Orientation (a Widow's Experience on Long Island for Thanksgiving 2009)

http://www.flickr.com/photos/75449583@N00/ / CC BY 2.0

Without us even knowing, we rely on landmarks, scents, and sounds to orient us to a particular place. The smell of the evergreen, for example, might remind you that you are back home in Washington State. The ringing of slot machines as you disembark in McCarran International Airport confirms that you are back in Las Vegas. For me, when I am traveling on the Grand Central Parkway and I drive past the old Unisphere, I know that I have returned to Long Island.

The Unisphere stands twelve stories tall in the middle of Flushing Meadows Park. Built to withstand rain and ice, the stainless steel globe remains a landmark to anyone traveling between Manhattan and Queens. When it was constructed for the 1964 World's Fair, it was meant to build upon the fair's theme of "Peace through Understanding." The Unisphere represented the need for global interdependence (as it related to the promise of the space age). Now, more than 45 years later, I merely use it as a visual cue to let me know that's it not much further to my parent's house.

This Thanksgiving was my first trip back to Long Island since Cindy's death. The trip, for me, was bittersweet. While I was excited to see my parents and childhood friends, I could not help but feel reduced in some way to be there without my partner. For several years, Cindy was more than just a girlfriend I brought home. She was treated like a daughter by my parents. My sister considered her a sister. If it were legal in our state, Cindy would have been my wife. I had a life and a future planned with Cindy. I am 35 years old. Now what? Downgraded.

Normally, when Cindy was with me, as soon as we got off at the Willis Avenue exit from the Long Island Expressway we'd make a beeline for Vincent's Pizzeria to get two slices of regular and a couple of Diet Cokes. On Black Friday, we'd get up at 6am to walk over to the Radio Shack in the Waldbaum's Shopping Center to take advantage of the sales. And, when Cindy was still smoking, I'd invent elaborate excuses to sneak her out of the house so that she could get a few puffs off her cigarette. Don't get me wrong, I never condoned her smoking. But, Cindy in the throes of nicotine withdrawal was not a pleasant experience (trust me). This Thanksgiving, I did none of those things.

Each morning I woke up on Long Island this time around, it took me a few moments to get my bearings. I am sure other widows have experienced this. It's not that you are completely disoriented and don't know where you are. But, there's a piece of you that is hopeful that you are waking up from a long dream. That maybe this is the day where you finally end the nightmare. This actually occurs no matter what city I am in--I turn over in the bed, stretch out my arms, and after I confirm that Cindy is not next to me, I spend the next several minutes trying to figure out how I am going to make it to the end of the day.

On my way out of town, I took 495 West towards midtown Manhattan. As I got closer to the city, I could not help but remember how often I traveled these roads as a child with my family. And I recalled how the view of the New York City skyline never failed to amaze me. The Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building, and the Twin Towers stood out amongst all the other nameless buildings to me. Interestingly, one of the coming attractions shown at the 1964 World's Fair was a model of the World Trade Center. The original purpose of the Trade Center, which was to bring together entities involved in the business of world trade, seemed a perfect compliment to the Fair's mission, which was to highlight "Man's Achievement on a Shrinking Globe in an Expanding Universe."

As I drove towards the skyline this Saturday, I thought how disorienting it must have been for commuters used to seeing those two towers every morning on their way into work. In the days, weeks, and months after the Towers fell, who else traveled these roads hoping to see these buildings magically reappear? How many people, like me, used the skyline to orient themselves while traveling in New York City? Who else relied on the Twin Towers to tell them whether they were correctly heading downtown? And what could we rely on now?

Help the Homeless Walkathon 2009

When Cindy died, I set 3 rules for myself. My rules were so simple that I am slightly embarrassed to list them. But, here they are, in order of importance.

1. Don't get fat.
2. Don‘t become selfish.
3. Don't kill yourself.

I unintentionally came upon the first rule. Even before becoming a widow, I’ve always said that grief and mono are two of the world’s best diets. I dropped almost twenty pounds in the weeks that Cindy was in the ICU. If not for all the different kinds of pudding in the hospital cafeteria, I most certainly would have fasted the entire time. But, once the weight was off, I knew that I could not allow myself to put it back on.

Believe me when I tell you that when you lose the love of your life, you will need to draw upon every single ounce of strength and energy to not break rule #3 from above. To battle a grief as deep as widowhood, you need to be in tip-top shape both physically and mentally. Everyday your mind wants to trick you into thinking life ain’t worth living. People talk at you, but it’s so hard to focus because all you can do is see the face of the person you are grieving over. Your alarm clock goes off at 7am, but your body doesn’t want to move. Food is put in front of you, but even the thought of chewing tires you out. Negative thoughts come at you from every direction. I swear, since Cindy‘s death, I’ve been in a never-ending bereavement video game jumping over despondency, swinging above despair, and judo-kicking misery in the face.

One of the things that I’ve always found really infuriating about depression is the inherent selfishness that comes along with it. So, I knew going into this that I would need a way to combat those self-centered tendencies. I sought out places to volunteer in my community. To be honest, a homeless women’s shelter was not my first choice. I actually tried to volunteer at hospitals, hospices, and places like that, but none of them would take me on account of me being a recent widow. The only place that took me without question was the shelter.

I’d love to tell you some Hollywood story about how I got through my grief working with those less fortunate than me. Or weave you some yarn about how the women at the shelter taught me how to appreciate my life. But, none of that happened. I’m no Michelle Pfeiffer from “Dangerous Minds.” The shelter is under-funded, there are holes in the wall, and bedbugs in the dorm. Many of the women battle addiction problems, struggle with diabetes, and have inherited serious financial burdens. I used to think that if a person worked super hard, then eventually they’d be able to support themselves and get out of poverty. But, I know women in this shelter who work three jobs a day from 6am until 10pm at night and it is still not enough to rise above their economic situation.

Last month, the DC government slashed the homeless services budget, which boggles my mind since job rates are frighteningly low and the shelters are packed. In particular, Calvary Women's Services, where I volunteer, will face a $75,000 loss to its existing contract. This amount astounds me because Calvary already runs a super lean operation and trust me when I tell you that it‘s no-frills there. In an attempt to battle this shortfall, Calvary is hoping to raise some funds through the Help the Homeless Walkathon taking place this Saturday, November 21st at 9am. I will be marching on Saturday and I was hoping that you would consider making a small donation and earmarking it for Calvary specifically. To sponsor me, click here.

As for rule #3, I don’t have much to say. I loved Cindy with all my heart. I fell in love with her the moment I met her (my friend Rocky can attest to that, she was there) and I expected to spend my life with her. She made me laugh, she inspired me to do good things in my life, and she taught me everything I needed to know about this wonderful thing called empathy.

I’m still trying to figure it out. But hey, I’m still here. So, maybe there is one thing I am learning at the shelter: resilience.

The Deep Sleep

Since Cindy's death, I have been on the run. I'm not sure where I've gone exactly, but according to my calculations, I've jogged about 450 miles (in addition to numerous un-clocked miles roaming the streets of D.C. and hiking the desert trails of California and Utah). In the past twelve months, I have been on an airplane about fourteen times. When I wasn’t too busy orchestrating some out-of-town event to get through a holiday or anniversary without Cindy, I was replying to a text to go out with friends. But, I can’t do it anymore. This week, my body revolted. Instead of going to the gym like I normally do after work, I went to bed around 9pm each night this week. On Saturday, for the first time in more than a year, I slept for thirteen hours. Today, I slept ten hours. I have to admit that I forgot what it was like to be stationary.

Sleep.

I have so few memories of Cindy actually sleeping. If you knew Cindy, you know that she rarely ever slept. If she wasn't working overtime, she was cramming for a nursing exam, running to Babies 'R Us to pick up some new outfit for a friend's kid, talking on the phone to her mom, lurking on the scooter discussion boards, or packing our latest houseguest an amazing bag lunch. I often fell asleep before Cindy--my arm wrapped around her stomach, my nose to her back. In fact, in all my years with her, I never had trouble falling asleep.

Since Cindy slept so little in the time that I knew her, it is easy to recall the couple of times that I did actually see her sleep. In February 2008, our friend Liz treated Cindy and I to a night at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel (the only 5-star hotel in DC). Cindy was a third of the way into the intensive nursing program and we were desperate for some quality time together. Knowing this, Liz gave us the best gift imaginable: a weekend alone, away from our house, and in a city that we thankfully did not need to explore.

I will never forget those 24 hours with Cindy. No school books or cell phones allowed. We lounged by the pool, ate at the hotel restaurant for dinner, had drinks in the cocktail lounge, and fell asleep in the huge king-size bed shown in the picture at the top of this entry. Before going to sleep that night, I remember joking with Cindy that it wasn’t too late for me to “carry her over the threshold.”

When I woke up that morning, I remember leaning on my side and staring at Cindy. She was on her back, snoring, and wearing her “Pig Pen” (the Peanuts character) boxer shorts. I watched her chest moving up and down and wondered if she were dreaming. And, if she was dreaming, what did Cindy dream about? Things that made her happy? Bacon? Double coupons? Laying on a beach? Me?

As the morning went on, I started to get sad because each passing minute drew us closer to check-out time. If only we could have stayed in that hotel room forever--barricaded from the reality of our lives.

Even as I write this entry, I find myself constantly looking back at the picture above (taken with our tripod). In that picture, I remember feeling content, in love, and at peace. Do you want to know what I feel now looking back at it? Cheated and naïve. I had no idea that our weekend at the Mandarin was going to be closest we ever got to a real honeymoon.

I had no idea either that eight months later I would again be watching Cindy sleep, except this time in an intensive care unit.

When I sat next to Cindy as she slept in the ICU, I often thought about all that she did for everyone during the course of her normal day (it will always be ten times more than any of us could do in a day). As I watched Cindy sleep in the ICU, I held her warm hand, kissed the back of it, and whispered in her ear, “Cindy, you rest as long as you need. You deserve it. Take your time--as long as you need to heal yourself. I’ll be here when you wake.”

By Day 10, I remember nervously joking to whoever was with me in the room, “I bet Cindy’s secretly happy she’s finally getting some peace and quiet.”

Born Again

I have lived in Washington, DC since 1996. I’ve seen the cherry blossoms a dozen times and ran around the Tidal Basin a dozen more. I’ve marched for gay rights, reproductive rights, Darfur, and gun control. I’ve eaten the half-smokes at Ben’s Chili Bowl, the truffle-mashed potatoes at DC Coast, the fried chicken at Georgia Browns, and the infamous death by chocolate pie at Kramerbooks Café more times than I care to acknowledge. How could I possibly find anything new about the city that I have called “home” for the past thirteen years?

I didn’t want to get up today. Although I saw the sun sneaking through the blinds, I thought to myself, "What's the point?" Which trail could I run that would be new? What museum could I walk to that I have not been to before? I threw the covers over my head and tried to go back to sleep. I wished that when my eyes opened again that I'd be back in my old bedroom. If Pam Ewing could have a yearlong dream, why couldn't I?

Everyone told me not to make any sudden moves the first year. Don't quit your job. Don't leave town. Save your money. Take it easy. But, I'm restless. I turn from one side to the other, throw pillows on the floor and all the while I am stuck with this annoying Proust quote in my head: “The voyage of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.” Yeah, thanks Proust. I didn't ask for these new eyes. No one consulted me. There was not even a negotiation. I liked the old life that I had just fine. I'm tired, restless, and my heart is just not in it anymore.

Nonetheless, I decide to crawl out of bed and get the bike out. Could I ride around the District as if I were tourist seeing it for the first time?

If the first year was about survival, then this next year seems to be about awakening. I think I like the first year better.

I'm scared. Really scared. I don't have anyone to answer to. I make my own decisions. I am responsible for keeping myself warm at night. I cook my own dinner. I decide when to get up in the morning. I am learning these things for the first time--again.

Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote, "Sorrow makes us all children again, destroys all difference of intellect. The wisest knows nothing." Emerson's son, Waldo, had just died from scarlet fever when he wrote that. You think you have this life ahead of you. You see the future. Your course is planned. But, then your story is rewritten. What you thought you knew has been completely turned on its head.

You know I talk to Cindy? I ask her for advice. To tell me if I am doing the right things, making the correct choices. And I beg her to come back. I just can't believe that she left me here without her. The girl who couldn't bear not to talk to me at least 10 times a day on the phone. The girl who stayed up all night with me. The girl who promised me that she would never leave me. How am I supposed to do this? I know that the first year I sounded all kinds of smart and positive, but this second year I'm at a loss without her. It's like Emerson said. I know nothing anymore.

The first year I was surrounded. Crowded, in fact. But, I know in my heart that this next year needs to be me on my own. I have to re-learn, discover, and understand new things about myself. I used to tell people that I felt like an old soul since I had already experienced so much. But, now I am backtracking. I am a scared kid again--boarding the school bus for the first time and I want nothing more than to run back home.

I do want to go home. You actually don't know how bad I want to go back home--back to Cindy. I'm lonely. Cold. Tired. And I'm pissed that she left me behind.

This next year has me worried. Although, I emerge into it without any expectations, I am really scared. I thought the first year I was pretty strong, but this next year seems unpredictable. The only thing keeping me going right now? Curiosity.

Interestingly, during my informal bike tour around DC, I did discover a landmark that I had never seen before. As I was biking alongside the Lincoln reflecting pool, something new caught my eye. Hidden between the World War II and Korean War Memorials is a somewhat neglected dome temple commemorating the DC residents who served in World War I. It is also the only local District memorial on the National Mall. How many times have I run alongside the reflecting pool and never seen this structure between the trees? And why today did I finally notice it?