Sometimes you catch me by surprise. Like when I climbed into the camper van we drove to the beach that day, and you were there. And it was then. And we were crying together. Then too, like now. Holding onto the precious few moments we had left, then. And now, the ones we’ve lost, stretching on from that dark October until forever.

Time is heavy when there’s not much left. When you know the end of the story before it happens. When you know it’s not a choose your own adventure anymore. And you want to throw the book into the fire. Derail the train before it crashes into the side of the mountain at the end of the tracks. Because then at least you’d be the one to decide. Deciding when to suffer and how. Instead of hurling toward that resolute stone wall at ever increasing speeds.

Sitting here now, alone, so many months later, it feels the same. Mourning our future lost, then and now, the life we dreamed and would never have.

Next time I want to choose my own fucking adventure. Like it said on the front cover. We’ll drive the camper van to the beach. And it will be the first time of many, or at least that’s what we’ll believe.

February 11, 2019

Listen to this piece on KQED Perspectives.

I have two identical black cats now. Michi and Kikiboo. One of them, I’m not sure which, bounds across the kitchen and I think, how did I end up with two? But as a new widow, I have a motto. I’m a widow. So I can do whatever I want. It suits me well. I’ll open a bottle of wine at 3pm. And buy myself some stylie new boots without looking at the price tag. And I can adopt as many cats as I want.

At age 38, with a toddler and two lovely teenage stepdaughters, I didn’t expect to become a widow. And honestly it feels more like I’m an alien who just landed on this strange planet, than anything else. I also didn’t expect to lose my father to brain cancer. Sit by his side as his body and mind withered away. Sit by his side as he shared with me his plans for a trip to Antarctica, among other other-worldly things. And hold his hand, baby Juniper strapped to my chest, as he left on that final expedition. And I certainly didn’t expect the eerily similar decline of my husband, the love of my life, to cancer, 7 months later, our baby daughter soundly asleep next to him as he took his final breath and transitioned to his next life.

So on this strange new planet, in this new life of mine, the life after my father and after my husband, the life after my step daughters moved in with their mom, leaving empty bedrooms and dressers full of clothes, I’ve been learning about grief. And it isn’t easy. Even an alien could tell you that. Grief, according to Jamie Anderson, is really just love. It’s all the love you want to give, but cannot. All that unspent love gathers up in the corners of your eyes, the lump in your throat, and in that hollow part of your chest. Grief, she says, is just love with no place to go.

A few weeks ago I awoke to my husband’s cat Cid dragging his back half across the floor. He could no longer walk, and I knew instantly Juniper and I were back at that goodbye place again. One more earthly vessel for our love leaving for another plane of reality, another planet maybe, moving across town or maybe to Antarctica, but certainly never coming back. And where would our love go now? Michi and Kikiboo, that’s where. I’m a widow and I’ll adopt as many cats as I want.

Two blue birds flying across the calendar page last July. And those birds still flying there now, last July, when the sky was blue not black. When we hiked in the hills and laughed until we cried and went out for Thai food hand in hand. Last July when you could speak and eat and smile and we’d plan camping trips and what colors to paint the walls. Last July when we were the birds. Soaring.  No one bothered to turn to August, or any other month after that. Or buy a new calendar at years end. It’s hard to imagine anyone ever will.

November 9, 2018

Most days I wake up hoping today is the day we’ll get bombed by North Korea.  I know many of my fellow Americans don’t feel the same. But who among them is kept up at night listening to that hoarse, rattling cough?  Listening as it slowly builds up, like the dread in the pit of my stomach, to a deep phlegmy hack, listening as it finally collapses in dry heaves over the sink. I clutch the blanket over my head and burrow down deeper, into a different reality.  Oh to reach down into those diseased lungs, gingerly, gently, pluck each tumor like a ripe raspberry from the strawberry walls. Wash them away, down the sink with the blood and the mucous. Rest my head on his chest, and listen to his deep clear inhale and exhale.  Fall asleep next to my love and awaken hoping we don’t get bombed by North Korea.

 

August 21, 2018

One-eyed half-smile gaze.  Involuntary Picasso. I gaze right back.  Into this side, the side where I can still see my love.  First, it was just the taste buds. Radiation searing through cheek and tongue, walnut sized tonsil tumor. Incinerated through maximum minute beams bouncing off walls three feet thick.  Taste buds too. When it came back, on the soft palate this time, it was his smile, the collateral damage. Jaw busted open, scalpel slivering away hour after hour, until only one side was left.  So many off-color jokes left untold. It’s hard to tell a joke like that with half a tongue. And now, the toxins. Winnowing him away from the inside, the skeleton of a fragile bird where his chest used to be.  Poisoning every pore. A clump of thick black hair huddled in the corner of the room. Lifeless. A dead rat. I lace my fingers through his still strong grasp, thumbing his new wedding ring, size 9 not 9 ¼. The first one slipped off and away somewhere the other day. The new one is smaller this time, like our lives.  And he wears it now, as I hold his hand in mine, close my eyes to try and remember his smile and mine, the way they used to be.

 

June 20, 2018

There’s a wildfire burning somewhere. It’s not far off now, they say. And at the cabin, we thought we were safe. We wanted to be safe. We ignored the fire. Like it fed on our thoughts. Like it could be snuffed out with ignorance.  But someone just warned us, it’s getting closer. So maybe we’ll shut the doors. Windows now too. Hold each other tight and wait. And maybe, just maybe we’ll be able to forget about it again. Let it burn without the pleasure of our acknowledgment to feed on.