So I don't know if I've mentioned it here, but I've been seeing someone pretty seriously for the last 6 months. One thing that's been truly curious about this phase--and pertinent to the overarching theme of this blog--has been my dreams.
Since K and I started dating, I've had a series of nightmares unlike any before. I spent years having the whole "unprepared for an exam" dream, but these are less recurring and more of a loose narrative that feels so real I wake up genuinely confused. And to make matters worse, I've learned to recognize the dream while having it, which sometimes makes the dream shift into believing that I'm awake and discussing it. So "Inception".
Six months ago, the dream was simple: Amanda was still alive and had just come home from Texas. Somehow nobody had bothered to tell me she was still alive, and my life was just as it was at the time: beginning to date K. In that particular dream, I remember trying to keep them completely unaware of each other. Because how much of a mind-fuck is that?
Then later on, as my relationship with K progressed, that dream slowly began changing to one where I had to explain to Amanda--who at this point would still legally be considered my wife--that I'd fallen in love with someone else. So very "Cast Away".
Last night I had a new version of the dream. Amanda had come home, I told her how my life had changed, about K, about Alastair. And while she wasn't really happy about it, she understood and decided to look for another place to live. She also volunteered to not pursue custody, essentially freeing me to live the life that is unfolding before me. (And of course, to add an extra layer of weirdness to last night's, I had one of those "waking" moments where Amanda was still there.)
It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what my brain is trying to tell me: I can move on. Finally I'm not living in the shadow of What Was, but in the glory of What May Be. I don't expect to be done with these dreams any time soon, but it's been wildly fascinating to see how they've changed as my love for K has grown.
Showing posts with label Widowhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Widowhood. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 05, 2011
Friday, March 25, 2011
2 years
So today marks 2 years. 2 years ago I told my coworkers that Amanda had leukemia, and that I'd be spending a fair amount of time in Texas. Then a short while later I found out that wouldn't be true. It was a crazy day. I hated every single aspect of it. I've torn it apart in retrospect and still found absolutely nothing redeemable about that day. About that whole trip to Texas.
And yet I really don't have anything poignant to say today. Maybe I'm just exhausted. I've been up late almost every night working on one car or another, and it just hasn't left a lot of time for reflection.
There's a mood and tone that I feel is appropriate for discussing Amanda's death, but I just can't seem to evoke it today, and I don't want to speak from a fabricated emotional state.
I miss Amanda, but I love our son, so she's not really gone.
And yet I really don't have anything poignant to say today. Maybe I'm just exhausted. I've been up late almost every night working on one car or another, and it just hasn't left a lot of time for reflection.
There's a mood and tone that I feel is appropriate for discussing Amanda's death, but I just can't seem to evoke it today, and I don't want to speak from a fabricated emotional state.
I miss Amanda, but I love our son, so she's not really gone.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Sasha
Ten years ago, give or take a week, I was getting ready for my sparkly new job one morning when my kitty, Sasha, wheezed. It was terrifying and unsettling and lasted about 15 seconds. Amanda insisted I take her to the vet, but I couldn't risk being late for a job I'd had for less than two weeks.
She got to the vet within the next 48 hours (details are hazy now), and began a 6-month ordeal that would end tragically with her death.
Sasha had a disease called 'lymphangiectasia'. It's not curable, but we didn't know that then. We also had no freaking clue what she had, and neither did the doctors.
Her first trip to the vet, she had an x-ray that revealed a massive pleural effusion (fluid on--not in--the lungs). They pumped one liter of fluid out of her, and she was right as rain for the next month. But you don't remove a liter of fluid from a 13lb cat without worrying.
The next month, they pulled another liter out of her chest, and sent us to a specialist. The specialist removed half a liter (only a week after the previous drain), and still no answers came. We did our own research, growing ever more disheartened and loving our girl as hard as we could.
Then one day the disease got its name. We were told she should never have lasted the first month, let alone the 5 she'd already had. They told us that the drains would eventually cease to be effective, that her lungs would harden and it would become increasingly difficult for her to draw breath, and that we would one day have to put her down.
And then she sprung a leak. Late one night, as we were lying in bed, Sasha jumped up on us, began lunging back and forth, and we both realized the bed was wet and smelled like chicken. She was soaked through with her own fluids. Her body could no longer hold it in.
All manner of emergency medicines and vets were employed, but two weeks later she was gone.
Not an hour after the vet ended Sasha's suffering, I tearily set about removing Sasha's food and water dish to find a pill that she'd rejected the previous day. Amanda completely lost it, convinced that missing that one pill had undone our beautiful, loving girl.
Looking back to 2001, I realize now that losing Sasha was pre-ordained. I had to learn those emotions in order to deal with the fusillade of self-doubt that would creep into my heart after Amanda died. Should she have gone to Texas? Couldn't she have survived indefinitely on blood transfusions? Did the treatments she received there kill her? What about the original doctor who never bothered with blood tests?
And then I remember Sasha. Sasha had an incurable disease. No amount of pills or doctors could prevent her death--they could only delay it.
This month marks 2 years since Amanda died. I cannot believe so much time has passed. I could not have imagined then how relatively normal my life is now, and yet sometimes those tendrils of doubt reach up from the darkness and attempt to consume me. Amanda had an incurable disease. Amanda had an incurable disease. Amanda had an incurable disease.
She got to the vet within the next 48 hours (details are hazy now), and began a 6-month ordeal that would end tragically with her death.
Sasha had a disease called 'lymphangiectasia'. It's not curable, but we didn't know that then. We also had no freaking clue what she had, and neither did the doctors.
Her first trip to the vet, she had an x-ray that revealed a massive pleural effusion (fluid on--not in--the lungs). They pumped one liter of fluid out of her, and she was right as rain for the next month. But you don't remove a liter of fluid from a 13lb cat without worrying.
The next month, they pulled another liter out of her chest, and sent us to a specialist. The specialist removed half a liter (only a week after the previous drain), and still no answers came. We did our own research, growing ever more disheartened and loving our girl as hard as we could.
Then one day the disease got its name. We were told she should never have lasted the first month, let alone the 5 she'd already had. They told us that the drains would eventually cease to be effective, that her lungs would harden and it would become increasingly difficult for her to draw breath, and that we would one day have to put her down.
And then she sprung a leak. Late one night, as we were lying in bed, Sasha jumped up on us, began lunging back and forth, and we both realized the bed was wet and smelled like chicken. She was soaked through with her own fluids. Her body could no longer hold it in.
All manner of emergency medicines and vets were employed, but two weeks later she was gone.
Not an hour after the vet ended Sasha's suffering, I tearily set about removing Sasha's food and water dish to find a pill that she'd rejected the previous day. Amanda completely lost it, convinced that missing that one pill had undone our beautiful, loving girl.
Looking back to 2001, I realize now that losing Sasha was pre-ordained. I had to learn those emotions in order to deal with the fusillade of self-doubt that would creep into my heart after Amanda died. Should she have gone to Texas? Couldn't she have survived indefinitely on blood transfusions? Did the treatments she received there kill her? What about the original doctor who never bothered with blood tests?
And then I remember Sasha. Sasha had an incurable disease. No amount of pills or doctors could prevent her death--they could only delay it.
This month marks 2 years since Amanda died. I cannot believe so much time has passed. I could not have imagined then how relatively normal my life is now, and yet sometimes those tendrils of doubt reach up from the darkness and attempt to consume me. Amanda had an incurable disease. Amanda had an incurable disease. Amanda had an incurable disease.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Tomorrow Marks 18 Months
Hard to believe she's been gone that long. Harder, still, to believe that she last slept in our bed in February '09.
I've been moody this past week. But I've also been productive. Her closet is mostly empty, and now even has a few of my things in it (in addition to her 803,972 pairs of shoes). Her pictures and some of her nick-nacks have been removed from the bedroom.
Somehow it has been an amazing process to look through her things this week. I've tried to do it before, but always got lost in sentimentality within the first 10 minutes. This time, I'm good for about an hour, and things that never had any real significance at all are finally just empty objects. Brushes, decorative boxes, pictures of people I never met.
And because I've spent so much time in my bedroom this week, I noticed how empty it sounds without all those things in it. It's weird, but the sound-signature in the room changes ever so slightly when any item is removed. Spend 7 years in a room without changing anything, and then take something out. See if you don't notice the same thing. This has actually made it hard for me to navigate to the bathroom in the dark--I'd never realized how much I relied on the sound of the room for that.
But I don't regret it. It needed to be done. More needs to be done. I can't hang on to artifacts. As Trent Reznor reminded me the other day, they're "just a fading fucking reminder of who I used to be."
And even crazier? I've found an inner peace in doing this cleaning. Sure, the room is bare right now, but somehow I feel like I'm finally laying Amanda to rest. Well, more so than I have before.
I've been moody this past week. But I've also been productive. Her closet is mostly empty, and now even has a few of my things in it (in addition to her 803,972 pairs of shoes). Her pictures and some of her nick-nacks have been removed from the bedroom.
Somehow it has been an amazing process to look through her things this week. I've tried to do it before, but always got lost in sentimentality within the first 10 minutes. This time, I'm good for about an hour, and things that never had any real significance at all are finally just empty objects. Brushes, decorative boxes, pictures of people I never met.
And because I've spent so much time in my bedroom this week, I noticed how empty it sounds without all those things in it. It's weird, but the sound-signature in the room changes ever so slightly when any item is removed. Spend 7 years in a room without changing anything, and then take something out. See if you don't notice the same thing. This has actually made it hard for me to navigate to the bathroom in the dark--I'd never realized how much I relied on the sound of the room for that.
But I don't regret it. It needed to be done. More needs to be done. I can't hang on to artifacts. As Trent Reznor reminded me the other day, they're "just a fading fucking reminder of who I used to be."
And even crazier? I've found an inner peace in doing this cleaning. Sure, the room is bare right now, but somehow I feel like I'm finally laying Amanda to rest. Well, more so than I have before.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
10th Anniversary
10 years ago, May 19, 2000, I married my college sweetheart. We'd been engaged one day shy of 6 months, had just moved into a new house, and I had (only 4 days prior) started a new job. It was a bit of a whirlwind.
Our wedding ceremony clocked in at 27 minutes, something our mid-20's friends REALLY appreciated. After a bit of a delay for pictures, Amanda and I took an English taxi to Henrico County's Belmont Golf Course for our reception. There was a vicious thunderstorm outside while we ate cake and danced and acted silly inside.
At the end of the reception, we gathered with our friends on the back patio at the facility and burned enormous illegal sparklers, then retired to our house for even more partying.
The next day, after everyone left, we took our sweet time packing for Asheville, pausing to open a number of really awesome gifts (including a bunch of Star Wars Lego sets!). We spent days in Asheville, staying at the Grove Park Inn and visiting the Biltmore and Chimney Rock Park. We decided then & there to return for our 5th anniversary (whereupon we further decided to return for our 10th).
And then we spent almost 9 years of wedded bliss together.
And then she died.
My plan for today had been to return to Asheville in her absence. Maybe take Alastair, maybe not. I had wanted to scatter her ashes at Chimney Rock.
But that would mean planning it. And planning to discard her ashes (which aren't even in my care) is just too much to consider. She's gone, and I know that, and sentimentality is not the same as memory, but letting go is so damned hard. I recently opened her closet to help a friend find a dress for a wedding. I was horrified to discover that some of her clothes are already moth-eaten, but they're still her clothes. Which is dumb, because there's no more "her".
It's so much easier to just leave the closet closed.
Our wedding ceremony clocked in at 27 minutes, something our mid-20's friends REALLY appreciated. After a bit of a delay for pictures, Amanda and I took an English taxi to Henrico County's Belmont Golf Course for our reception. There was a vicious thunderstorm outside while we ate cake and danced and acted silly inside.
At the end of the reception, we gathered with our friends on the back patio at the facility and burned enormous illegal sparklers, then retired to our house for even more partying.
The next day, after everyone left, we took our sweet time packing for Asheville, pausing to open a number of really awesome gifts (including a bunch of Star Wars Lego sets!). We spent days in Asheville, staying at the Grove Park Inn and visiting the Biltmore and Chimney Rock Park. We decided then & there to return for our 5th anniversary (whereupon we further decided to return for our 10th).
And then we spent almost 9 years of wedded bliss together.
And then she died.
My plan for today had been to return to Asheville in her absence. Maybe take Alastair, maybe not. I had wanted to scatter her ashes at Chimney Rock.
But that would mean planning it. And planning to discard her ashes (which aren't even in my care) is just too much to consider. She's gone, and I know that, and sentimentality is not the same as memory, but letting go is so damned hard. I recently opened her closet to help a friend find a dress for a wedding. I was horrified to discover that some of her clothes are already moth-eaten, but they're still her clothes. Which is dumb, because there's no more "her".
It's so much easier to just leave the closet closed.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
And Then I Went for a Run
The Ukrop's Monument Ave 10K holds a lot of symbolism for me. 4 years in a row, it's had a big impact on my life.
The first year, 2007, was the first time I ever tackled it. Amanda and I ran it together, and while I vowed never to do it again because of all the damned walkers who insisted that they should be in Group A, Amanda decided that it was an event that she would do annually. We really did have a great time running it, and we ran into a bunch of friends afterward, and it was really just a lot of fun. I fell off the training wagon shortly thereafter, figuring I was done.
But not Amanda. It was when she was first starting to prepare for the 2008 race that she realized Something Was Wrong. An initial run outside saw her get no more than 4 blocks before she came home with a racing heart and feeling very ill. She decided to skip the race and gave her bib to her friend Kim Thies the night before being admitted to the hospital. The race was run the same day our hell began in earnest.
Last year, the race was 3 days after her death. I'd just returned from Texas the night before, had just told Alastair that his mother was gone, and we spent the night with my dad, who lives on the 10K route. We got up the next morning and cheered on the runners, several of whom were running in Amanda's memory.
This year, because she loved that race so much, I decided the best way for me to commemorate the anniversary of her death was to run the thing myself. I'd put down a pretty good pace in '07, and figured with 3 months to train, I'd match that time.
Two months into training, my back decided that running was not my friend. I hurt so bad I could barely walk, and had to give up running for 3 weeks to get the pain back under control. With two weeks left before the event, I started again, managing only 3 miles the first run, and just over 4 in my last training session. I was devastated. I went into the race yesterday very upset that I was going to fail her memory. She'd endured so much pain just to survive, and I was going to let a little pain prevent me from doing something to honor her memory. It was sickening.
The whole race I felt off-pace, and when I got to 4 miles, it became a misery to put one foot in front of the other. At 4.5 miles (roughly), I stopped to kiss my boy, who was sitting once again on my dad's porch. It was a serious struggle to get going again, and at 5.2 miles, after getting a sip of water (and choking on it badly), I gave up and walked a couple blocks.
People look at you strangely when you stop running and start walking, especially in some of the faster run-groups--I actually got a couple of scornful looks. I really could have used some encouragement, and I found it thinking about Amanda. I picked my feet up and ran again, promising myself I'd walk again before the finish line. I never did, and ended up crossing the timing line 6 seconds faster than I did in '07. My final time was 52:11, and as soon as I crossed the line I started crying. It's really really hard to cry when you can't inhale, and I felt like there was a stone on my chest. But I'd finished, and I'd done it for her, and I was so upset and just couldn't get the emotions out.
And I'll do it again. Absolutely.
I really appreciate all the support of my friends who contributed to my fund-raising efforts. All told we raised $790 for Massey Cancer Center. Whenever I felt down and out in the race, I'd think about all of you and your support, and it gave me strength to push just a little bit farther.
The first year, 2007, was the first time I ever tackled it. Amanda and I ran it together, and while I vowed never to do it again because of all the damned walkers who insisted that they should be in Group A, Amanda decided that it was an event that she would do annually. We really did have a great time running it, and we ran into a bunch of friends afterward, and it was really just a lot of fun. I fell off the training wagon shortly thereafter, figuring I was done.
But not Amanda. It was when she was first starting to prepare for the 2008 race that she realized Something Was Wrong. An initial run outside saw her get no more than 4 blocks before she came home with a racing heart and feeling very ill. She decided to skip the race and gave her bib to her friend Kim Thies the night before being admitted to the hospital. The race was run the same day our hell began in earnest.
Last year, the race was 3 days after her death. I'd just returned from Texas the night before, had just told Alastair that his mother was gone, and we spent the night with my dad, who lives on the 10K route. We got up the next morning and cheered on the runners, several of whom were running in Amanda's memory.
This year, because she loved that race so much, I decided the best way for me to commemorate the anniversary of her death was to run the thing myself. I'd put down a pretty good pace in '07, and figured with 3 months to train, I'd match that time.
Two months into training, my back decided that running was not my friend. I hurt so bad I could barely walk, and had to give up running for 3 weeks to get the pain back under control. With two weeks left before the event, I started again, managing only 3 miles the first run, and just over 4 in my last training session. I was devastated. I went into the race yesterday very upset that I was going to fail her memory. She'd endured so much pain just to survive, and I was going to let a little pain prevent me from doing something to honor her memory. It was sickening.
The whole race I felt off-pace, and when I got to 4 miles, it became a misery to put one foot in front of the other. At 4.5 miles (roughly), I stopped to kiss my boy, who was sitting once again on my dad's porch. It was a serious struggle to get going again, and at 5.2 miles, after getting a sip of water (and choking on it badly), I gave up and walked a couple blocks.
People look at you strangely when you stop running and start walking, especially in some of the faster run-groups--I actually got a couple of scornful looks. I really could have used some encouragement, and I found it thinking about Amanda. I picked my feet up and ran again, promising myself I'd walk again before the finish line. I never did, and ended up crossing the timing line 6 seconds faster than I did in '07. My final time was 52:11, and as soon as I crossed the line I started crying. It's really really hard to cry when you can't inhale, and I felt like there was a stone on my chest. But I'd finished, and I'd done it for her, and I was so upset and just couldn't get the emotions out.
And I'll do it again. Absolutely.
I really appreciate all the support of my friends who contributed to my fund-raising efforts. All told we raised $790 for Massey Cancer Center. Whenever I felt down and out in the race, I'd think about all of you and your support, and it gave me strength to push just a little bit farther.
A Very Pleasant Distraction
or
Planes, trains, and no goddamn race cars. Can you please shut up about the race cars? I'm sorry I told you there would be race cars. Jeez. We have one at home.
To mark the anniversary of Amanda's death, we went and did some of her favorite things. It got us out of the house, out of our routine, away from the Internet and work and all the things that give me time to sit and reflect on my loss. And it was fabulous.
We got up bright & early Thursday morning, the electricity of impending adventure filling the air in the house as we scrambled to eat a quick breakfast. We got to the train station with only 5 minutes to spare (perfect for traveling w/ a 4-yr-old, but Amanda would have been vomiting with angst). The ride up was gloriously uneventful. Alastair was delighted and maybe a touch bored with train travel, though he had to admit it was far more comfortable than going by car--he could get up, pee, play with toys, and even had a fold-down table for his snack!
That same manic energy pervaded at the thought of underground trains, and he was making hardened DC locals giggle at his continual announcements on the Metro that our stop was next.
We checked our bags at the hotel and wandered off to the Air & Space museum, only to realize upon entering that there was no coat-check, and that we would have to throw our lunch bag away if we wanted to enter. This was not an ideal solution, and neither was walking the 7 blocks back to the hotel, but walk we did. Now, a 4 year old can do 7 blocks. He can even do 14. But asking him to do 21 because you didn't realize you'd need to store your lunch bag makes him crabby & tired. It will also make you crabby & tired because at some point you'll be carrying him.
Ultimately we got to Air & Space, and his mind was blown. All the airplanes hanging from the ceilings were cool, but the walk-through exhibits left him gape-mouthed, and the rockets! The scale-model of the shuttle! Exploration of space and hands-on exhibits and...and...and...! We even spent the $14 to ride in the flight simulator, which got us off our feet for a while and was actually pretty convincing, if a touch nauseating.
That child spent 2 solid hours in Air & Space. Every time he'd ask if we could leave, his eyes would catch something else that he HAD to explore. And of course, we HAD to go check out the gift shop, where he got a little toy space shuttle that became the GREATEST TOY EVER (if only for 24 hours).
Exhausted, we walked back to the hotel again, ate our lunch, checked in, and I passed out cold for an hour while he played on the floor. Honestly, where does the energy come from?
After my nap, we took the Metro to the Natural History museum, where I'd promised dinosaur bones. This child--this 4 year old child--walks into the dinosaur exhibit and immediately begins accurately identifying skeletons. Skeletons! He'd never even seen bones in his whole life, but he's identifying bodies by bones. Holy junk!
It took some prodding to get him into other parts of the museum, because really: what can compete with dinosaur bones? But explore we did, and with some pretty awesome results. When he saw the right whale suspended above us, he immediately identified the seemingly-inverted jaw-structure. He watched a video on octopi and marveled at the cephalopod remains. We identified species from "Finding Nemo", including the giant jelly-fish. He had an AWESOME time.
Once again we hoofed it back to the hotel, got ready for dinner, and headed out to the District Chophouse to meet some very dear friends.
The District Chophouse, I must mention, is one of my favorite places in the world to eat. Amanda and I discovered it quite by accident on a trip to see Curve play at the 9:30 Club back in '98 or '99, and I have never been to DC again without stopping there for a meal. Amanda quite enjoyed it, too, just as she enjoyed trains, museums, and travel, so it was important to me that we eat there.
Alastair hated it.
Oh well.
After a delicious dinner, it was time to take the Metro one last time for the day, take a bath, and put a boy to bed. I went downstairs with the worst possible book in the entire history of the world, and proceeded to weep openly in the lobby. Pro tip: on the anniversary of your wife's death (esp. to cancer), DO NOT read The Art of Racing in the Rain.
Friday morning, we got up, headed downstairs to a really wonderful buffet breakfast, donned our swimgear, and headed out in the cold windy rain to the rooftop pool. Now, before you think I've completely lost my mind, it bears mentioning that this particular pool is both heated and enclosed within an inflatable structure, so I was not endangering my boy too much. We splashed around for about an hour before dashing our way back through the cold wind to prepare for our final museum: the American History musuem. And that's where the wheels came off.
I had made the mistake of telling him that there were trains, motorcycles, and race cars. Because dammit, there used to be race cars there. Oh, sure: there were 4 big, completely awesome trains, a bunch of old cars & motorcycles, a Mack Truck, and even a trolley, but I failed my child because there were no discernible race cars. We even found a helicopter there--something he'd desperately wanted to see (but didn't) at Air & Space--but no race cars.
And he let me know his dissatisfaction. For hours. Dear sweet Jesus, we have a fucking race car at home. One that he can crawl all over with NO repercussions. It's not roped off, it's not behind a glass wall. He can sit in it, wear my helmet, and flip all the switches. But there was no race car in the museum. STAB STAB STAB.
Ahem.
We got out of American History with less than an hour before our train back to RVA, high-tailed it back to the hotel, grabbed a quick McD's lunch, scrambled with our bags through two Metro lines, and got to Union Station with 10 minutes before our train boarded. Again, Amanda would be puking and probably not speaking to me, but with Alastair the timing couldn't be better.
And he passed out on my lap for about an hour of the ride.
And he wants to go back. We had a really great time, and he's been running his mouth to anyone who'll listen about all the awesome stuff he saw, and he's excited about the possibility of going back. AND he started getting really excited about going back to the beach, too. Every time we were in the hotel he'd start yammering about how much the room was like the one we had at the beach.
So I think it's gonna be an AWESOME year with my bold little adventurer. And I can't wait. All aboard!
Planes, trains, and no goddamn race cars. Can you please shut up about the race cars? I'm sorry I told you there would be race cars. Jeez. We have one at home.
To mark the anniversary of Amanda's death, we went and did some of her favorite things. It got us out of the house, out of our routine, away from the Internet and work and all the things that give me time to sit and reflect on my loss. And it was fabulous.
We got up bright & early Thursday morning, the electricity of impending adventure filling the air in the house as we scrambled to eat a quick breakfast. We got to the train station with only 5 minutes to spare (perfect for traveling w/ a 4-yr-old, but Amanda would have been vomiting with angst). The ride up was gloriously uneventful. Alastair was delighted and maybe a touch bored with train travel, though he had to admit it was far more comfortable than going by car--he could get up, pee, play with toys, and even had a fold-down table for his snack!
That same manic energy pervaded at the thought of underground trains, and he was making hardened DC locals giggle at his continual announcements on the Metro that our stop was next.
We checked our bags at the hotel and wandered off to the Air & Space museum, only to realize upon entering that there was no coat-check, and that we would have to throw our lunch bag away if we wanted to enter. This was not an ideal solution, and neither was walking the 7 blocks back to the hotel, but walk we did. Now, a 4 year old can do 7 blocks. He can even do 14. But asking him to do 21 because you didn't realize you'd need to store your lunch bag makes him crabby & tired. It will also make you crabby & tired because at some point you'll be carrying him.
Ultimately we got to Air & Space, and his mind was blown. All the airplanes hanging from the ceilings were cool, but the walk-through exhibits left him gape-mouthed, and the rockets! The scale-model of the shuttle! Exploration of space and hands-on exhibits and...and...and...! We even spent the $14 to ride in the flight simulator, which got us off our feet for a while and was actually pretty convincing, if a touch nauseating.
That child spent 2 solid hours in Air & Space. Every time he'd ask if we could leave, his eyes would catch something else that he HAD to explore. And of course, we HAD to go check out the gift shop, where he got a little toy space shuttle that became the GREATEST TOY EVER (if only for 24 hours).
Exhausted, we walked back to the hotel again, ate our lunch, checked in, and I passed out cold for an hour while he played on the floor. Honestly, where does the energy come from?
After my nap, we took the Metro to the Natural History museum, where I'd promised dinosaur bones. This child--this 4 year old child--walks into the dinosaur exhibit and immediately begins accurately identifying skeletons. Skeletons! He'd never even seen bones in his whole life, but he's identifying bodies by bones. Holy junk!
It took some prodding to get him into other parts of the museum, because really: what can compete with dinosaur bones? But explore we did, and with some pretty awesome results. When he saw the right whale suspended above us, he immediately identified the seemingly-inverted jaw-structure. He watched a video on octopi and marveled at the cephalopod remains. We identified species from "Finding Nemo", including the giant jelly-fish. He had an AWESOME time.
Once again we hoofed it back to the hotel, got ready for dinner, and headed out to the District Chophouse to meet some very dear friends.
The District Chophouse, I must mention, is one of my favorite places in the world to eat. Amanda and I discovered it quite by accident on a trip to see Curve play at the 9:30 Club back in '98 or '99, and I have never been to DC again without stopping there for a meal. Amanda quite enjoyed it, too, just as she enjoyed trains, museums, and travel, so it was important to me that we eat there.
Alastair hated it.
Oh well.
After a delicious dinner, it was time to take the Metro one last time for the day, take a bath, and put a boy to bed. I went downstairs with the worst possible book in the entire history of the world, and proceeded to weep openly in the lobby. Pro tip: on the anniversary of your wife's death (esp. to cancer), DO NOT read The Art of Racing in the Rain.
Friday morning, we got up, headed downstairs to a really wonderful buffet breakfast, donned our swimgear, and headed out in the cold windy rain to the rooftop pool. Now, before you think I've completely lost my mind, it bears mentioning that this particular pool is both heated and enclosed within an inflatable structure, so I was not endangering my boy too much. We splashed around for about an hour before dashing our way back through the cold wind to prepare for our final museum: the American History musuem. And that's where the wheels came off.
I had made the mistake of telling him that there were trains, motorcycles, and race cars. Because dammit, there used to be race cars there. Oh, sure: there were 4 big, completely awesome trains, a bunch of old cars & motorcycles, a Mack Truck, and even a trolley, but I failed my child because there were no discernible race cars. We even found a helicopter there--something he'd desperately wanted to see (but didn't) at Air & Space--but no race cars.
And he let me know his dissatisfaction. For hours. Dear sweet Jesus, we have a fucking race car at home. One that he can crawl all over with NO repercussions. It's not roped off, it's not behind a glass wall. He can sit in it, wear my helmet, and flip all the switches. But there was no race car in the museum. STAB STAB STAB.
Ahem.
We got out of American History with less than an hour before our train back to RVA, high-tailed it back to the hotel, grabbed a quick McD's lunch, scrambled with our bags through two Metro lines, and got to Union Station with 10 minutes before our train boarded. Again, Amanda would be puking and probably not speaking to me, but with Alastair the timing couldn't be better.
And he passed out on my lap for about an hour of the ride.
And he wants to go back. We had a really great time, and he's been running his mouth to anyone who'll listen about all the awesome stuff he saw, and he's excited about the possibility of going back. AND he started getting really excited about going back to the beach, too. Every time we were in the hotel he'd start yammering about how much the room was like the one we had at the beach.
So I think it's gonna be an AWESOME year with my bold little adventurer. And I can't wait. All aboard!
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
sigh...
So now it's been a year. Tomorrow will mark the anniversary of her death, but today marks the anniversary of our last conversation. You'd have to rewind all the way back to March 7 to find the anniversary of our last embrace, and somewhere in the middle of that is Alastair's last
physical contact with his mother.
Last night I found several old videos that I'd forgotten taking. They covered Alastair's birth, our first overnight trip with him, and one perfectly serene video of them gibbering at each other.
To say that I was upset would severely undersell the sentiment. I'm very good at repressing memories and emotions, but when they well up, they do it with a vengeance. And now, for the first time in a long time, I feel lost again. Rudderless and alone.
Tomorrow Alastair and I are taking the train to DC. We're gonna distract the hell out of ourselves with trains, subways, museums, rich food, friends, and swimming. Then Friday we're coming back after doing EVEN MORE museums.
Saturday I'm running the Ukrop's Monument Ave 10K in Amanda's memory. A number of truly fabulous people have contributed to my fund-raising efforts (and you can, too!), and a bunch of folks are also running in her memory.
I'm touched and deeply grateful for all the support and prayers of the last two years. I'm grateful to be super busy at work. I'm grateful for my boy and all the joy he brings me. I'm grateful for 14 1/2 years with a beautiful, smart, sassy lady.
Miss you, 'Manda.
physical contact with his mother.
Last night I found several old videos that I'd forgotten taking. They covered Alastair's birth, our first overnight trip with him, and one perfectly serene video of them gibbering at each other.
To say that I was upset would severely undersell the sentiment. I'm very good at repressing memories and emotions, but when they well up, they do it with a vengeance. And now, for the first time in a long time, I feel lost again. Rudderless and alone.
Tomorrow Alastair and I are taking the train to DC. We're gonna distract the hell out of ourselves with trains, subways, museums, rich food, friends, and swimming. Then Friday we're coming back after doing EVEN MORE museums.
Saturday I'm running the Ukrop's Monument Ave 10K in Amanda's memory. A number of truly fabulous people have contributed to my fund-raising efforts (and you can, too!), and a bunch of folks are also running in her memory.
I'm touched and deeply grateful for all the support and prayers of the last two years. I'm grateful to be super busy at work. I'm grateful for my boy and all the joy he brings me. I'm grateful for 14 1/2 years with a beautiful, smart, sassy lady.
Miss you, 'Manda.
Friday, March 19, 2010
19 Days? Really?
Has it really been that long since I last posted?
The last couple of weeks have been a whirlwind. The sun came out and dried up all the rain. The boy's been in a great mood. Facebook Scrabble occupies HOURS of my night. And of course there's the Wii. Oh, and it bears mentioning that my weekends have been off the chizzain.
And work? Oh my God I've rarely been so busy. I'm in the middle of several pilot deployments right now: Google Apps, WebSense hosted security, SAML 2.0 Single Sign-On. And since we're investigating SSO, it's causing us to re-think our login processes for other hosted solutions.
We're booting our offsite backup storage vendor, too, so that's a major overhaul in the works. And, as if all that weren't enough, I'm rolling out Active Directory to new international sites AND I'm still the only dude supporting the servers.
Busy much?
But it's good, because I'm too busy to let my head really wrap around the fact that it's March.
I have the 10K coming up next weekend, and I had to take almost the last month off from training because of a worsening back problem, but yesterday I got my first chance to run on the street. And that's when the emotions really broadsided me. I was less than half a mile from the end of my foreshortened run when I started tearing up. The emotion of WHY I'm running this thing took over. The fact that I was listening to a sad song about lost love probably didn't help,
though.
So anyway, there's all my excuses for not posting. I would promise a post for the anniversary, but I will be out of town visiting museums with a very special boy. But I'll try.
Hope everybody had a good St. Patrick's Day. I drank far less than I should have, but hopefully I can correct that this weekend.
The last couple of weeks have been a whirlwind. The sun came out and dried up all the rain. The boy's been in a great mood. Facebook Scrabble occupies HOURS of my night. And of course there's the Wii. Oh, and it bears mentioning that my weekends have been off the chizzain.
And work? Oh my God I've rarely been so busy. I'm in the middle of several pilot deployments right now: Google Apps, WebSense hosted security, SAML 2.0 Single Sign-On. And since we're investigating SSO, it's causing us to re-think our login processes for other hosted solutions.
We're booting our offsite backup storage vendor, too, so that's a major overhaul in the works. And, as if all that weren't enough, I'm rolling out Active Directory to new international sites AND I'm still the only dude supporting the servers.
Busy much?
But it's good, because I'm too busy to let my head really wrap around the fact that it's March.
I have the 10K coming up next weekend, and I had to take almost the last month off from training because of a worsening back problem, but yesterday I got my first chance to run on the street. And that's when the emotions really broadsided me. I was less than half a mile from the end of my foreshortened run when I started tearing up. The emotion of WHY I'm running this thing took over. The fact that I was listening to a sad song about lost love probably didn't help,
though.
So anyway, there's all my excuses for not posting. I would promise a post for the anniversary, but I will be out of town visiting museums with a very special boy. But I'll try.
Hope everybody had a good St. Patrick's Day. I drank far less than I should have, but hopefully I can correct that this weekend.
Monday, March 01, 2010
Odd little weekend
First a big shout to all the Jibans. You guys rock.
We've had a big week. Last weekend was action-packed, we saw the doctor on Thursday, and Alastair got to see a movie on Friday night.
We started Saturday morning bright & early with a trip to the dyno. I've had the Miata for 4 years and never once stopped to actually check the motor. Alastair helped out by getting up early, eating his breakfast really well, and generally being very amenable to the morning's activity (we watched one pull before he asked to go back into the relatively quiet office, where he got to play with the shop puppy).
Then it was off to the Little Gym for "Bring a Friend" week. Alastair's friend Kaden met us there, and they had such a great time playing together. It's fun to watch them play in an environment where you're not really responsible for their behavior.
But then lunch was an absolute chore. We went to Panera, where he took forever-and-a-day to eat a sandwich, twice as long to eat his yogurt, and then dropped most of his cookie on the floor. He wasn't happy, and his unhappiness made me unhappy, so nap time was most welcome.
I dropped him off at his Grammy's after nap and headed down to Williamsburg for a night of bowling (followed by an afternoon of karting).
The boy I picked up yesterday afternoon was the same bad-mood boy I dropped off, augmented by a bad spill he took on the driveway as we left. And a runny nose. Oh joy, we're gonna be sick again.
Toys R Us, Mexican for dinner (sopapillas for dessert), and a bit of Mario Kart before bed.
A fairly busy weekend, so really it wasn't surprising that we got on each others' nerves a bit.
But then we both woke up with nightmares this morning, and he's been coughing horribly all day. My nightmare consisted of me being in a group therapy session (something I've never done), puling about how much I wish I'd been there in Amanda's last conscious moments. The therapist then asked me if there were any two or three things Amanda could have said to me that would have been life-changing. In other words, could my having been there have really made a big difference?
And it's been on my mind all day. I suppose I wish she could have explicitly named the school she wanted him to attend, but if I'd been there, would I have been quick to call her parents, or would I have pulled the plug too soon, thereby robbing them of the opportunity to say their goodbyes? But really, the way it went down is the way it needed to. Her father was there, and he's much more level-headed in those types of scenarios than I am. He was able to make the necessary calls and arrangements.
Why this would wake me up in a cold sweat is truly vexing. It's perfectly rational stuff to wonder--it's not like I was dreaming of being chased by an ax-wielding madman.
Alastair's nightmare was that Vivienne had died. He woke up extremely upset that she was gone, and I curled up in the bed with him and assured him that she was just fine, that she wouldn't die for a long long time.
I'm not really sure what to make of this. I'm guessing our choreographed nightmares are as much a result of our dietary choices as anything else, but the fact is that he's been talking about death more and more. I hadn't seriously considered putting him into counseling because most of it is geared for slightly older children, but given how much of his time it seems to take up, he might be ready for more help than I can provide in understanding the meaning of death.
We've had a big week. Last weekend was action-packed, we saw the doctor on Thursday, and Alastair got to see a movie on Friday night.
We started Saturday morning bright & early with a trip to the dyno. I've had the Miata for 4 years and never once stopped to actually check the motor. Alastair helped out by getting up early, eating his breakfast really well, and generally being very amenable to the morning's activity (we watched one pull before he asked to go back into the relatively quiet office, where he got to play with the shop puppy).
Then it was off to the Little Gym for "Bring a Friend" week. Alastair's friend Kaden met us there, and they had such a great time playing together. It's fun to watch them play in an environment where you're not really responsible for their behavior.
But then lunch was an absolute chore. We went to Panera, where he took forever-and-a-day to eat a sandwich, twice as long to eat his yogurt, and then dropped most of his cookie on the floor. He wasn't happy, and his unhappiness made me unhappy, so nap time was most welcome.
I dropped him off at his Grammy's after nap and headed down to Williamsburg for a night of bowling (followed by an afternoon of karting).
The boy I picked up yesterday afternoon was the same bad-mood boy I dropped off, augmented by a bad spill he took on the driveway as we left. And a runny nose. Oh joy, we're gonna be sick again.
Toys R Us, Mexican for dinner (sopapillas for dessert), and a bit of Mario Kart before bed.
A fairly busy weekend, so really it wasn't surprising that we got on each others' nerves a bit.
But then we both woke up with nightmares this morning, and he's been coughing horribly all day. My nightmare consisted of me being in a group therapy session (something I've never done), puling about how much I wish I'd been there in Amanda's last conscious moments. The therapist then asked me if there were any two or three things Amanda could have said to me that would have been life-changing. In other words, could my having been there have really made a big difference?
And it's been on my mind all day. I suppose I wish she could have explicitly named the school she wanted him to attend, but if I'd been there, would I have been quick to call her parents, or would I have pulled the plug too soon, thereby robbing them of the opportunity to say their goodbyes? But really, the way it went down is the way it needed to. Her father was there, and he's much more level-headed in those types of scenarios than I am. He was able to make the necessary calls and arrangements.
Why this would wake me up in a cold sweat is truly vexing. It's perfectly rational stuff to wonder--it's not like I was dreaming of being chased by an ax-wielding madman.
Alastair's nightmare was that Vivienne had died. He woke up extremely upset that she was gone, and I curled up in the bed with him and assured him that she was just fine, that she wouldn't die for a long long time.
I'm not really sure what to make of this. I'm guessing our choreographed nightmares are as much a result of our dietary choices as anything else, but the fact is that he's been talking about death more and more. I hadn't seriously considered putting him into counseling because most of it is geared for slightly older children, but given how much of his time it seems to take up, he might be ready for more help than I can provide in understanding the meaning of death.
Friday, February 26, 2010
What a difference a year makes, ahamos edition
This week last year was one of hope, travel, and possibility. Just like this year, it began with a birthday party for one of Alastair's friends, but that's where the similarities end.
I had just started a new job. Just over a month into it, I was learning the ropes and still putting names to faces. I'd done a ton of learning in a short time, and it energized me. I like what I do when it's full of challenge and growth.
Alastair had just turned 3.
I was putting the finishing touches on the race car, truck, and trailer in anticipation of a March 1 track event.
And Amanda was en route to Houston to begin clinical trials.
The energy in the house was amazing. She was still hoarse, and not thrilled about leaving her boy(s), but the prospect of a medical team that wasn't about to write her off--one that might have real results to offer instead of just maintenance--put her in pretty good spirits.
We were in a good place.
Sunday Alastair and I went to the same party. And that night he had a night terror (and another one last night).
He talks about death a lot now. He's adamant that he doesn't want either of us to ever die.
I've been at my job for over a year, and the shiny has largely worn off.
Racing season starts soon, and I've done nothing. Absolutely nothing. I've seriously considered selling all of it, but since I've pre-paid for 4 events, I guess that's not a really viable option.
But I don't feel like I'm depressed, so much as I feel like this is just winter blahs. It's hard to say.
The widow I recently met stirred up a lot of emotion that I thought was long-settled. I certainly don't blame her for it--they're emotions that I've put off or simply ignored for far too long.
And even now, almost a year later, I still don't know how to properly express them. My feelings are like one of those crazy fish balls: thousands of fish swimming in a tight and nigh impenetrable ball. Only what predators do I have to worry about? The tuna of conscience? The shark of responsibility?
At Alastair's check-up yesterday I was asked if he'd been lead-tested. I realized that I had no idea. Not because I'd never been told, but because that, like so many other details of our lives, was something I could always rely on Amanda to remember.
I'm rehashing stuff I've said before. And I'm guessing I will again.
I miss my wife.
I had just started a new job. Just over a month into it, I was learning the ropes and still putting names to faces. I'd done a ton of learning in a short time, and it energized me. I like what I do when it's full of challenge and growth.
Alastair had just turned 3.
I was putting the finishing touches on the race car, truck, and trailer in anticipation of a March 1 track event.
And Amanda was en route to Houston to begin clinical trials.
The energy in the house was amazing. She was still hoarse, and not thrilled about leaving her boy(s), but the prospect of a medical team that wasn't about to write her off--one that might have real results to offer instead of just maintenance--put her in pretty good spirits.
We were in a good place.
Sunday Alastair and I went to the same party. And that night he had a night terror (and another one last night).
He talks about death a lot now. He's adamant that he doesn't want either of us to ever die.
I've been at my job for over a year, and the shiny has largely worn off.
Racing season starts soon, and I've done nothing. Absolutely nothing. I've seriously considered selling all of it, but since I've pre-paid for 4 events, I guess that's not a really viable option.
But I don't feel like I'm depressed, so much as I feel like this is just winter blahs. It's hard to say.
The widow I recently met stirred up a lot of emotion that I thought was long-settled. I certainly don't blame her for it--they're emotions that I've put off or simply ignored for far too long.
And even now, almost a year later, I still don't know how to properly express them. My feelings are like one of those crazy fish balls: thousands of fish swimming in a tight and nigh impenetrable ball. Only what predators do I have to worry about? The tuna of conscience? The shark of responsibility?
At Alastair's check-up yesterday I was asked if he'd been lead-tested. I realized that I had no idea. Not because I'd never been told, but because that, like so many other details of our lives, was something I could always rely on Amanda to remember.
I'm rehashing stuff I've said before. And I'm guessing I will again.
I miss my wife.
Please Stand By...We're Experiencing Emotional Difficulty
I have so very much to say, and on so very many things, that I let the day go by without posting anything. Mind you, February 25 did not go by unnoticed, and my heart has been heavy.
I love my boy, I resent my mother, I miss my wife. There's more, but that's the crux of what's been on my mind.
I love my boy, I resent my mother, I miss my wife. There's more, but that's the crux of what's been on my mind.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Jason's Deli
I can't for the life of me figure out why I go there. Every time I do, I end up crying.
The day after I got to Houston, Amanda and I trekked out to do some window-shopping. We stopped at Jason's Deli for lunch--neither of us had ever eaten there, and we were FAMISHED. I had a muffaletta, which I'd loved so much at Central Grocery on our trip to NOLA, and we had a great day. An exhausting day, even for me--I can't imagine how much so for her.
And that was the last time we ever ate out at a restaurant together.
Sure, we hit the hotel restaurant on my last night, but that really wasn't eating out, not in the same way that actually leaving the building is. Just like eating at the rodeo really wasn't eating--anyway, you get the point.
So there's a Jason's Deli near work, and I stop there every once in a while for a quarter-muff. They're all decorated exactly the same, so just sitting down at the table transports me back instantly: Amanda sitting at my left, hot & tired from a 2+ mile walk on a very sunny day, us running our mouths trying desperately to avoid discussing her condition.
And as if that weren't enough to undo me every time, yesterday there was a family with a 18-month-old boy sitting near me. He was so cute from behind, with his little toddler mannerisms, and I realized that I'd blinked and missed my son's last couple of years. He's 4 now. How did that happen?
And the man behind me is telling his mother about what matters in life, that money is great and all, but that time is the most valuable asset. Time. How it slips away!
So there I was, trying not to get choked up about Amanda or my no-longer-toddler, when the little boy turned around and I realized he had Down's Syndrome. And I realized that I'd never seen a really young child with Down's, and how many challenges that little boy would face, and I couldn't handle it. I came completely unglued.
The day after I got to Houston, Amanda and I trekked out to do some window-shopping. We stopped at Jason's Deli for lunch--neither of us had ever eaten there, and we were FAMISHED. I had a muffaletta, which I'd loved so much at Central Grocery on our trip to NOLA, and we had a great day. An exhausting day, even for me--I can't imagine how much so for her.
And that was the last time we ever ate out at a restaurant together.
Sure, we hit the hotel restaurant on my last night, but that really wasn't eating out, not in the same way that actually leaving the building is. Just like eating at the rodeo really wasn't eating--anyway, you get the point.
So there's a Jason's Deli near work, and I stop there every once in a while for a quarter-muff. They're all decorated exactly the same, so just sitting down at the table transports me back instantly: Amanda sitting at my left, hot & tired from a 2+ mile walk on a very sunny day, us running our mouths trying desperately to avoid discussing her condition.
And as if that weren't enough to undo me every time, yesterday there was a family with a 18-month-old boy sitting near me. He was so cute from behind, with his little toddler mannerisms, and I realized that I'd blinked and missed my son's last couple of years. He's 4 now. How did that happen?
And the man behind me is telling his mother about what matters in life, that money is great and all, but that time is the most valuable asset. Time. How it slips away!
So there I was, trying not to get choked up about Amanda or my no-longer-toddler, when the little boy turned around and I realized he had Down's Syndrome. And I realized that I'd never seen a really young child with Down's, and how many challenges that little boy would face, and I couldn't handle it. I came completely unglued.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
10 and counting
I sat down to write this last night, but the phone rang and it was curtains. So it's a day late. Deal with it.
So Alastair's birthday weekend was 135% awesome. We didn't do everything we wanted to, but that means we have leftover activities for the next couple of weekends, so score!
I came home early Friday to open gifts and play with him, then we did dinner at the Olive Garden, where they sang to him. He opened more gifts at my dad's.
Saturday we did Special Breakfast at River City Diner, hit The Little Gym (it was Show Week, with awards and everything!), had a big birthday party at home, and ended the evening with dinner out with Kim Thies and her two daughters.
Sunday was Maymont, lunch at Crossroads, and bouncies. Bad-ass weekend for any toddler--I mean little boy.
But then came Monday, the 10-month-iversary of Amanda's death. It was an absolutely miserable day at work, and I didn't have any time to think about it. Only later in the evening did I have a moment to begin to reflect on this time of year, her, and what made us compatible.
Amanda and I are/were independent loners. We operated on the periphery of several social groups, but never became central to any. We both hated being the center of attention for too long and tended to withdraw whenever we got too far into any "scene". But for all of it, somehow our introversion did not manifest between us.*
We did not lead, we did not follow, but we forged our own path together, often taking us on wonderful adventures. Like our trip to Chicago. Nobody understood why in God's name we would choose to drive, but doing so put us--completely by accident--at Falling Water. Bonus! And we got to see the Blenko glass factory in West VA and a Lavender festival, which was a lot more fun than it would sound like. Similarly our decision to visit New Orleans in November was questioned by many as being curiously off-season, but the locals all lauded our choice as being the best time of year for the weather and small crowds.
Amanda and I both ardently refuse(d) to join any activity that's overwhelmingly popular, distrusting it as group-think, which has historically been associated with some very dangerous people and activities. We didn't touch Harry Potter. We both distrusted organized religion. We did not--with one exception--attend political rallies.
Our introversion did cost us, though. I got kicked out of a band for not going to Hooters with them (Hooters objectifies women. Period. And I will never step foot in one--I could give half a shit how good their wings may be.). At the government I avoided the parties as non-compensated forced socialization, often remaining at my desk where I could get some work done. Amanda refused--REFUSED--to go out with coworkers at night, not wanting to be ridiculed at work for her behavior outside of work.
In the months since her death, I've gotten pulled further into a few social circles than I've been comfortable with. It has taken real effort to withdraw, but keep the groups at arm's length. And now, for the first time in ages, I feel relatively comfortable again. Just involved enough to know what's going on, and just uninvolved enough to stay above the fray. And I feel like this stance is giving me the freedom to be me again. I like being me. I don't have to "man up" to the appropriate testosterone-level or soft-pedal my views.
But the really cool thing about being myself? When Judgment comes (in whatever form you want to believe), my hands will be clean. I try to live kindly and responsibly with everything I do. As Amanda did. As my son (hopefully) will.
Like Conan said in his final week on the Tonight Show: if you work hard and are kind, amazing things will happen.
*I see this same curious independence forming in Alastair. He likes being around other kids, and interacts with them, but doesn't really join in their play. He plays on the periphery, and doesn't need them to validate his actions. Hopefully this will translate into peer-pressure-resistance, as it did with both of his parents.
So Alastair's birthday weekend was 135% awesome. We didn't do everything we wanted to, but that means we have leftover activities for the next couple of weekends, so score!
I came home early Friday to open gifts and play with him, then we did dinner at the Olive Garden, where they sang to him. He opened more gifts at my dad's.
Saturday we did Special Breakfast at River City Diner, hit The Little Gym (it was Show Week, with awards and everything!), had a big birthday party at home, and ended the evening with dinner out with Kim Thies and her two daughters.
Sunday was Maymont, lunch at Crossroads, and bouncies. Bad-ass weekend for any toddler--I mean little boy.
But then came Monday, the 10-month-iversary of Amanda's death. It was an absolutely miserable day at work, and I didn't have any time to think about it. Only later in the evening did I have a moment to begin to reflect on this time of year, her, and what made us compatible.
Amanda and I are/were independent loners. We operated on the periphery of several social groups, but never became central to any. We both hated being the center of attention for too long and tended to withdraw whenever we got too far into any "scene". But for all of it, somehow our introversion did not manifest between us.*
We did not lead, we did not follow, but we forged our own path together, often taking us on wonderful adventures. Like our trip to Chicago. Nobody understood why in God's name we would choose to drive, but doing so put us--completely by accident--at Falling Water. Bonus! And we got to see the Blenko glass factory in West VA and a Lavender festival, which was a lot more fun than it would sound like. Similarly our decision to visit New Orleans in November was questioned by many as being curiously off-season, but the locals all lauded our choice as being the best time of year for the weather and small crowds.
Amanda and I both ardently refuse(d) to join any activity that's overwhelmingly popular, distrusting it as group-think, which has historically been associated with some very dangerous people and activities. We didn't touch Harry Potter. We both distrusted organized religion. We did not--with one exception--attend political rallies.
Our introversion did cost us, though. I got kicked out of a band for not going to Hooters with them (Hooters objectifies women. Period. And I will never step foot in one--I could give half a shit how good their wings may be.). At the government I avoided the parties as non-compensated forced socialization, often remaining at my desk where I could get some work done. Amanda refused--REFUSED--to go out with coworkers at night, not wanting to be ridiculed at work for her behavior outside of work.
In the months since her death, I've gotten pulled further into a few social circles than I've been comfortable with. It has taken real effort to withdraw, but keep the groups at arm's length. And now, for the first time in ages, I feel relatively comfortable again. Just involved enough to know what's going on, and just uninvolved enough to stay above the fray. And I feel like this stance is giving me the freedom to be me again. I like being me. I don't have to "man up" to the appropriate testosterone-level or soft-pedal my views.
But the really cool thing about being myself? When Judgment comes (in whatever form you want to believe), my hands will be clean. I try to live kindly and responsibly with everything I do. As Amanda did. As my son (hopefully) will.
Like Conan said in his final week on the Tonight Show: if you work hard and are kind, amazing things will happen.
*I see this same curious independence forming in Alastair. He likes being around other kids, and interacts with them, but doesn't really join in their play. He plays on the periphery, and doesn't need them to validate his actions. Hopefully this will translate into peer-pressure-resistance, as it did with both of his parents.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Dear God
A Chipotle Receipt, as read by Alastair:
Dear God,
I love you. You made the earth. Please let mommy come back down to earth, because I love her. You are my best friend. Amen.
Dear God,
I love you. You made the earth. Please let mommy come back down to earth, because I love her. You are my best friend. Amen.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Christmas @ 9 Months
Today is Christmas. Today is the 25th. Which means it's another month-iversary of Amanda's death. We're at 9 now, and my emotions have been all over the place recently.
Amanda was really big on Christmas. This and Halloween were here ab-fave holidays. Decorating, listening to silly music, the electricity in the air, and watching the mirth of a child shredding wrapping paper were things I know she looked forward to every year. And while I've felt lost in preparing for this day, there have been times when I could swear she was standing right behind me this week.
Alastair really started talking about her a lot a couple days ago, and hit me with a big discussion of death last night. He asked me if she would be here today, and we both started crying. Then we got into what death means (again), and I told him (again) that everything dies, that all animals and even the kitties will die. "Even Vivienne?!" "Yes, even Vivienne." Flood-gates: open.
He sobbed openly at the prospect of Vivienne dying, and we laid on the floor for about 10 minutes just talking about life and getting old and trying to stanch the flood of tears. I tell ya: losing a parent may be pretty bad, but losing that cat? End. Of. The. World.
But we opened gifts today, and all was well. He got a Leapster, a bunch of cars, some Lego's, a Geo-Trax train, and other oddments, and is in absolute heaven. I'm sure Amanda was watching him today, and I'm sure she couldn't be prouder of her little man. I just hope she's proud of me, too. I'm tryin'.
Amanda was really big on Christmas. This and Halloween were here ab-fave holidays. Decorating, listening to silly music, the electricity in the air, and watching the mirth of a child shredding wrapping paper were things I know she looked forward to every year. And while I've felt lost in preparing for this day, there have been times when I could swear she was standing right behind me this week.
Alastair really started talking about her a lot a couple days ago, and hit me with a big discussion of death last night. He asked me if she would be here today, and we both started crying. Then we got into what death means (again), and I told him (again) that everything dies, that all animals and even the kitties will die. "Even Vivienne?!" "Yes, even Vivienne." Flood-gates: open.
He sobbed openly at the prospect of Vivienne dying, and we laid on the floor for about 10 minutes just talking about life and getting old and trying to stanch the flood of tears. I tell ya: losing a parent may be pretty bad, but losing that cat? End. Of. The. World.
But we opened gifts today, and all was well. He got a Leapster, a bunch of cars, some Lego's, a Geo-Trax train, and other oddments, and is in absolute heaven. I'm sure Amanda was watching him today, and I'm sure she couldn't be prouder of her little man. I just hope she's proud of me, too. I'm tryin'.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
8
Today marks 8 months, and tomorrow is Thanksgiving. My favorite holiday, and the one with the most tradition in my family.
For decades, my great aunt held Thanksgiving dinner in her house. Their sprawling quasi-basement/bar area easily held 30 or more people, year after year, and we (my dad and I) only missed it once, when I was in college. It was a tradition that Amanda fell into easily, as her family had no strong tradition for the holiday, and it was something we were excited to pass down to Alastair.
But then my great aunt had a hip replacement. And her daughter convinced her to sell the house. And that year we were uninvited. I was devastated, and it really upset Amanda to see me like that.
Well, the un-invitation caused ripples in the family (turns out we weren't the only ones), and we were surreptitiously re-invited the next year by my grandmother. We went, taking Alastair (he was 10 months old), and had a nice time, though it was clear that we were not expected.
The following year Amanda and I decided we didn't need the heartache, and like the big trouper she was, she suggested we try forging our own tradition. We baked a turkey, we made all manner of fixin's, and we had a fabulous Thanksgiving dinner at home. A new tradition was born!
And then she got sick.
No turkey making, no trip to Greensboro. We spent the day out of town with her parents, and it was nice, but cancer is a gloomy bitch and tends to overshadow even the nicest of days.
This year we (Alastair and I) were officially re-invited to Greensboro Thanksgiving. And we were excited about it. (Ok, I was excited about it.) But now I'm fighting a cold, and our accommodations fell through. So I should be glum, but I am not (well, ok, maybe just a little bit).
Why?
Because the future is no longer just a giant black spot. That's all I could see in April and May. I tried surrounding myself with shiny objects: new car, new PS3, new fancy gaming chair, pretty young ladies. But none of it mattered. I cooked, I cleaned, I cared for my boy, and I distracted myself. Normal stuff, I guess.
I also had no concern for whether I lived or died, which made my track weekends much more interesting.
But now I see in color again. The tones are still muted, and the lighting's a bit dim, but it's there. And I can see that it's vibrant and beautiful.
For all of my family and friends, who have helped make the last two years bearable, I give thanks. For my beautiful boy, I give thanks. For the 15 years, the love, the joy, and even the sorrow of my dearest, I give thanks. And for the future, the opportunity that it holds, the new paths yet to be discovered, I give thanks.
Happy Thanksgiving
For decades, my great aunt held Thanksgiving dinner in her house. Their sprawling quasi-basement/bar area easily held 30 or more people, year after year, and we (my dad and I) only missed it once, when I was in college. It was a tradition that Amanda fell into easily, as her family had no strong tradition for the holiday, and it was something we were excited to pass down to Alastair.
But then my great aunt had a hip replacement. And her daughter convinced her to sell the house. And that year we were uninvited. I was devastated, and it really upset Amanda to see me like that.
Well, the un-invitation caused ripples in the family (turns out we weren't the only ones), and we were surreptitiously re-invited the next year by my grandmother. We went, taking Alastair (he was 10 months old), and had a nice time, though it was clear that we were not expected.
The following year Amanda and I decided we didn't need the heartache, and like the big trouper she was, she suggested we try forging our own tradition. We baked a turkey, we made all manner of fixin's, and we had a fabulous Thanksgiving dinner at home. A new tradition was born!
And then she got sick.
No turkey making, no trip to Greensboro. We spent the day out of town with her parents, and it was nice, but cancer is a gloomy bitch and tends to overshadow even the nicest of days.
This year we (Alastair and I) were officially re-invited to Greensboro Thanksgiving. And we were excited about it. (Ok, I was excited about it.) But now I'm fighting a cold, and our accommodations fell through. So I should be glum, but I am not (well, ok, maybe just a little bit).
Why?
Because the future is no longer just a giant black spot. That's all I could see in April and May. I tried surrounding myself with shiny objects: new car, new PS3, new fancy gaming chair, pretty young ladies. But none of it mattered. I cooked, I cleaned, I cared for my boy, and I distracted myself. Normal stuff, I guess.
I also had no concern for whether I lived or died, which made my track weekends much more interesting.
But now I see in color again. The tones are still muted, and the lighting's a bit dim, but it's there. And I can see that it's vibrant and beautiful.
For all of my family and friends, who have helped make the last two years bearable, I give thanks. For my beautiful boy, I give thanks. For the 15 years, the love, the joy, and even the sorrow of my dearest, I give thanks. And for the future, the opportunity that it holds, the new paths yet to be discovered, I give thanks.
Happy Thanksgiving
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
'Manda Moment
I just had the best Amanda moment. I was watching the news, and they were reporting on an attempted burglary where the homeowner shot at the perps as they entered the house. He hit one, and that dude's in jail.
Bored by this, I turned off the TV, which takes about 5 seconds to complete. The last thing I heard was a woman--evidently a neighbor--saying "I just hope this sends a clear message that he was tired..."
Instantly I heard Amanda guffawing at that out-of-context gem. And then repeating in her most absurd South Side drawl, "Yeah, I shot his ass. I was real tired."
And just writing that I still can't stop laughing.
Bored by this, I turned off the TV, which takes about 5 seconds to complete. The last thing I heard was a woman--evidently a neighbor--saying "I just hope this sends a clear message that he was tired..."
Instantly I heard Amanda guffawing at that out-of-context gem. And then repeating in her most absurd South Side drawl, "Yeah, I shot his ass. I was real tired."
And just writing that I still can't stop laughing.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Unexpected
I was lying in bed last night after staying up way too late, as I am wont to do, and my mind was doing its usual refusal to spin down. And, as usual, my thoughts went to Amanda, what I had with her, what I'll miss about her, and the things she'll never get to see.
But then something different happened. While I was reminiscing about short walks around the halls of North 6 at MCV (Cletus the IV pole on one side and I on the other), I smiled. I didn't get upset. And then I realized that I was not upset, which usually undoes me. But it didn't.
I was able to happily remember little moments of peace, serenity, and joy in the midst of all the pain. That's a first.
But then something different happened. While I was reminiscing about short walks around the halls of North 6 at MCV (Cletus the IV pole on one side and I on the other), I smiled. I didn't get upset. And then I realized that I was not upset, which usually undoes me. But it didn't.
I was able to happily remember little moments of peace, serenity, and joy in the midst of all the pain. That's a first.
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Sunday, October 25, 2009
Hey, Leukemia, F You
So I've been thinking about what you got vs. what everybody else got. And you know what? You got shit. That's right: shit.
You got her body. I got her love. Alastair got her spirit. And God got her soul.
You distracted her for a year. I had her for 15. God gets her for eternity. Hell, even Alastair had her longer than you.
You got our tears, but you couldn't even fill a fucking pond with the collective tears of the hundreds who wept for her. I could fill an ocean with my love.
You got death, where I got life. I have a beautiful son whom you can't touch (don't test me).
And what do you have to show for it? Nothing. I have the memories and the joy, and Alastair looks just like her.
Amanda taught me how to reason critically, how to love, and how to be a good husband and father. She taught you that you were a chump to be laughed at and made light of. She taught you that you couldn't stop her.
If ever I worked so hard to gain so little, I'd be humiliated. So yeah: joke's on you, leukemia. Punk.
And the best part? She's not even sick any more. Man, you suck. If I were you, I'd probably go jump off a cliff or something.
You got her body. I got her love. Alastair got her spirit. And God got her soul.
You distracted her for a year. I had her for 15. God gets her for eternity. Hell, even Alastair had her longer than you.
You got our tears, but you couldn't even fill a fucking pond with the collective tears of the hundreds who wept for her. I could fill an ocean with my love.
You got death, where I got life. I have a beautiful son whom you can't touch (don't test me).
And what do you have to show for it? Nothing. I have the memories and the joy, and Alastair looks just like her.
Amanda taught me how to reason critically, how to love, and how to be a good husband and father. She taught you that you were a chump to be laughed at and made light of. She taught you that you couldn't stop her.
If ever I worked so hard to gain so little, I'd be humiliated. So yeah: joke's on you, leukemia. Punk.
And the best part? She's not even sick any more. Man, you suck. If I were you, I'd probably go jump off a cliff or something.
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