memories

To Matt Lee on His Birthday

~ crossroadtrippers ~ Leave a comment

In November of 2022, I lost my mom. But before that, in April of the same year, I lost you, my friend, Matt Lee. Since then, I’ve wanted to write about both of you, but the fear of tapping into those emotions has had me paralyzed. I’ve felt for a long time that I didn’t get to delve into my feelings on your passing since my mom’s happened so soon after and overshadowed every aspect of my existence (and has to this day, really).

I’ve watched this date approaching on the calendar and been thinking about all you were to me and all you’ll never get to be to the world. While I do plan to write about you someday, in a more in-depth way, I wanted to put it out into the universe today that I’m still here, remembering you on your birthday and most other days as well, in hopes that somehow you know, wherever you are.

We were in Boston for the marathon and had spent the week with family when I read the news in the airport. Once we were on the plane, I grabbed my notebook and just started writing. Below is the unedited stream of consciousness that flooded through me on a wave of grief. I remembered things I’d forgotten about our time together and each one felt like a gift. Looking back now, I wonder if you weren’t guiding my pen.

I’ve since learned what happened to you. And though I feel some closure in that knowledge, it changes nothing about what I poured out when I first heard. The what if will always haunt me and the why will never seem fair.

My big-hearted friend, the mark you left on my life was unexpected and exceptional. Today I’m grateful that you existed in my timeline and the universe saw fit to allow us to adventure together for a fleeting moment. I loved you then and always will.

I was sitting in the Boston airport, waiting for my flight back home. Allen had run the marathon and we, along with Mom, had spent the week with Rick and Tomi. While browsing Facebook, I read the news.

You were gone.

But it couldn’t be, right?

When we were at the bars, riding bikes, drinking in front of the TV, at the stable cleaning stalls or riding horses, you were so alive. So willing to try anything. Fearless.

You always tried to get me to sing along to the radio and make up my own words. But I never did. I was too self-conscious. Crushes always made that worse for me.

We’d clean stalls on Saturdays and Sundays. I’d buy us Taco Bell and if it was warm enough, we’d eat in the park.

You were fun and mixed well with my friends. Melissa still remembers the birthday banana bread you baked for her.

I worked out to some dance aerobics DVDs and laughed at you when you were bested by the routine after insisting on doing it along with me.

You were self-conscious about your lip, scarred from a bad bicycle accident that happened shortly before we met. You kissed me insecurely and I tried to reassure you, but I’m not sure I ever did.

You spoke in riddles I often had to think hard to understand and that was part of why I found you so interesting.

I wanted you to love me. I wanted to keep you with me. But you weren’t the type to settle down, or even have a girlfriend, at the time. I know with time that changed and I hope you were happy.

I’ve missed you randomly for years. Wished you would have come to my wedding.

I’m sorry I won’t get to hear your voice or chat on FB with you again. The last time I messaged you went unanswered. But maybe you were sick then.

I wish I knew what happened. Maybe I could have saved you. Maybe not.

I can’t quite grasp this idea that we won’t cross the same path ever again. That my memories of you will be all I have.

~L~

A Note to My Groom Ten Years Later

~ crossroadtrippers ~ Leave a comment

Happy Anniversary to my husband. Ten years have gone by so fast but it hasn’t been easy. If we were to rewind and meet up with ourselves ten years ago, we would not be surprised to know that we desired all the newlywed perfections for our future; a big house, good jobs, the sleek suv filled with our 2-4 kids, maybe a Siberian Husky playing in a big yard, health and happiness. We got some of what we wanted, we finally moved to a nice sized house in a nice community, instead of the suv, we got the mini van we said we never wanted, we don’t have a dog (or any pets for that matter), we have maxed out on our dream number for children, we have had difficulty with health, but we do have happiness.

Our perception of happiness changed from ten years ago. I knew what I wanted and I couldn’t wait to get it. I was just as selfish with my desire to the check off every dream on my list as I was when I met you. I had taken a gnarly road to get to our wedding day and I wanted the road ahead to be as beautiful as the tree lined driveway we dreamed about. It didn’t always turn out that way. Every time we hit a bump on that beautiful road, I was easily discouraged. I waved my white flag and shook my hands at the sky but you reminded me to be patient. You had a positive attitude and encouraged me to pray about our difficulties. Three years into our marriage, we had struggled to get pregnant,  I had some health issues, and we learned our little guy had an incurable disease. For the first time, there was uncertainty in your eyes but you still held strong to the belief that God would see us through. The long, uncertain days became shorter and we began to adjust to our new normal. We began to bond closer together through our common struggles because no one else truly understood what we were facing. The endless nights of little to no sleep turned into years and we began to wear thin. Our special guy began to display behavioral issues, his seizures were never fully controlled and we always had questions. I would be close to losing hope and still you prayed. Your actions were and have always been selfless.

You are patient. You never complain when I need a shoulder to cry on. When those inevitable moments arrive where the world has crashed down on me and I have lost hope in myself, others, and my ability to move forward, you listen. You don’t try to fix me, you talk with me as long as I need, even when our conversation wears on into the morning. You constantly desire to do more and the only flaw I can see in you is the size of your heart. It is so big that you would give away all you have if it meant helping someone you loved. But on the other hand it isn’t such a flaw, God Himself answered prayers with self-sacrificing love.

The only question I would have for our future is, “What would I do without you?” Who would laugh at my terrible jokes, take time to pull apart my reserved personality and see me better than I could ever see myself, and who would help me carry our heavy burden? You are not just my husband, you are the perfect piece of me. I see in you all the things I wish I could be and I often lay awake wondering how I could deserve….. you……

We aren’t perfect but together, we can conquer the imperfections. We can be a cheerleader for one another when we feel like life has handed us too much, we can find a smile under the tears when disappointment once again comes marching in our door, and we can hold on to each other when we have no choice but to pray. It seems like a bulk of our marriage has been praying for answers and hoping we can pull through. In reality, I think the answers we have been seeking have been in front of us for ten years, you in front of me and me in front of you. We have been pushed, pulled and driven harder than most couples but we choose to face it together instead of turning from one another. Happy ten years. I can’t wait to see what else life hurls our way and how strong we will be because of it.

*d*

September and the End of Life

~ crossroadtrippers ~ Leave a comment

image

The red horizon was pressing up against the darkening blue sky. Wispy clouds floated along the cool air. Soon the grass would cool beneath bare feet. Now was the best time to experience the crisp air.

He would never experience another day like this. It was beautiful outside his hosptial window. It was September. My swollen eyes gazed drearily out his window and I imagined myself walking in the courtyard below, my bare feet making circles in the grass and my face toward the sky. The sun would warm my face and dry my tears. I would close my eyes and see the red of light and breathe in as I did many times on the hill outside his house.

I spent many summer days playing outside my grandparent’s house.  I would scuffle up and down the hill littered with stones along the edge of their house and down to the small pool my grandfather purchased for my grandmother. I would frequently put my hot feet into the cold water and my body would involuntarily pull back. I would dance my feet lightly on the water’s surface as I took in my surroundings. This was one of my favorite places to be. A creek ran through the back of the property,  while numerous trees, bushes and flowering plants, mostly Mother’s Day gifts to my grandma, lined the edge of a field. Well manicured grass extended in both directions and behind me stood their little house on the very top of a hill. They sold the house the year of my high school graduation and it has since gone into disrepair. Nevertheless, some of the best memories of childhood still reside there.

I couldn’t return there or escape to the space below so I stared across the sprawling garden and over to the stained glass windows of the chapel. I closed my eyes and wondered if I should enter and fall to my knees before the alter. I would kneel until my knees hurt and my back ached if God would just take this day away. How could something so terrible happen on a day a vision to the contrary? Could I get him away from his bed and out to the garden below? I wanted the sun to warm his face. I wanted him to feel the grass and experience more than the space between the hospital walls before he would no longer have the opportunity.  Maybe I could ask to move his bed next to the window. With multiple lines feeding his veins I knew it was impossible. His fingers were turning blue and his blood pressure was slowly dropping.

I had never before experienced the anticipation of death. It was awful and cruel. I told myself to be brave. I would stand at the window or wander down the hall in a futile attempt to collect myself and accept what was happening. I tried to fool myself into thinking I had been through plenty of hardship and could be an example of strength. My eyes would flit around the shocked faces surrounding his bed and I accepted the weakness we all shared. Every face was distraught and terrified. Many could hardly speak. I did not want to accept it but I pleaded for the day to end. My mind looped, “I can’t do this.” Then I would try to rationalize my thoughts so I could quickly return to his bedside. We had spent several hours watching him try desperately to acknowledge our presence despite his own agony. We knew the inevitable finish to this normally beautiful day was creeping closer with every tick of the clock. He stopped trying to speak and stopped opening his eyes. The clock grew louder and it became difficult to ignore amidst the deafening silence.

The awareness of death was strange knowledge. My grandmother paced the halls and nervously fidgeted. She could hardly stand to stay in the room and watch over sixty years of her life slip away. We prayed,  shared stories, and told him we would be okay. My mom tenderly cared for her father and only briefly left his side. She undoubtedly suppressed her own fear to make sure his hands were held, he was comfortable, and aware of her love. I wondered how someone who always took up such a large part of my life could be reduced to a small space aloft a hospital bed. We sat in a circle surrounding his bed, holding his hands, touching his feet, and crying until my mom raised her head from his chest and sad, “He’s gone.” It felt like we all exhaled simultaneously in disbelief and our breath lingered stale in the room. It was over and so was more than eighty years of a meaningful life. A part of me also died with my grandfather as happens with all those who share our lives. It was sad to think that his memories, experiences, and wisdom just died with him.

We stayed for an hour. My grandma started calling loved ones shortly after his passing. Her busy hands didn’t make a happy heart but it helped her deal with her new reality. I kissed his forehead and held his hand while he was still warm. His head was moist from fever. I told him that I loved him and hoped he would somehow hear me. This was one of the most defining losses in my life.

I have lost others I have loved. My uncle (my mom’s brother) died unexpectedly three years prior as did my paternal grandfather, but I was very close to he and my grandmother. I spent a great deal of time at their home and it became a place of refuge for me. That comfort was now broken and so was my grandma.

The day he died was gorgeous. I often try to imagine him rising above his bed and lingering in that courtyard outside his window. Maybe he went into the chapel and prayed for all of us still lingering beside his broken body. Maybe in our sadness he was freed and as joyful as he had ever been. Death is an awful truth none of us can avoid or understand until we are looking out to the broken faces surrounding our own deathbed. Maybe I too will be released from life in a hospital bed like my grandpa or at home like my uncle but it really doesn’t matter. What matters is who will surround us when it is time. I would be so blessed to pass like my grandpa. It was awful for those who joined him on his last day but he did not face it alone. The love of family gathered with him on that beautiful September day and remained to his earthly end. My grandma recently told me that she is starting to forget things about my grandpa. I told her it is more important to remember how he made her feel. It is hard to forget the warmth of a loved one.

This was the first time I had been at another’s passing. On the drive to the hospital I had no doubt what I would witness and I knew it would change me. I returned home that night eager to embrace my family. I had an earnest desire to enjoy those I love because my time with my grandpa wasn’t long enough. I wanted to keep everyone within my reach but it didn’t last. I also began to forget and a part of me has yet to accept. It will eventually sink in and I will inescapably be in the throes of grief. For now, I am reminding myself of how fast a life ended on that September day. Today I try to enjoy what time I have been given. I am sure the morning he walked into the hospital for surgery, he didn’t realize he would never leave. He had come in the doors and felt the last breeze on his face, slept his last night in his own bed, and took the last steps to a completion of life. He was a faithful man and I know there was more for him beyond his death but he didn’t want to die. Most people don’t. There is always more to do and another life to touch. There are more gorgeous days to see and grass begging to be tread upon. It is time for me to stop looking out the window and take in life.

*d*