Blood, Sweat, and a Year

For the past year, my mind has been like a jukebox. I never know what song is going to be played and I am powerless to what is chosen for me. One moment the song may be uptempo and carefree, then hours later someone decides to dedicate the rest of their quarters to the entire Disintegration album by The Cure. Each song that is played transports me to a different time in my life, plops me in the middle of another moment with Cindy, and abandons me there until a new song is played. I secretly struggle with the desire for someone to trip over the power cord.

The year started with my fist slamming down against the windowsill, the skin ripped open, and blood on my jacket. Actually, let me back up a bit.

On August 21, 2005, Cindy and I watched the series finale of Six Feet Under. I remember gathering at Hamp and Chris's house to tune in for the final episode. Most of the episode was spent concluding the season's story lines. But, it was the last minutes of the show that stuck in my mind. The finale concluded with a video montage showing the deaths of all the main characters taking you from 2025 with the death of the mother to the daughter's death in 2085. While the song "Breathe Me" by Sia Furler played in the background, we sat motionless on the couch and witnessed each person's demise. I challenge anyone who watched the episode to tell me that they didn't reflect on their own mortality after that sequence. In fact, I remember vividly the conversation I had with Cindy later that night. It had to be at least 2am, we were already in bed, and out of the blue I remember intertwining my arms with Cindy's and squeezing tightly.

Cindy: Why are you still up?

JM: I can't sleep. I'm still thinking about that episode. Why are you still up?

Cindy: I'm doing my Sodoku.

JM: I don't know what I'd do without you. I'd never be able to go on with my life if you died before me.

Cindy: Jeez lady, you are so morbid.

JM: Can you promise me that you won't die before me? Can you promise me that we'll die together in our sleep?

Cindy: No.

JM: You're cold, you know that?

Cindy: I'm Asian.

JM: Seriously, I'd throw in the towel if I had to live my life without you.

Cindy: No you wouldn't.

JM: Yes, I would.

Cindy: Well, you shouldn't. You need to live your life.

JM: I'd die without you.

Cindy: You'd better not.

JM: I'll never be like Paul McCartney and forget all about Linda.

Cindy: You better move on.

JM: Why? I'd want you to haunt me forever.

Cindy: Golly lady, you are morbid. If I die, you better go on living. I want you to be happy. Now go to sleep crazy lady.

JM: I love you so much.

[2-second pause]

JM: Why do you roll your eyes?

Cindy: I'm just playing with you. I love you too. Now, go to bed and dream about the nursing home we'll be in together in the future.

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At 11:58pm on Tuesday, September 30th, Cindy experienced her first seizure related to the aneurysm. I knew. I just knew our lives would never be the same after that rupture. What else could I have done in that moment? The sounds. I hate the sounds. The site of the seizure immobilizing her body. When those images fly into my mind they burn. Twenty-four hours after Cindy went into the hospital, I grabbed a notebook and jotted down everything I could remember of the those two seizures (she had one in the emergency room too). I have not looked in that notebook since. I don't need to. When you turn to your husband, your wife, your partner, your lover and you say I want you to go first, this is why you say that.

I want to tell you that it gets easier. I want to comfort you by saying that you can do it. But, it's a bit like running a marathon. You'll constantly be battling your mind, your body, and the desire to collapse on the ground. Each day requires intense physical and mental exertion to make it to the end. Sometimes I wonder if my mind knew that my body would need to be in superior shape to handle this astounding amount of stress. Two weeks after Cindy's funeral, I somehow dropped about thirty pounds. And in the year since Cindy had the aneurysm, I have run a total of 402 miles. I'd wager that I've listened to Fleetwood Mac's "Landslide" on about 50% of those runs.

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The above photograph was the first picture ever taken of Cindy and me together. Taken with an old-fashioned film camera, we stood freezing in front of Teaism in Dupont Circle. We had just seen "The Royal Tennenbaums" at the tiny theatre near the Metro. We both knew we were going to love this movie based on the soundtrack alone, which featured The Ramones, The Clash, The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, and a score by a former member of Devo. It's hard for me to look at this photo because I had no idea, at the time, how this was going to end.

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I can't sleep. Even though I started this entry at 11:55pm, it is now 2:56am. I don't want to sleep. Once I sleep, it means that a year has passed. A year away from Cindy? No one could stand being away from Cindy that long. Even though she sometimes annoyed the piss out of some her friends with her inability to sit still, to commit to play dates, to pay for anything at full price, to wear anything other than her tattered hoodie, people still kept coming back for more. A year. When she was alive, I couldn't imagine 24 hours without Cindy. And now, I've had to endure a year.

I know I am not alone. In my cell phone contact list, I have the numbers of three other widows. I correspond with five other widows on e-mail. And I also connect with those that have lost their parents, siblings, friends, and even their own children. Our specific experiences may be different, but we all have a connection. I do not know how I would have survived this year without those people in my life. And, of course, I've had an awesome family, a wonderful set of friends, and a loyal dog to lean on throughout all this.

It's 3:25am. The battery life on my iPod is at 20%. Eva Cassidy's song has just ended and that song by The Sundays has come on, which is my cue.

The year started out with my fist slamming against the windowsill. Then, I ran as far as my body would take me. And now, after a year, I've finally accepted the fact that I will never be able to catch up with Cindy.

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Note: Some may wonder why I don't count the day she officially died (10/14) as the one-year mark. It's because as soon as she had the second seizure, she never regained full consciousness. Unlike the miracles you see in melodramas, she never squeezed my hand, communicated to me through blinking, or mouthed "I love you" after the first seizure.