must have done one good thing in my life because out of all the insurance representatives that could have answered my call at that moment, I got Ms. Artaya Downs.

“Hello, how may I help you?”

“Hi, my name is Jennifer and I received a bill for my partner and she has great insurance. Your insurance in fact. But, the provider is telling me that they don’t accept your insurance. I am sure this must be a mistake. I mean, who doesn’t accept Blue Cross Blue Shield.”

“What is your partner’s name?”

“Cindy R. She died and I am calling on her behalf because I am responsible for this bill. And I blame the Virginia Neurosurgeons group for her death because they obviously have incredibly low standards—”

“Oh, Ms. Jennifer, I am so sorry for your loss. I am sure you must be dealing with a lot now.”

“It’s so hard. I miss her so much."

“How much is the bill for?”

“A little more than $4000. I don’t understand why its not covered by her insurance. Everything else was covered 100%. I am doing my best trying to take care of everything, but the paperwork is killing me. I just don’t know who to fight on this. And I am so tired. I don‘t know what to—”

“If you don’t mind holding, let me see what I can do for you. And again, I am so sorry.”

I thought for sure Artaya would never come back. I was positive that my loquaciousness convinced Artaya that I was completely insane. When I am nervous, the words will just keep coming out regardless if they are sensible or not. But, to my surprise, she returned after 15 minutes.

“Ms. Jennifer. I think I found a way out of this for you.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“Was Cindy ever competent when she was in the hospital?”

“No, she never acted on her own behalf while she was hospitalized.”

“Well, then she could not deny service either. And, if she knew Virginia Neurosurgeons did not accept her insurance, then she might have denied their services.”

“That’s right. She was totally cheap. She would NEVER have agreed to pay for something she might have otherwise gotten for free. Never!”

“So, because she had the aneurysm and the doctors had to make decisions for her care and because she couldn‘t deny services, we’ll take care of this bill for you. You don’t need to worry about it . . . Ma‘am, are you there? Hello?”

“I can’t believe this. What is your name? I need to write a letter to your supervisor. I think you are the best person in the world. You are an angel.”

“My name is Artaya Downs and I don’t want you to worry about this bill. In fact, if you get any more bill like this, call my direct work line.”

After Artaya gave me her number, as well as the hours she works during the day (to ensure that I would reach her), I broke down on the phone with her and started sobbing. I was not crying about Cindy, but for this unexpected act of kindness from a complete stranger.

After I bid goodbye to Artaya, I drafted a 2-page letter to her supervisor about my situation, about how thoughtful Artaya was for actually expressing condolences, and how experiences like this make me excited to live each new day. I mean, what if I had gotten someone else on the phone? Most people would have just done the bare minimum and not taken the extra time to find the loopholes.

Was life always this surprising? Am I only now realizing this? Did you all know this?

A Walking Tour

For the past month, I have walked through moments of astounding sadness, blood-boiling rage, as well as surprising amounts of joy and wonder. The other widows warned me that this would happen, and even hinted that these all might occur on the same day. Despite having been alerted to this, my head still spins at the conflicting emotions.

Today was an amazing day at work for me. I had a 3-hour meeting with one of my most difficult clients. But, this time I decided to change the game. I let go of all the animosity from times past, started with a blank slate, and just cleared my mind to focus on providing this client with a great experience. The meeting was amazing, exhilarating, and fun. I performed in the manner Cindy always told me I could: confident, focused, and knowledgeable. After the meeting, I just stared at my cell phone wanting so bad to call Cindy to let her know how I did. I scored a big win for my company and all I wanted was to share it with her. On the walk back to my car, I just started crying. When I got in my car to drive back to work, I slammed the door and threw the phone on the floor of the passenger seat.

I am not used to the sensations that rage inflicts on my body. And what's worse is that when I am in a state of rage, I usually wind up shouting at Cindy for leaving me to deal with all this sh*t. I hear that song lyric playing over and over in my head: "All the living are dead and the dead are all living." Everyone tells me she's in a better place, at peace finally, or in some sort of paradise, but then I am still here. And here sometimes sucks really bad: it's painful, scary, lonely, confusing, and cold.

In the midst of the sadness and rage, there are also these spontaneous wonderful moments. The day after Thanksgiving comes to mind when I got a call from Cindy's mother. I had some trepidation about taking the call, but something in my gut told me to answer it. I remember sitting against the window and breaking down after Cindy's mother finally acknowledged who I was to her daughter: "I am sorry I did not understand who you were to Cindy. I know now. You loved Cindy as much as I did." In my wildest dreams, I would never have expected this conversation, but there it was happening to my total surprise.

I've written before that I felt like I've gotten completely new eyes because I experience everything so differently now. But now it's not even that things look different, the things around me also feel, taste, smell, and sound different. Those who knew Cindy and I together as a couple knew that she was the affectionate one, the warm one, the one who would end every conversation with the words "I love you bye bye." But now, all of a sudden, I am the affectionate one. I am experiencing moments when I am filled with an intense amount of love for the people around me. For my family who remain steadfastly supportive. For my friends who continue to send me texts, e-mails, and phone calls everyday. For my Seattle crew who flew across the country to hold me in bed at night when I could not sleep alone.

During these moments of joy and wonder, I am reminded that I would never have experienced any of it if I had shut myself off and sunk into despondency. And so I remind myself to keep walking through the emotions, even the tough ones, because this seems to be the right journey to take.

Mortification Pt. 2

This time it only took me 8 minutes to get to the emergency room.

I don't know why I am drawn to this spot. I suppose it could be that this was the last location that I felt that Cindy was semi-conscious. I'm sure I am not the only one who stakes out their emergency room. There's never a parking spot close by and I see other people sitting in their cars like me.

I like to study the people in the waiting area. They sit shell-shocked or impatient not knowing what to expect. It's amazing more people don't hurl the waiting room chairs through the glass windows. Cindy would never have been able to sit in an ER waiting room. Those who knew her may remember that she couldn't even stand the exit traffic in a movie theatre parking lot.

I feel empathy for the people I see standing outside the ER entrance feverishly smoking a cigarette or pacing up and down. I am sure a deafening amount of thoughts are racing through their minds like they were for me. Liz pointed out to me weeks later that when she met me in the ER that night that I was oddly tapping my head and shaking it. And since then I've even caught myself shaking my head side-to-side every so often. It happens when the gruesome thoughts about Cindy's aneurysm bombard my head. Sometimes, I just can't face them. I suppose I've convinced myself that I can just rattle them out of there.

I sat in the car for about an hour and when I got bored watching the live people, I stared at the photos of Cindy on my iTouch. The time that has past between the last photo I have of her and the present day just keeps getting longer and longer.

Mortification in Virginia

It all started when I noticed the scar fading from my hand. It started with the scar and it ended with me not remembering if the ER waiting room had seats or benches.

Tonight, I met Nancy at the house to help me pack up some books. I allocated one hour for Nancy to watch me complete this task and to exert physical force, if necessary, if I became mired down in memories and sentiment. I was halfway done with the books in the guest room when I came across some folded sheets of loose paper hidden behind a group of Lonely Planet books. The paper was divided into 2 columns: "JM Guests" and "CMR Guests." Both columns were in my handwriting and I remembered exactly why I made this list. During the period between 2004 and 2005, Cindy and I must have attended a thousand weddings together. And everyone kept asking us when we would be having our ceremony. Whenever we were asked this, Cindy would look at me, to which I would nobly reply, "When it's legal in our state." But, the real reason we never had a ceremony was because we both knew that the guest list was going to be enormous. I wrote this list on the plane ride back from Seattle (after our friends Katie and Laura's commitment ceremony). I am sure I was trying to prove to Cindy that the cost for the ceremony would be astronomical. There were easily 200 people on the list (we had about 250 at Cindy's funeral). I didn't show the list to Nancy, but I did pack it up with my stuff.

After the guestroom, we moved onto the study. Most of the books there were Cindy's, so I left them on the shelf. But there was one book on the bottom shelf that derailed my progress. That book was the The Complete Lesbian and Gay Parenting Guide.

I apologize for the next reference, and I wouldn't normally do this, but it'll help explain why this cut across me like it did. For the past 2 years I have been writing a novella about a man who survives a shooting on mass transit. He has a lot of denial issues after the shooting and, as a result, his marriage suffers. There is one scene in which his wife is in a public library and she's returning an overdue copy of Beverly Engel's The Parenthood Decision. And by this point in the story you know that the wife and her husband never wound up having children. I didn't have a lot of dialogue in this particular scene and now I know that there really doesn't need to be.

After the hour was up, I decided that I'd had enough and thanked Nancy for her help. We both left the house together. But, instead of heading out to where I needed to go, I sat in the car for a few minutes and thought about the night I took Cindy to the ER. The events of that night are still vivid in my brain, or at least so I thought. For some reason, I couldn't recall the seating in the ER. Were they chairs? Were they benches? What color were they? I couldn't remember. Why couldn't I remember? Why couldn't I picture it in my head? When was the last time I cried about Cindy's death? Had it been more than 2 days? Was it 3 days ago? I had to drive over to the ER tonight.

I've driven to the ER now three times since Cindy's death to force myself to relive that night, replay those scenes in my head, and to unleash my own suppressed emotions. I also record how long it takes me to get there (I rode in the ambulance with Cindy and I think that ride took 6 minutes, but when I drive it takes 10-11 minutes). I don't tell anyone I am going there, it's too embarrassing. But it is really not unlike returning to the place you received your first kiss or revisiting the tree that your friend's car crashed into years ago. I walked up to the ER and the security officer asked me who I was there to see. I lied and told him that I needed to use the pay phone.

I can now report that there are actually two types of seats in the ER waiting room: benches along the windows AND individual seats in the middle of the room. The bottoms of the seats are mint green leather and the backs of the seats have a printed fabric on them. The arm rests are metal. Once I registered this into my brain, I took leave of the hospital and returned to my car.

Widow Shindig

At long last, I finally got on the list for some widow's shindig in D.C. in a couple of weeks. I would never have believed that these soirees are so exclusive. What I am most excited about is that there is actually going to be one other woman there who is my age.

Splitting Skin

The scar on my right hand is almost faded away.

Liz was with me when I slammed my hand on the windowpane in the hospital that day (Day 13). It happened in a secluded area of the hospital after I had listened to the resident surgeon go over Cindy's final CAT scan and angiogram imagery.

From the moment I took her to the ER, I was never in denial that Cindy would have some amount of brain loss. I did, however, feel extremely frustrated that no one could tell me how much deficit there would be. But, I told myself that if she lost motor function, I'd just build ramps for the house. If she lost sight, I would help her learn Braille. If she lost her short-term memory, I would leave notes all around the house for her and learn to repeat things. And I was ready to be a full-time caregiver in her rehabilitation.

But, by Day 13, hope turned to reality as I watched the surgeon point out all the dark spots in the images: "This area right here, that controls motor function. That's gone. That area over there controls hearing. That's gone." For what seemed like an hour, I made her go image by image and repeat the same things over and over. My head shook back and forth as she spoke. When the surgeon pointed to the part of her brain that controlled personality and told me that was gone too, I stopped shaking my head and asked for a moment to collect myself. I walked out of the ICU and then ran down the stairwell.

I don't know if Liz followed me, or if she happened to be in that area of the hospital. If it were up to me, I would not have wanted her to see me like that. I explained to her that the sum total of those deficits meant that Cindy was basically brain dead.

But it was the loss of the personality that hit me the hardest. Those who knew Cindy knew she had an amazing personality. I mean people who had only met her for 5 minutes never forgot her. So, when the surgeon pointed to that section of the brain, I knew Cindy was lost for good.

For 2 weeks, I had kept my cool, I kept a positive demeanor, I stayed by her bedside for 15-20 hours a day, I prayed, I prepared myself for most any outcome. I did all this even though I wanted to scream, run, break some sh*t for most of that time.

After that meeting with the surgeon, all the anger and frustration that I had repressed rose up through my body and collected itself in my right hand. I made a fist and slammed it over and over so hard on the windowsill that the skin near my knuckles split and I bled. I was about to do it again, but then I think I started yelling, and I remember Liz telling me to let it out because she knew I had been bottling up so much.

So, I look at the scar that is disappearing and it makes me sad. If it were up to me, I'd want to be branded with it forever.

Posted with LifeCast

Thanksgiving 2008

I remember vividly the day I came out to my older sister, Tricia. We were at a Chevy's Mexican restaurant with my good friend Josh, who already knew about me, and Tricia's fiancé at the time, Dom. Poor Josh had no idea that I was going to drop this bombshell to my sister over a basket of tortilla chips.

On the car ride over to Chevy's, I asked my sister some innocuous questions such as "What do you think of Janet Reno?" and "Doesn't k.d. lang have such a pretty voice?" I looked over at Josh, who was in the back seat with me, and could tell he was trying not to laugh. He then shook his head in disbelief when he saw me reading a copy of The Advocate that I had strategically hidden behind a copy of People magazine.

When I have an impulse to do something, there is no holding me back. The filter in my head disintegrates and words just come out. We were in the Chevy's maybe 10 minutes when I looked at my sister and said, "Well, I am glad you like Janet Reno because I'm gay too." After I made my announcement, my sister was like "That's fine. Are you going to get the fajitas?" Dom, on the other hand, was very quiet. Finally, I asked him point blank, "Dom, do you have any questions?" And he replied, "Oh, no. I had friends in theater in college, so I know all about it." It was at that point that I confirmed that I had the best sister in the world and she was about to marry the nicest and funniest guy.

As much as I enjoyed this moment with my sister and Dom, nothing tops the funny response my dad had when I came out to my parents a few years later. By this point, I am sure they already knew and were relieved I finally dropped all the secrets. My dad remained fairly quiet and then finally exclaimed, "What about Josh!" I laughed so hard and said, "Sorry Dad, Josh and I will always be just friends." And then he dropped it, never questioned it again, and from then on I had the best relationship ever with my parents.

I've been thinking a lot about family and how welcoming my family was with Cindy from the moment they met her. They took her into the family right away and viewed her as a daughter, a sister, an aunt, and as a wife to me. It's actually impossible to be completely despondent this Thanksgiving because I'm so lucky to have an amazing, supportive family that consists of both my blood relatives and my extended family of friends.

Disappearing Acts

Have you ever sat in a room full of people but felt that, if questioned the next day, no one in the audience would recall you being there? Or, maybe you heard something so incongruous and while you thought you were shouting at the top of your lungs to contest it, there was actually no sound emanating from your mouth? If the answer to either of these questions is yes, then you will know what it was like for me today at the 40-day memorial service organized by Cindy's family in Virginia Beach.

According to tradition, this type of service is held 40 days after a death, mirroring the period between the resurrection and ascension of Christ. About twenty of us traveled down from the Washington, DC-area to attend the service. We had no idea what to expect.

The priest began his homily talking about the importance of home, family, and marriage. When he got more specific about Cindy's life, he said that although she was not "married" and did not have a "home," she still lived a good life (apparently a home is made when a woman marries a man and has at least 1 child). During the homily, I turned to my friend and said, "Uh, didn't Cindy and I have a home?" I mean, we never had a kid, but we had 2 godchildren, a niece and a nephew, a dog, a cat, and about 11 koi fish in our pond. And, we may not have been married according to the law, but I'm pretty sure we lived like one. I mean, she often got mad at me for scratching the wood floors, for not drying off my feet before stepping onto the bath mat, and for always getting lost while driving. That's standard operating procedure for most married couples, right?

Throughout the homily, I was shaking my head left and right. This couldn't be happening to me. Why couldn't I stand up and shout, "She did have a HOME and it was with ME!" I mean I used to be a Lesbian Avenger, but here I was sitting quietly and watching my existence for the last several years get erased. These kinds of disappearing acts were a popular theme in melodramatic gay movies from the 80s, but they could not be re-occurring in this day and age, right?

I am sure the priest asked some basic questions of the family before today, but it was obvious he had no idea who I was to Cindy. I was not mentioned during the intercessions, nor was I acknowledged by the family during the part where you say "peace be with you" to your neighbors. I might as well have been a stranger who walked in off the street to sit in on the memorial service of a random person.

People tell me, "Oh Jen, don't worry. No one can take away who you were to Cindy. No one can erase the great memories you had together." But, I want more than just the mental relics. Why couldn't I have also had public and legal acknowledgment of who Cindy and I were to each other for all these years? And when it comes down to it, it's a cop out to only accept our own memories. Memories are not enough anymore. This is about a public consciousness. This is about altering our definitions of family, home, and marriage. This is about expanding the vernacular.

Purgatorio

I am sitting alone in a Jiffy Lube and Christmas music is piping in the waiting room. I never believed in Hell until this evening. So, here I am waiting for an oil change without ear phones for my iTouch. I even made a feeble attempt to convince the cashier to change the music on the radio:

JM: Would you mind switching to another station?

Lucifer (the Jiffy Lube cashier): Yes, I would.

JM: But, there's no one else here and it's so loud.

Lucifer: Why? You don't like Christmas music?

JM: Didn't we just celebrate Halloween last week?

Lucifer: Oh, come on. It will make you smile. You look like you need to smile more.

JM: I'll pay you $10 to unplug the radio.

Lucifer: Oh wait, here's a good one coming on. You like this song, don't you?

JM: Nope, no I don't. Not a fan of Bing Crosby.

. . .

The reason I am here for the oil change is because I have to drive 3 1/2 hours to Virginia Beach to 1) deliver Cindy's car to her mother and 2) to attend some 40-day church service for Cindy. I have been on edge about this event since the moment I heard about it. Unlike the funeral service, for which I planned every minuscule detail (along with Karin, Liz, Katie, and Mrs. Milko), I have had no part in the planning of this 40-day thing. I don't even know the purpose of it.

Throughout the time Cindy was in the hospital, I remained respectful of her faith even though I am not a religious person. I brought priests to her room to pray for her. I called on Catholic friends to have their churches say prayers for her. I sat for 2 hours talking to a missionary about what I needed to do to save Cindy (apparently all I needed to do was to save myself first and then it's super easy). And poor Tanya may remember the morning I woke up in a frenzy determined to locate the water from Lourdes I had buried in my house somewhere. That morning I drove frantically to the house and ripped it apart to find the tiniest vial of Lourdes water. I had the hospital priest sprinkle that water on Cindy at least 3 different times while she was in the ICU. I used to be a skeptic. But, during those horrendous two weeks, I had more faith in water than in science.

I have no idea what to expect tomorrow. I feel like the 5-year kid who doesn't want to detach from their parent's leg on their first day of school. It is going to take physical force to propel me forward. How many times do I have to say goodbye? Everyone tells me it's going to get easier, but I am sick of hearing it. It's not even Thanksgiving and I have to listen to those children singing the chorus to "Feliz Navidad?"

Eulogy Delivered at Cindy's Funeral on 10/18/2008

(Photo courtesy of Matt & Lisa)

A few people who could not attend the funeral service asked me to post the eulogy I delivered at her funeral service. I think the speech below is better received in person than on paper, but hopefully you will still get a feel for what I found special about Cindy.

Eulogy for Cindy Rono by JM

If Cindy were here right now, she would be feeling a lot of pressure to cheer up this room. Whenever she saw a somber face, her first instinct would be to go up to that person, grasp their hand with both of hers, and ask, “Can I get you something to eat? Do you want something to drink?” Or, better yet, if there was food going to waste, “Are you done eating that?” Cindy loved making people feel happy, feeding people, and caring for all. And she often said to me, “Jen, if someone is feeling sad and you don’t have the words to comfort them, just hug them, just put your hand on their shoulder, or just hold their hand.” For Cindy believed that the power of touch was all that you needed to let someone know they are not alone and that you care.

Because of my special relationship with Cindy, I was lucky enough to learn many things like this from her. Through our years together, I came to understand the various aspects of her that made her so memorable to so many people, even those who had only met her one time:

1. Cindy made everyone feel important. No matter your job or life experience, she was always genuinely curious about and interested to know you and know all about you. I remember one time we were talking to a woman at a party and Cindy asked her what she did for a living. The woman replied, “It’s not that interesting, in fact it’s a real conversation killer. I lease office supplies to companies.” But, to Cindy this was fascinating. Cindy asked her all kinds of questions and afterwards, I asked Cindy “were you just being polite?” And she was like, “No, what she does is really cool and I found out she actually leases to my company.” Cindy’s curiosity about people was genuine. And I am sure if I were to survey most of you in this room, you could also remember a time Cindy asked you a ton of questions about yourself, while also managing to never answer a question about herself—which gets me to my next recollection about Cindy:

2. Cindy put everyone else before her. I remember one time I called her during her lunch break and she was actually in her car on her way to church. Since it was not Sunday, I wondered if it was some religious holiday. But, I soon came to understand that Cindy often stopped by the church during the week to pray for others. She never prayed for her own health or her own good fortune, but only for the loved ones around her. When a co-worker was diagnosed with cancer, she went to the church and prayed for her recovery. When a friend of hers was having trouble conceiving, she went to the church and prayed for her fertility. When a friend was struggling to receive his U.S. citizenship, she went to the church and prayed for his paperwork to finally be processed. And when a family member was unwell, she went to the church and prayed for their health to improve. As most of you in this room know, Cindy was an extremely positive person and she believed that with support we could overcome any trial or tribulation—which leads me to my last example of Cindy’s spirit:

3. Cindy loved underdogs. She loved the story of the person who, when faced with life’s toughest obstacles, rose above them to the surprise of everyone around them. We’d often watch the big tennis matches on TV together and she always loved it when the lower-seeded player surprised everyone by triumphing over the more seasoned player. She loved movies where the down-on-her luck character breaks though their situation and goes on to live a happy life. And she loved the true-life tales of underdogs who, in the face of poverty or illness, were able to find joy and love in their lives. And I am sure many of us would consider Cindy Rono an underdog as well. For, we all know, she was an unsung hero who never took credit for all the work she did while on Earth.

I am going to miss Cindy Rono tremendously. She was my partner in crime, my Las Vegas partner, my Scooter partner, and a great partner in life. And I am sure if I were to ask all of you, you would also be able to remember a time that Cindy was a partner to you, an angel, a confidante, and a best friend that you will never forget. I know I will never forget her.

(Delivered 10/18/2008)

Abigail Salmon

I read Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones a couple of years ago. The novel begins with the brutal rape and murder of a fourteen-year old girl, Susie Salmon. Susie then watches from heaven as her family and friends attempt to go on with their lives. I remember as I was reading this having the hardest time sympathizing with or even understanding the character of Susie's mother, Abigail Salmon--until now.

It took me about 2 weeks, reading 3 chapters before bed each night, to get through the novel. During this time, Cindy was very annoyed with me for the impact this book had on our nocturnal routine. She kept hiding the book from my nightstand. In its place, I usually found 101 TV Guide Crossword Puzzles or Chelsea Handler's My Horizontal Life. I can't say I blamed her--The Lovely Bones is guaranteed to deflate anyone's erection.

In the novel, after her daughter's death, Abigail becomes further and further withdrawn from her family and friends. She goes on to have a loveless affair with the detective assigned to the case. Eventually she abandons her two children and her husband and moves to California to work in a winery. I recall griping about the Abigail character to Cindy, "There's no way a mother would abandon her two living children to work in a winery. Why isn't she out there with her husband searching for her daughter's rapist? Why is she carrying on with that boring detective? This makes no sense at all!" To which Cindy responded, "I can't wait till you are done with that book. Those bones are bustin' up my groove."

What I didn't know then was that when you suffer such an unexpected and violent loss the playbook for your life completely changes. And the person you were before that loss may not be the person you are after that loss. Foods taste different to me, certain songs I loved before now induce loathing, and people that I politely tolerated before now come across completely tiresome to me. My head throbs with the conflicting responses and I am constantly second guessing the new feelings I am experiencing. But, I don't think I can be that same exact person anymore--it would be a descent back into a life I can no longer lead because Cindy is not here on Earth. Like Abigail Salmon, I am not simply running from the past. Rather, I am rewriting the playbook at the same time I am lamenting the part of me that I can no longer be.

Earl Mertoun's Song

Throughout these past 2 months, I have had to march head first into inconceivably painful circumstances. Imagine going into your doctor's office and knowing you're due for your yearly rectal exam. Or, how about walking into a Best Buy knowing you need to return that camera, but the box has already been opened and you really don't want to pay that restocking fee. Or, better yet, boarding a cruise ship that is expected to skim the Bermuda Triangle and you forgot your Dramamine. How do you summon the strength to plow through these uncomfortable conditions?

As soon as I made the decision to dial 911 for the ambulance, I knew everything that came after that would be grueling and intolerable. But despite all this, I had to very quickly teach myself to walk like a soldier through the next weeks of my life. Stumbling half-assed through it all was not going to be an option.

Yet at 34, I still felt like a college kid. I watched MTV, I went out every weekend, I wore Pumas all the time. But as soon as I led paramedics up to our bedroom to palliate Cindy's incapacitation, I was no longer that 20-year old. I now had to make decisions that would affect someone else's life. How was this possible? I could barely decide which shirt to put on in the morning without Cindy's help.

Even after that night, I have had to charge into more unimaginable scenarios. Not one of them could I walk away from, not even today, which was my first day back at work since Cindy went into the hospital. The day itself was fine, but the evening was my downfall. I had to drive by the house to pick up the mail and the familiarity of the routine took me in a direction I had hoped to avoid. I wound up alone in our bedroom re-reading a love letter that Cindy had written me in 2002 where she quoted a favorite poem by Robert Browning: "My days were sunless and my nights were moonless . . . if you loved me not!' Even though there were no sheets on our bed and I had the heat turned off, I laid there for 2 hours. I wanted to leave sooner, but I could not rally the strength to walk into the night by myself.

There are times when I know that I HAVE to keep moving. But my body wants to reject movement that feels as though I am going to catapult myself towards a pile of rocks. My only hope is that, as the months go on, the surfaces I am propelled to soften.

Life in a Screenplay

In a few hours I go back to work. I have not been in my office since September 30th. Everything I did that day in September just swirls in my head and, even now as I write this, my head shakes in disbelief and regret.

That morning I left home early because I had a site launch that afternoon. It was my second launch that month and I was extremely proud to have completed both high-profile projects on time and on budget. I worked through lunch and hinted to my boss to throw me a party that Friday. I remember I even left work on time that night because I went to a former employer's retirement party that evening. I did not get home until 9:30pm and had minimal conversation with Cindy before going to bed.

Popular movies trick you into thinking you'll say something so profound before someone you love dies. You might think you'll hold them in your arms, tell them that you will love them forever, and even ask that they wait for you on the other side. What I did not know was that this is a luxury. In the world we live in, people talk about their sore backs, why the kitchen sink always gets clogged, and why they'll never eat Thai food two hours before bed. The last thing Cindy asked me for before the aneurysm ruptured was the batteries for her blood pressure monitor. I got out of bed, went to the kitchen, found her batteries, and then tossed them to her. Some people are given the "Beaches" script and the rest of us are given the Cassavetes scripts.

I would have been happy to at least have gotten the Jean-Pierre Jeunet screenplay.

The Epilogue of the Nurse Trees

Sometimes when I was hiking through the park, I would come upon fallen Joshua trees. The sight of these collapsed trunks were jarring at first. After all, some of these trees have toughed it out in the most inhospitable of conditions for hundreds of, if not a thousand, years. I wondered what would become of the dead Joshua trees? Would they just remain on the ground for eternity buried behind the Mojave's yucca plants? Or, would the park rangers come by and sweep out the deceased. Either possibility did not seem like an honorable ending to such a resilient tenant of nature.

When I got back to my hotel that night, I pulled out my book on desert ecology and discovered that these departed trees were in fact known as "nurse trees." Nurse trees often start out as the shelter for a smaller, slower-growing tree or plant. That's because a Joshua tree seed must be dropped in a protective location to survive. The safest site is typically within a nurse plant--a plant with many spine-tipped leaves and therefore not likely to be eaten by desert animals. As the younger trees grow and become more acclimated to the desert sun, the older nurse tree may die, trusting that its young companions can protect themselves.

However, while it may appear that the nurse trees have reached their conclusion, these trees actually continue to care for their neighbors. In fact, they are critical to the survival and propagation of other kinds of living beings. Desert wood rats, birds, squirrels, scorpions, and lizards can nest in the holes of a fallen trunk. Termites can feed on the wood, ensuring that the old tree recycles into the ecosystem. And even though the main trunk is expired, clones of the perished nurse tree can come up from the base and the tree can continue living.

When I got back from my trip to the desert, a lot of people asked me if it was difficult to be in such a beautiful place without Cindy to enjoy it with me. While I did feel some amount of sadness, I was often overwhelmed by how much the land and its inhabitants embodied her spirit. And nowhere was her strength, her compassion, and her selflessness more present than in the realm of the nurse trees.

Desert Photos Posted on Flickr

I posted my photos on flickr. Here's the direct link to the set: http://flickr.com/photos/dcjenniferm/sets/72157608886371123/.

Any picture with me in it was taken with a tiny, flexible tripod, so cut me some slack on those.

The First Widow's Club

Since my plans for a support group have been waylaid, I will not turn down any offer to casually talk to any other widows or widowers. So far I have three people in my unofficial group:

1. JL--Today I drove to Annapolis to have lunch with JL. Her husband, who was in his mid-60s, passed away from pancreatic cancer this year. She served me cold cuts for lunch and banana bread with Cool Whip for dessert. I haven't had bologna in ages so that was a real treat. Something about losing your loved one makes it hard for you to eat anything but the most basic of foods. In fact, for the first 2 weeks after the funeral, I lived off of mashed potatoes and turkey soup.

JL, is a friend's mother from high school. Although I have not seen the friend or her mom for at least 17 years, she had no reservations about extending support to me and allowing me to share my story. I was moved by her story as well and the struggles she endured while her husband was sick.

2. MC--He's my pen pal from Arizona whom I have never met in person. He is teaching me about learning to live a life with a "sweet sadness" as opposed to one with sadness and despair.

3. JP--She lives in Seattle and although I have never met her, she writes me the most helpful messages. This week she reminded me that it is okay to honor my feelings of grief and sadness, as long as I am still kind to myself.

Oftentimes, I have to write back to some of these members with questions like: "What do you mean let the emotions wash over you?" or "How I am supposed to be kind to myself when I just want to slam my hand through a window?" And, without fail, they write back right away and with an example from their own experience.

I am so grateful to these people for opening themselves up to me and holding a flash light for me as I walk through this dark cave. But, most importantly, I am slowly feeling accountable to my fellow club members. If they are doing their best to allow their emotions to be expressed, to be kind to themselves, and to enjoy each day, then who am I not to do the same?

What I Found in the Desert

There was one day when I lost the trail path during one of my hikes. I had veered off course a little to examine some interesting-looking plants and when I turned around the trail had vanished from me. While most of the trails were fairly well-marked, this one was a little tougher than the rest. I tried to look for some footprints on the sandy path, but I kept making more of my own footprints and getting confused. There were not a lot people in the park, much less on the trail I happened to be on, so I decided to sit on a rock and wait until another hiker passed by. I knew that if I tried to find the trail again, I would walk around in circles and get completely lost. So, I said to myself, "Just sit here and trust that you will be fine."

The sun was shining, the sky was this most amazing shade of blue, and I was completely alone. And I was so happy, in a way that I have not been happy in ages. I sat there for about ninety minutes just thinking, remembering Cindy and how pissed she would have been that we were lost, humming, eating salmon jerky (thank you Katie and Laura), and reading my astronomy guidebook. Eventually, I spotted a couple walking a distance away. So, I shouted over to them and asked if they could stop where they were so that I could catch up to them and get back on the trail. They were totally nice (from England in fact) and were more than happy to let me walk with them the rest of the way. During our walk down together, we spoke about the best time to visit the Lake District, why Piccadilly Circus is better than Times Square, and of course, the election and how we finally got it right after eight years.

What I found in the desert was my survival instinct. After Cindy died, I have to say I did venture into some dark thoughts and I lost my ability for a while there to visualize how to move forward. Everyone kept saying "breathe," "put one foot in front of the other," "take it one day at a time," but none of that computed in my mind. I had to somehow get back to what I knew before Cindy had the aneurysm. And being from NY and DC, I used to be pretty good at knowing how to take care of myself and survive. It was foreign to me to not know how to survive or to even want to. Surviving should be as easy as breathing, as eating when you are hungry, as going to sleep when you are tired. But when you lose someone that is your entire life, your love, your future, you temporarily lose your most fundamental instincts.

Being out in the desert, on my own, I was reminded of those instincts. I knew to not freak out when I got lost, I knew to bring 2 liters of water with me, I knew to bring warm clothes for when I reached the top. By the end of my trip, when I took a moment to reflect on it, I realized I wanted to survive and I had remembered the tools you need to employ to do it. What was once vague and lost to me was now as instinctual as putting one foot in front of the other, breathing, and getting up each day. I know there will be more times where I feel lost, but I know deep down, somewhere inside of me is a survivalist mindset and sometimes I just need to refresh my memory on how to tap into it.

JM's Desert Mix Tape

These are the tunes I've been listening to as I drive through the desert.

1. You Can't Always Get What You Want--The Rolling Stones
2. Going to California--Led Zeppelin
3. Intervention--Arcade Fire
4. Hey Jude--The Beatles
5. Hard Sun and Guaranteed--Eddie Vedder
6. Thunderbird
7. Life in Technicolor--Coldplay
8. See the Sun--Dido
9. Just Fine--Mary J. Blige
10. Born to Run--Bruce Springsteen
11. Thank You--Alanis Morissette
12. More Than a Feeling--Boston
13. Taking Chances--Celine Dion
14. Il Buono, Il Cattivo, Il Brutto
15. Alive and Kicking--Simple Minds
16. Lose Yourself--Eminen
17. I Still Haven't Found What I Am Looking For--U2
18. Take a Picture--Filter

The Nude Bomb

While I am in the desert, I can be anyone and do anything. There's really nothing holding me back. So, it should come as no surprise that I spent the entire day at a nudist spa and resort.

Before images of hippies and Renaissance Fair folk flood your minds, let me assure you that the nudists (I mean "naturalists" as they prefer to be called) I encountered were everyday people that you would never know enjoy a natural lifestyle when given the chance.

I met Richard, the son of one of the founders of the naturalist movement. He spoke to me for about an hour about the election, the economy, and the wonders of wind turbine technology.

I spoke to Devin and Carly, the married math teachers, who were here for a major math conference, but made sure to fit in time for a little naked living.

Before you think I only met self-proclaimed naturalists, I also spoke to people like Kristen who had never done this before. She is a breast cancer survivor who had a lumpectomy and a masectomy. I told Kristen that she had a great canvas there for a badass tattoo and she smiled and said that she already had something in mind.

I also met Jake, the avocado/fig/almond farmer from California. I enjoyed our conversation about the challenges facing American farmers today and the difficulty in making a living in agriculture.

Am I going to become a naturalist? Probably not. I went through an entire bottle of sunscreen in one sitting (who knew all the additional areas that you need to cover!). I'd like to say something very intellectual and profound about why I went. That it was some spiritual journey to get back to the core of things--to my natural essence. But, I'd be lying if I said that. I only went because I am never going to have a body as good as it is now so I have to make the most of it while I can. Of course, when asked what brought me there today, my fellow naked compatriots got the spiritual journey answer.

An Uphill Climb

When Cindy was in the ICU all time could do was move slow. I remember just sitting and simply watching her chest move up and down for hours on end. Everything in the hospital moved slower than expected. They said her first surgery would take 4 hours, it wound up taking 8 hours. They said the second surgery would take 90 minutes, it took 3 hours. After the surgeries, they said we had to sit and wait 14 days before she was out of the woods for spasms. And I remember just sitting in her room listening to 2 sounds: the sound from her breathing machine and the sound of the minute hand from the clock in her room.

Today at the park, I purposely chose the path with the longest incline. I've always felt that there was something meditative about moving your way up a mountain and not having to worry about the time. When I am on a steady uphill climb, time cannot pass slow enough. I never want it to end. When I was hiking up Ryan Mountain Trail today, I stopped often to look at all the trees and plants around me. I continually searched out flat rocks for which to place my trusty tripod on. I hummed the title song to "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly" over and over. I said "Hello Hiker" to any person I encountered on the trail. I remembered that sometimes the slow, monotonous passage of time can be a welcome comfort.

A Stop at the Crossroads Cafe

I have had the 1993 French film, "Trois Couleurs: Bleu" by Krzysztof Kieslowski running through my head. I have seen this movie so many times, I don't even need to read the subtitles.

In this movie, Juliette Binoche plays a woman whose husband and child are killed in a car accident. Suddenly removed from any familial bonds, Juliette attempts to cut herself off from all that she knew before. She leaves her apartment, abandons most of her belongings, and ignores her old acquaintances. As the movie goes on, however, Juliette discovers that she can never truly disconnect from society. She needs to work with her friend to complete the music composition her husband never finished. She needs to help her neighbor out of a sticky situation. And she decides to help support the mistress who is pregnant with her dead husband's baby.

Since Cindy's death, I am constantly flirting with the desire to cut myself off completely from all that I knew before. It's no wonder that I took a trip to the desert. Even though I am sure that this town has a population of 3, it's impossible to completely disengage.

I actually tried to see if I could go most of the day without talking to anyone. I was not able to make it. When I sat alone at the pool today, the lifeguard solicited my advice on computer jobs. I requested more bath towels and the front desk attendant asked me if I wanted any chocolate chip cookies. And a woman was unsure of whether to get the soup or the salad with her sandwich at the Crossroads Cafe and I could not stop from shouting out across the counter: "You've got to get the artichoke heart soup, it's the best soup I've ever tasted."

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Washington National Airport

This is the earliest that I have ever gotten to the airport in a long time. If you knew Cindy you may recall that she never liked arriving at the gate with time to spare. She much preferred to squabble in the car en route to the airport, park in the premium lot since we lost our window to park in economy, sweet talk the people we needed to cut in the long security line, sprint to the gate dropping our boarding passes along the way, and shove our carry-ons underneath our feet since the overhead compartments were filled with the bags of much more relaxed passengers who arrived at airports on time.

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Dancing in the Streets

I just got back from the impromptu celebrations on the streets of Washington, DC. After President-Elect Obama was declared the winner, thousands of people took to the streets to scream, dance, clap, high-five, sing, and hug everyone.

I had never seen or experienced anything like this before. People of all different races, nationalities, and genders were joyously shouting and talking to each other. What made this scene so amazing was that this was occuring ALL over DC, not just one street or neighborhood. Nicole and I drove from Capitol Hill to Dupont Circle to Adams Morgan to K Street and, no matter where we were, there were 1000s of people celebrating outside.

As we drove down the streets, cars honked and people shouted "we did it!" and slapped my hand as they walked by my car. When Nicole and I walked to the White House, random supporters came up to hug us. In the crowds of thousands around the White House, people waved flags, cried tears of joy, and sang the Star-Spangled Banner as well as a version of Ludacris's "Get Out the Way."

What made this spectacle so amazing was that all these different types of people were so happy and hopeful. It was not just one group of people celebrating. In fact, a number of people remarked to us that they had NEVER seen this kind of unbridled joy unleashed on the streets ever before.

I know Cindy was watching this from above with Barack's grandmother and, in particular, loving all the dancing in the streets. She would have been so touched to see all the races come out together like this. I would have loved to experience this with her.

P.S. Rocky, thanks for experiencing with me another monumental event in our lives. Nicole, thanks for be willing to shout with me and dance in the car until 3:30am.


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Election Day: Vote!

I voted today for Barack Obama. Did you?

"Surely we can agree that our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters deserve to visit the person they love in the hospital and to live lives free of discrimination."

--Remarks of Senator Barack Obama: The American Promise (Democratic Convention), Denver, CO (August 28, 2008)

Jack Tripper and Me

In an odd way, my life has turned into a scene from "Three's Company." You may recall on that show the numerous pratfalls that Jack Tripper could suffer through for just a solitary scene. In any given episode it would not be uncommon for Jack to trip over a chair, drop his wine, grope a woman's breast in an attempt to break the fall, land in a man's lap, and then have his pants split open all in front of Mr. Roper. What made those types of scenes so memorable was the absurdity of all those things happening at the same time. Only in a sitcom could so many unbelievable events happen all at once, right?

This evening I definitely felt like Jack Tripper. In addition to the everyday pain I have to go through from losing my soulmate and partner, there are dozens of absurd situations I need to stumble through every minute as well. Here's a sample from just this evening in fact.

I received a letter from the life insurance company asking me to prove Cindy didn't know she had a little pre-existing condition called a brain aneurysm before they accept the claim. At the same time I am dealing with this, there's the letter from the Postal Service informing me that Cindy's mail is going to be forwarded to her mother (without her asking me first if this is what I want). Thirty minutes are then spent on the phone trying to explain to her mother WHY I might possibly want to keep receiving this mail and why this was not her decision to make. And I have to believe that if this was a sitcom that our audience would love the running gag of me having to explain to her mom for the hundredth time that Cindy was like a wife to me: "She was my wife and I was her husband--only with bigger boobs." But, what really would have had our studio audience falling down laughing in the aisles was when I attempted to remove one of our air conditioning units and upon opening the window ever so slightly, watching the unit drop 2 stories to the ground.

As I sit here comforting myself with this newfound kinship I have with Jack Tripper, I am reminded that the best jokes in life are the ones that go balls out. And at least I can say that my specific miseries are not wimpy.

(P.S. Thanks to Martha for taking my call--I knew your crisis hotline skills would come in handy. Thank you Beth Boobs for staying with me on the phone for 2 hours until I remembered how to breath again.)

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Sleeping Around

As most of you know, I've been relying on the kindness of various people to not let me sleep alone. Since the time Cindy went into the hospital, I've been crashing in friend's guestrooms, sleeping on their floors, or having actual bodies sleep in my own guestroom bed with me.

At first, I couldn't help but feel like a burden to folks. I was uncomfortable with the idea that I was disrupting people's normal sleep rituals. I hope people know this was a survival mechanism on my part. I was so afraid of being alone at night because nights have this sneaky way of seeming eternal, foreboding, and unchanging. I thought that if I was with someone who needed to go to work, feed their kid, or walk their dog that I would be safe from the night lasting forever. If I was with those types of people, then, without a doubt, the day would have to appear eventually because they'd have to do their normal routines, right? As long as I believed in this, I could survive the night and not get led into despondency.

Last night I forced myself to sleep completely alone in my house for the first time. I'd like to tell you that it was easy. I'd like to tell you that I didn't have the TV on, the radio on, and every light on in the house at the same time. I'd especially like to not mention that at many points I pleaded with Cindy to come back and even offered to switch places with her. And I wish I'd never have to divulge that at one low point I started talking to the cat in the offchance Mr. Kitty was reincarnated as Cindy.

I can't really explain all this, but it goes back to taking everything literally and needing to believe in something bigger than yourself. Before all this, I was a pessimist and a cynic. But now, if you had a hidden camera in my house, you'd see that I am staring at pennies and hoping for them to move across the desk like Patrick Swayze did in Ghost.

But the pennies never move. The cat never talks back. And I am still here on Earth and gearing up for night #2 alone.

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A Thousand Cigars

There's a part in the film "Amelie" that always stuck with me. Near the beginning of the movie, Amelie discovers behind some loose tile in her bathroom an old metal box of childhood memorabilia hidden by a boy who lived in her apartment decades ago. She resolves to track down the former owner of the box and surprise him with this treasure. Eventually she locates him and leaves the box for him in a phone booth. Upon opening the box, the old man, moved to tears, has an epiphany as long-forgotten childhood memories come flooding back.

Since the funeral, I have been trying to weed through all the stuff in the house. If you knew Cindy, you know she saved everything. And I am not sure why, but Cindy saved most of these mementos in random cigar boxes. It's possible these boxes once contained actual Dominican cigars. But, as far as I can tell, their main purpose has been to safeguard assorted items from Cindy's short, but quite entertaining life: a matchbook from the Cafe Du Lac in Amsterdam, an old Swatch watch, a 1998 dime, a photo of John Wayne Bobbitt taken at a Dominos Pizza, a grey and black pebble with a cross on it, and a sticker that says "I Saw the Flame" from the 1996 Atlanta Olympic Games. These particular items pre-date my time with her. So, unless she regaled me with the stories behind these artifacts, I am left to construct my own tales of their significance.

I also come across the boxes that contain memories from our time together: a matchbook from the Palace Hotel in San Francisco where we spent one of our first nights together, her 2003 medal for completing the Las Vegas Friendship 5K (a race she decided to do on a whim at 5am--after staying up all night playing craps), a movie stub from an Almodovar movie we saw together. And, like the old man in Amelie, when I touch these items, a rush of memories flood my mind and it is almost too much for me to absorb. It is as if I am transported back in time to the origins of those remnants. When I look at the medal, I can smell the smoke of the cigarette she inhaled right before the gun went off. When I touch the matchbook from the hotel, I can recall the bright light in the lobby that forced me to wear my sunglasses inside (for which she made fun of me). And when I think about the Almodovar ticket stub, I can vividly remember our conversation about traveling to Barcelona before we got too old.

In the movie, after Amelie witnesses the impact of these mementos on the old man, she resolves from that moment on to do good things for other people. I almost feel compelled to adopt such a mission myself. And maybe the only way to dig yourself out from intense sadness and pain is to think of and care for the people around you.

Halloween 2008

I totally forgot it was Halloween yesterday until I saw about 3 Cindy McCains walking in Dupont Circle. In order to make the holiday more fair and balanced, I donned on this mask.

Don't forget to vote on Tuesday. Do you know where your polling precinct is?

Group Schmoup

So, I contacted one of the support group coordinators directly on the phone today and had to laugh after the call. I actually don't think bereavement support is rocket science, but you'd be surprised. Here's a sample of the exchange:

Grieving Widow: Hi, my name is Jennifer and I was referred to you by so and so.

Support Expert: How can I help you?

GW: Well, I need some support. . .

SE: Uh-huh.

GW: . . . in a group setting.

SE: Can you tell me a little bit about your stor--uhhh . . .your situation?

GW: Well, my partner died from a brain aneurysm a little over 2 weeks ago and I am only 34 and I don't feel equipped to deal with this.

SE: That's rough.

GW: No sh*t.

SE: How are you doing otherwise?

GW: Not too well obviously, I need some support.

SE: It's good you are reaching out to us then.

GW: Yeah well, it was really hard for me to summon the strength to do it.

SE: It's a good thing you did.

GW: When is your next group meeting?

SE: February 2009.

GW: Febru-- Did you say 2009?

SE: If you'd like, I can put you on the waiting list.

GW: There's a waiting list?

SE: Yes.

GW: Is there like really good food served during these meetings?

SE: You see, there's a cap on the number of participants and they are all 12-week sessions.

GW: But February 2009 is after Thanksgiving. It's after Christmas. It's after New Year's for pete's sake.

SE: I know.

GW: If I am actually able to make it through and survive those holidays, I could run your f*cking support groups by February 2009.

SE: If you'd like, I could call around and try to find you another group.

GW: Yeah, why don't you do that? I am really anxious to get in one.

SE: I'll give you a call next week then?


Needless to say, I probably won't be waiting by the phone for her call.


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