Four Deaths

During the support group today, I was asked to describe the day Cindy died. I struggled with the question because in my mind Cindy died three times: 1) the night she had the aneurysm, 2) the morning the state of Virginia declared her brain dead, and 3) the afternoon the hospital turned off her ventilator. Which one do I talk about? All three instances affected me in different ways, the first one being the most traumatic for me. Do I attempt to share this with the group? A hundred images shuttered in my mind, but no words came out of my mouth. I looked away from the group and let my turn pass.

Not a day goes by without me remembering the night Cindy had both seizures from the aneurysm (the one in our bedroom and the one later in the emergency room). I have no idea how to live with this--probably the most vivid memory I will ever have in my lifetime.

A very small part of me wishes I had never witnessed what Cindy's body went through during those seizures. I watched my lover come under attack, her body helpless, and I could do nothing to stop it. I want to write so much here and release the sounds, the sights, the feelings from my brain, but I am consciously censoring myself. I can't let it out. I own it. This is my memory. I don't want to let it go. It needs to stay with me. Language is insufficient.

By comparison, the two subsequent deaths do not haunt me as much as the first one. I am not saying that I was unaffected in those moments, but simply that the first death scarred me in ways that (I hope) brand me forever.

Some people would think that the funeral would be the hardest day for a widow. But, the funeral is a piece of cake if you can set your body and mind on auto-pilot like I did. No, the funeral is not the hardest day you will have as a widow. It is not even the day or week after the funeral. The worst moment arrives months (or even years) after the death and it slams you against the wall.

Liz always told me this would happen. She warned, "Jennifer, just when you think you are moving on, you are back in the swing of things, and you are living a routine, you are going to get knocked to the ground." I, of course, didn't believe her. I mean, how could I go through an even worse mourning period than what I suffered through in those immediate days following her deaths?

But, it happened this week while Liz was on vacation. I didn't realize it, but this was the first week I was completely alone for a long stretch of time. Without a new adventure to look forward to, I was living a regular week. I wanted to call everyone in my phonebook, I wanted to go out every night, I wanted a friend to stay over, but I forced myself to stagger through the darkness alone.

Some nights I laid on the floor crying into a pillow. Other nights, I held my knees to my chest in an attempt to shake a coldness that would not go away. I even shouted up at the ceiling, hoping that it would take pity on me.

Tomorrow is Thursday. Five days on my own.

I am not the same person that I was before Cindy had the aneurysm. But, unlike Cindy's three deaths, I do not mourn the fourth death.

Finding the Way Home

When she lived alone, Cindy felt as if she lived in just a “house.” She spent more time out on the town than in the house, she filled the closets with sealed boxes, and she hung up pictures on nails that were already stuck in the walls. After I moved in with Cindy in November 2002, I quickly set about making the place “ours.” Artwork was hung up on nails that we had stuck in the walls ourselves, boxes were opened and unpacked, and furniture procured. Several months later, while Cindy and I were sitting on the couch eating breakfast, she turned to me and said, “I used to live in a house, but now I feel like we live in a "home." Cindy was not one to be mushy, so when these sentimental moments occurred, I savored them.

I remember one of our first nights in the house. We were lying on the dining room carpet and staring at the dimmed ceiling light. In the background, we were blasting 93.9 WKYS FM. Earth, Wind, and Fire’s “Dancing in September” song came on and without even looking at each other, we both jumped to our feet and started dancing in the then-empty dining room until 2am. The impromptu dance floor stayed in effect until I eventually acquired dining room furniture. Despite the change in the room’s function, Cindy often referred to it as the “dancing room.”

It is now 115 days since Cindy died and 128 days since she had the aneurysm in our bedroom. It took me about a week after Cindy entered the hospital to summon the strength to walk in the front door of our home to retrieve some clothing (I stayed at Karin’s and Chris’s in Springfield for the duration of Cindy’s hospital stay). I did not even set foot in our bedroom until after Cindy died.

In December 2008, I moved out of our home and into a new apartment with my best friend Liz. Without hesitation, Liz took care of all the moving logistics. All I had to do was just show up at the apartment after work. When I arrived the evening of move-in day, my bed, sofa, TV, bikes, boxes, and clothes were already there waiting for me. Liz managed the entire move and did not expect anything in return. Throughout this ordeal, Liz’s entire focus has been to propel me forward. Even when we were in the hospital, she said, “I am here for you--no one else. Remember that.”

Now, I need her help again, as well as the help of others. I need to get the last of my possessions out of the house. I still have several boxes, books, and random items to weed out. Those of you who have traveled with me back to the house since Cindy died know that I struggle setting foot in our old home. Just the other day, I went back to the house to retrieve some coats of mine and I came across Cindy’s old purple and black zipper jacket. I touched the sleeve, held the fabric to my nose, and just burst out crying. Liz and my other best friend Nancy have both witnessed firsthand the power of the house to knock me to knees.

My gut tells me that I have to get my remaining items out of there. I am living this dual life right now and my body is being yanked in two conflicting directions.

On the one side, I don’t want to abandon our home. There is finality in the act of collecting the rest of my belongings. That was our home. That home was our proxy marriage certificate.

But, there’s this other side of me that needs to move on--and I have been moving on. Whether I asked for it or not, I have a new set of eyes for this voyage. Possibility and opportunity surround me and I won’t lie, the journey is exciting. I wake up each morning wondering what new adventure awaits me. In fact, some days I experience moments of giddiness. I am 34 years old and can still feel giddy?

But, I can’t do it alone. I need help to get the last of my possessions out of the house. I can only stand about 45 to 60 minutes in the house. Certain objects I come across drown my head with memories of Cindy and I collapse to the ground. I need do this in intervals over the course of the month. The ideal helper is someone who can administer a tough love attitude and keep me focused. Since Liz has no problem knocking me around, she is going to help me wrap up the bedroom. Then, my tough friend Nancy is going to do the basement with me. I still need someone to help me pack up the study. Any takers?

I will never have a home like the one I shared with Cindy. But, I can’t continue living this dual life, the headaches hurt too much. I need to make a new home.


P.S. Does anyone have any photos of Cindy and me in front of our house? I searched all my photo archives today and could not find any. The only photo I could find was this one with Cindy and a visiting relative (shown at the top of the blog entry).

Vieques 2009

Have you ever walked on a beach, near the water's edge and you think the waves are going to reach your feet, but they pull back at that last second? You want your feet to get wet, but it's not up to you--the waves are unpredictable and uncontrollable.

Cindy and I traveled to Vieques, Puerto Rico in November 2007. The trip was actually quite stressful for me as Cindy complained about the cost of the flights, the accommodations, and the food before, during, and after the trip. As I told my therapist, this gnawed on my last nerve since Cindy did not have to worry about any expenses (I took care of all that). However, despite her annoyance at the cost, we fell in love with the beauty of the beaches here and were blown away by how clear and serene the oceans were. When we left Vieques to return home, I was sad because I did not think I'd be coming back again.

Soon after Cindy died, Hamp and Chris asked me whether I wanted to join them for a week in Vieques in January. Although my memories were still fresh, I decided to tag along.

During my time on Vieques with Cindy in November 2007, I kept a detailed journal. This journal not only included our daily activities, but my thoughts about Cindy, and my reactions to her complaints. Before I left for Vieques last Saturday, I debated whether to bring along that journal and possibly re-read those entries. But, at the last minute I decided to not bring it.

Hamp, Chris, and I went to Blue Beach on our first day here. For whatever reason, I did not feel overwhelmed by Cindy's presence. I had a normal amount of recollection about her, but nothing that immobilized me. It was not until we went to Secret Beach the next day when Cindy might as well have been hanging off my back.

As soon as we stepped onto the beach, I noticed those rocks. My mind so desperately wanted to see Cindy there. These were the rocks that Cindy actually sat still on for more than twenty minutes. I remember journaling about this because I was struck by how beautiful Cindy looked relaxing on those rocks. For a brief moment in time, she did not have a cell phone attached to her hand, there were no nursing books around her, and she was not dealing with a family crisis. If only Cindy could have had more moments like this. If only she could have learned to sit still for more than twenty minutes. If only we could have stayed there forever.

On Tuesday, I sat in those rocks in the exact spot Cindy did. I stared at the ocean as Cindy had done and started crying uncontrollably. For those of you who read this blog, you must think I am a sobbing machine. I promise you, I am fairly strong most of the time, but every widow has told me to not suppress the tears when you feel them. I am used to it now. Ever since Cindy died and left me behind, my life is this series of unpredictable and uncontrollable moments. When those moments are over, I force my body back to the land of the living.

Sometimes, my mind puts up a fight. I want to jump into the water after her. I want to find her among the rock formations on the beach. I want pull back the palm branches and catch her hiding behind them. I stayed on those rocks thinking about her, about us, and my life without her for about an hour. I did not want to leave because I did not want to leave her. But, much like the waves, a force pulled me back and hastened my retreat.

Photographic Memory (The Last Photos of Cindy)

Back in September 2008, during the weekend of the 13th, Cindy drove down to Virginia Beach to attend her mother's 40-year school reunion. At first, Cindy felt bad about missing my birthday (which was on 9/14), but I knew how important this was for her. And as I've said before, I thought I had a lifetime of birthdays to spend with Cindy. I had no idea this was going to be my last one with her. And even though this weekend was extremely busy for Cindy with school and work, she dropped everything (and sacrificed much of her mental well-being) to go to this event with her mother.

Out of the almost 150 photos she took during the weekend, someone managed to capture two photos of her. 

The one at the top of this blog posting is typical Cindy--she is hiding behind someone else in the photo (in this case her mother). Her brother, Ricky, appears on the right side of Cindy.

The photo below contains Cindy, her mother (on the very left) and her mother's two childhood friends.

If Cindy knew I was posting all these photos of her throughout the blog, she would be on fire. She would often say, "I take the pictures, I don't need to be in them." If you did succeed in actually getting her to be in your photo, Cindy would somehow find a way to crouch behind the tallest person or expose only her head above the shoulders of the two people in front of her.

Cindy's brother asked me for copies of these photos ages ago, but it has taken me three months to compile them. Is it hard for me to look at these photos? To answer that question with a simple "yes" would be an understatement. For me, looking at these final photos of Cindy from the reunion or even from the Labor Day half marathon we did is like staring at a set of x-rays. I am looking for warning signs, clues that the aneurysm was going to burst, a tell-tale sign that I missed months ago. 

When I first met Cindy, she said that I reminded her of Superman because even though I was awkward like Clark Kent, I was also strong and had bright blue eyes like Superman. Sometimes she would even call me "her" Superman.

But now, I disavow that nickname. If I was truly her Superman, I would have been able to save her. I couldn't save her. I didn't save her. I should have been able to keep her healthy. To force her to quit smoking sooner. To get her blood pressure down. To help her lose weight. To make her take it easy. To stop her from living four different lives. To sit on the beach with me. To sleep more. To love me forever. To be alive. To be with me right now.

I want her to be with me right now.

There are moments where I still can't believe she is not here with me. It's inconceivable. The pictures are all I have left and they will age along with me. And one day I will live to be older than the Cindy in these photographs and that was never supposed to happen.

The LOVE Box

Yesterday, in the mailbox at the old house, I discovered a hand painted box addressed to me with a label that read "Handle With Care. FRAGILE. Contains LOVE." I have not been back at the house in a couple of weeks, so I am not sure how long the LOVE box has been there.

I had no idea what was in the box, so I was hesitant to open it up. I also like surprises and try to savor them as much as possible. Therefore, I kept the box in my bag for several hours before deciding what to do with it.

When I finally got home (to my new place), I stared at the box on the coffee table. I did not recognize the name on the return address label, and it appeared to be the name of the artist who created the box anyway. A dozen thoughts raced through my head all at once. Who had this sent to me? What was in it? Should I open it?

I started to wonder what Cindy would do if she received such a box in the mail. Without thinking too hard, I knew for certain that Cindy would NEVER have opened it. Some of you (in particular Karin, Erika, and my sister) may remember how Cindy would marvel at the intricacies of a finely wrapped present. Cindy would become so stupefied by the exterior of the gift that she would often place it back down on a table to marvel at it. Sometimes, she would even run her fingers along the creases of the package and on top of the masking tape as if she were caressing a fur coat.

I have mentioned before how Cindy consistently gave way more than she ever chose to receive. She never expected a present and never wanted anything for her birthday or Christmas. When she did receive a present from a friend, it took every ounce of strength in her to open it. I think for Cindy, since she knew how much thought, care, and effort she put into the presents she selected for people, she felt incredibly touched and humbled knowing that someone else would do that for her. In fact, she often treasured the packaging that the presents came in more than the actual gifts themselves. For example, she received a gift from her friend Jamie that was tied with a simple blue and orange silk ribbon. Typical Cindy cherished that ribbon as if it were a family heirloom and saved it for years (she would have kept it forever if Mr. Kitty had not chewed it to bits).

Since I am not Cindy, my instinct was to open the box. After all, it said it contained love. This is the one thing that has kept me going for 3 1/2 months. What if I needed more? But, isn't that selfish? Maybe I should share this with a friend who has not known love? I have already been lucky in this respect for the love that I shared with Cindy was phenomenal, inspiring, and unconditional.

When I started to think about the intensity of my love for Cindy, I opened the box. I miss Cindy. I yearn for the opportunity to say the words "I love you" to her again. For the entire duration of our partnership, I was completely in love with every inch of her physical body and soul. I miss her, in particular, I miss loving her.

I opened the box and it was empty. Not even the name of the person who had this sent to me was inside the box. For a couple of seconds, I was crestfallen. Part of me was hoping that something tangible would have been in that box.

But, when I thought about it a little longer, I realized that what is or is not in the box is inconsequential.

I already know that I am surrounded by love. I saw it this weekend when I met the woman that had stolen my good friend Cheryl's heart. I took such pleasure in seeing the happiness in Cheryl's eyes when she knew that she was going to tell her girlfriend that she loved her. I felt it New Year's Day when I was touring around San Francisco with an old friend that helped me through an incredibly tough time. And I feel it anytime I connect with another person who has also suffered through, yet survived, a similar traumatic experience.

I have decided to keep the box on my nightstand near my bed. In front of the box is a small red heart with the words "love" etched all over it. The red heart is another "love" gift I received in the mail from a friend. For me, both these items represent so much more than love. They represent hope and potential. If I am full of this much love in my hour of darkest despair, I cannot even fathom how overflowing it will be when I fall in love again. So, I look at these items before I go to sleep and get excited for the new day to arrive.


P.S. I looked up the box on the Internet and found some information about it: http://www.artnewsblog.com/2007/06/box-of-love.htm. The box was created by an artist named Franck de Las Mercedes.

I would still like to know who sent this to me. So, if you are out there, let me know so that I can give you a proper thank you.

Swimming with the Fishes

I can only remember two times Cindy sat still for more than 2 hours during non-sleep hours: 1) after being sedated when her wisdom teeth were removed and 2) when we sat staring at the salmon and steelhead fish wiggle their way up the ladders and past the Bonneville Dam in Oregon.

For those of you that knew Cindy, you will recall that she had an inability to sit still for more than five minutes at a time. If she wasn't talking on the phone to her mother or Karin, she would be scanning eBay and Amazon.com for a deal, searching the Barrett's refrigerator for leftovers, creating a study guide for a nursing exam, baking batches of pumpkin chocolate chip cookies, or working on a sitcom treatment to share with her friend Jamie out in Hollywood. Despite all the activities competing for Cindy's attention, I never felt ignored or taken for granted. Amazingly, she had the power to make me feel that I was always the most important distraction to her.

Our time sitting together on that bench watching the resilient fish make their way upstream will stay with me forever. I had never seen Cindy look so peaceful and calm. Even when I took her to the secluded beaches in Vieques, Puerto Rico, she felt tense and fidgety when sitting on the white sand beaches and staring at the gorgeous blue water. However, something about the fish ladder lulled her into a tranquil state that would have kept me on that bench with her for eternity if it meant she was finally happy and relaxed.

I have been thinking a lot this week about the fish we encountered at the ladders. I admire the strength that allows them to swim against the current. I marvel at their bravery for making this journey in defiance of the hungry sea lions that congregate around the base of the dam. Moreover, I appreciate their tenacity to complete their journey down the Columbia River without looking back.

It has been 85 days, 15 hours, 5 minutes and 10 seconds since Cindy died. The current I am swimming against today feels as powerful as the one I struggled against back in October 2008. Dreadful sounds and unspeakable images of Cindy's two seizures that I witnessed still swarm inside my head and knock me to the ground. I manage to pick myself up and, much like the Oregonian fish, my internal compass kicks in to direct me onward. However, unlike the steadfast salmon and steelheads, I am constantly looking back.

Paula Abdul

You ever have one of those moments where you are running and then you turn your head sideways for just a second and you see something so amazing that it causes everything around you to move in slo-mo? I had such a moment in the Dallas Fort-Worth Airport around 8:05pm when I sprinted past Paula Abdul on my way to the 8:00pm connection I was trying to catch.

Paula had just purchased a drink at one of the concession stands and a teenage girl asked to have her picture taken with her. I thought for a second about grabbing my camera too, but I just couldn't pull it together quite like Cindy would have. If Cindy were with me at that moment, she would have said screw the flight, tossed our bags on the ground, pushed me next to Paula and mouthed "say cheese."

Some of you may recall that Cindy and I had quite the track record of bumping into the stars. From Matthew Broderick (photograph below) to Bernadette Peters to Eddie Vedder to The Beastie Boys, we have photographs or autographs of them all.


In fact, Cindy always made me keep a black Sharpie in my purse and in my glove compartment just in case we came across anyone famous. I don't know how or why Cindy got to be so good at meeting celebrities--she actually did not care at all about them as people, she never watched an episode of "E! True Hollywood Story," and she did not care to read Entertainment Weekly. But, anytime she took me to a concert, she would make us wait 2 or 3 hours after the show ended to meet the rock stars. During my time with Cindy, I met Michael Stipe, Duran Duran, Arcade Fire, and INXS among others.

The most grueling experience, however, was in March 2005 when we waited 3 hours outside Constitution Hall in 20-degree temperature to meet our favorite R&B singer, Jill Scott (see photograph below). Before the hypothermia kicked in, Cindy had been going on and on about Jill Scott's amazing four-inch gold heels that she wore during her performance. Cindy had even prepared what she was going to say to Jill if we got to meet her (something along the lines of "Your show was incredible as usual and girl, those heels were to die for!"). Unfortunately, by the time Jill Scott emerged, we were both frozen solid and the only words that came out of Cindy's iced-over lips were: "Good shoes." Jill looked confused as she signed Cindy's poster and CD.


In 2004, Cindy and I actually met Paula Abdul in the Phoenix airport (see photograph below). Seeing her again tonight, without Cindy, is what made time stop for me as I was running to my terminal. I wanted to show Paula the old photograph of Cindy and her in the Phoenix airport (I have it on my iTouch). I don't know why, but I wanted Paula to know that Cindy had passed away. And I really wanted to express to Paula the sentiments that Cindy wished she had told Paula in hindsight: that Janet Jackson would be nothing today if not for Paula's choreography during the Control era.

But, I did not stop running. Cindy would have been so disappointed if she knew I was this close to Paula and did not take a photograph. I don't know why, but I just could not halt this time for Paula. Something kept propelling me forward and I wanted to get home.