Today is my first Christmas as a single woman. Ever. I've been dealing with a flood of emotion over the past few weeks, but today is surprisingly calm.
Earlier this week, I switched out my wedding rings for a special ring Brian gave me on our 5th anniversary. He bought it at the mall in Columbia, South Carolina right after graduating basic training. Taking off my wedding ring is a significant symbolic gesture for me. It acknowledges the end of my marriage when Brian died and recognizes my freedom to continue living life on my own. Wearing the anniversary ring is also symbolic. It honors the relationship that defined our lives for 21 years and signifies that I'm still mourning the loss of my husband.
I know that I'm at the threshold of stepping out as an individual and taking ownership of whatever the rest of my story will be, but I still feel like half of a whole most of the time. I vacillate between holding on and letting go and neither option feels entirely right.
Grief is a bit like a time warp sometimes. The things that we were looking forward to before Brian got sick have come and gone without him as if nothing happened. Our pool project completed, I had my 40th birthday, Thanksgiving is over, Star Wars released episode 7, and now Christmas is here. The world keeps turning and life goes on no matter how much I want it to stop and wait for me to catch up. The New Year is on its way and I have no idea what to do with it.
I can't see my future at all. I can't even imagine it. It's coming whether I'm ready or not, but I just can't fathom what it will look like. How long will I be alone? Do I even mind being alone? Is this house going to be my home for the next 20 or 30 years or will I sell it to get something more practical? Is Arizona really where I want to be? What might my career look like now that I have to consider how much money I make? How should I spend my vacations? What do I want to do with the rest of my life?
I honestly have no clue.
He wasn't really peeing. This is where the master
toilet would eventually be and he was just pretending.
Last Christmas was our first Christmas in our new house. We spent Christmas eve and Christmas morning with our new neighbors. I made cookies and delivered them to all the houses around me. We decorated the outside of our home for the first time ever. We didn't decorate the inside because - well - we didn't feel like it.
Brian gave me an R2D2 trash can and I don't even remember what I got for him. We got a Twinkie maker from Allison and Rob that was pretty fantastic and he got Allison a Pocket Hose which was a much bigger deal than one might think.
We were quite happy with ourselves. Everything made sense and life was good.We didn't have a lot of holiday traditions, but we were going to. We had finally gotten where we were going. It was time to settle in, get comfortable and become who we wanted to be.
Last year was forever ago. Nothing looks the same. I try not to assume change is bad, but the changes I've been through and continue to go through are hard. I've experienced a loss that was simply unimaginable 365 days ago. We had no way of knowing what was coming.
The holidays, for good or bad, are a timestamp. There is a tendency to take inventory of the events of the past year and to reflect on the overarching progress of one's life. As the new year approaches, I think it's natural to consider how far you've come and to make plans for the future.
I've grown a lot this year. I've discovered a depth of faith that I didn't think I was capable of. I have a new perspective and a sense of contentment that I've never known before. My relationships are more genuine now and I feel a greater sense of freedom to be myself.
These are not lessons I couldn't have learned while Brian was alive, but I wouldn't have. I was happy and fulfilled. I had someone to love and someone who loved me. I had no reason to search for answers or to seek transformation. The devastation of losing him was a paradigm shift. The framework of my life was unstable and I had no choice but to examine the foundation on which everything was built.
I don't want to go backwards. I don't want to give back what I've gained to retrieve what I've lost, but I still miss him. I miss all of it. I miss his face and all the silly things he did. I miss how excited he would get when he thought he had gotten me the perfect gift and how hard it was to wait for Christmas to give it to me. I miss how proud he was of his present wrapping skills. I miss his enthusiasm for baked ham and orange potatoes and for playing with his new toys.
Last Christmas, we had no idea that it was our last Christmas. I miss that too.
I processed through some things last week that I didn't write about. I considered sharing, because I want to be honest about what I'm going through, but in the end, I decided that some things just aren't for public consumption.
I think those things from last week had been in the way, like hair and goop clogging the shower drain. Everything I've washed down got tangled up in the hairball. Snaking it out may mean that things will flow more smoothly in the future, but for the moment I have a giant slimy ball of hair and goop that needs to be cleaned up and disposed of.
I'm supposed to just know when it's time to move on, but that's a bit of bullshit.
I can't trust myself or my instincts at all. I stumble on the clutter of my emotions on a nearly daily basis. I don't "just know" anything at all.
Sometimes I feel like I'm in a room with an open door. The room is dark and lonely, but it's familiar and all my stuff is here. I'm not afraid of the shadows, I don't trip on the furniture, and if I need to rest I know where to find a chair. Everything I've ever known and loved is on this side of the door.
The rest of my life is on the other.
If I cross the threshold, I'm afraid the door will close behind me. I fear that I won't be able to get back to the safety and comfort of my dark, lonely room. But what if it closes before I walk through it? What if I get stuck here in the dark forever?
I know I can't rush this process, but I'm super duper tired of it. I want to see what's on the other side of the door. Unfortunately, every time I go near it, I fall down.
In fact, every single time I think I'm getting it together, I fall apart again. Sometimes it feels as if I'm back at day one. It seems like I spend nearly all of my time flat on my face or struggling to stand up again. From time to time, I think the door has already closed (or that I only imagined it's existence in the first place).
Maybe this IS my new normal and I need to find a way to be content with it. Maybe I need to suck it up and drive on, or maybe I need to find even an ounce of patience and just wait it out a little longer.
Have I mentioned how much I hate this?
Canyon Lake 2013. The only available life vest was child-sized, but he wore it anyway because he wanted to play on the jet-ski.
Note: This is not intended to be a how-to for the bereaved. It is just an observation of a pattern that has emerged in my own grief process.
One of the things I really struggle with is the nature of grief. There are a lot of next steps and the only way to get through them is one at a time. When I try to skip ahead or to artificially accelerate the process I end up falling backwards.
For me, it takes about a week or so to get through each new thing. Sometimes I get stuck and it takes longer, but there hasn't been anything yet that has worked its way through my mind in less than a week. Here's how it typically progresses:
Raw Emotion
It starts with the chaos of unidentified raw emotion. It is no more or less common for it to look like sadness than elation, giddiness, anger, contempt, shame, joy, fear, dread, nostalgia, doubt, hope, anticipation or anxiety.
Contemplation
I define the emotion and form an idea about where it is coming from primarily through intellectual contemplation.
Articulation
Once I have an idea of what I'm dealing with and have the words to describe it, I find ways to try to articulate my thoughts.
A lot of the time, my first attempt at articulation is to wander around my house like a lunatic talking out loud (in conversational English) to God as I pick up shoes, sort laundry and put dishes in the dishwasher. It's not pretty or poetic, but it almost always results in a revelation or two.
At some point, I'll bring the topic up with family, friends and counselors. If you are one of these people, you should know that I'm not always looking for advice.
In fact, if I'm honest, I'm almost never looking for advice. I am just throwing ideas at you to see which way they bounce. It helps me formulate intelligent questions and identify specific problems that need to be addressed.
Inquiry
Once I know what the question is, it's really just a matter of finding an answer I can accept as truth. I pray, I Google, I go to a Griefshare, I consult the Bible, I consult the internet, I read devotionals, I watch TV and on occasion, if I have expired all other options, I ask my mom.
Deliberation
There is an extra step that I have to go through because of my belligerent refusal to just accept things as they are. Deliberation is not an entirely accurate word for what happens, but it's close enough. It's a consideration of the things I know intellectually, the things I accept through faith and how they might apply to my current situation. For whatever reason, I continue to find it necessary to test the conclusions of my faith against the rationale of my intelligence and vice versa.
Declaration
Telling someone what I've come up with seems to help finalize the solution in my mind. I equate this step to folding the laundry and putting it away. Sharing my conclusions requires me to organize my thoughts so that they can be explained to others. It helps me to further refine my own understanding and to commit to the truth of the answers I have found.
Took the dogs out at 5:30 a.m. so I could sleep in
Carried in the heavy stuff from the car (soda, dog food, etc.)
Randomly bought stuff from my Amazon wishlist
Remembered which garbage to take out on what day
Set up all the electronics
Grilled steaks to perfection
Made popcorn like the theater
Got me a soda from the fridge while he was up.
Sent me silly emoticons when he went to the bathroom
Paid my way when I went back to school
Picked up the dog poop in the back yard
I was married to Brian for close to five years before I farted in front of him. It just happened, and it's a hysterical story that I'll tell another time. The important thing to know is that it was the last time in our relationship that I was embarrassed to be myself in front of him.
Intimacy can mean a lot of things is my point. Intimacy in marriage is unique, because it goes beyond physical touch and emotional closeness. It's the fire that forges a single entity out of two individuals. It's the fabric of the daily routine, embedded in the give and take of the relationship. It's knowing someone completely - for good and bad in sickness and in health - and recognizing their strength in your own weakness.
It seems like each week my brain lets in something new for me to deal with and put away. This week is intense loneliness. I hadn't noticed until recently that I really miss the intimacy of my marriage. I'm not just talking about sex, although that's obviously a part of it. I miss hugs and cuddling and sitting together watching TV with the dogs. I miss having someone else to consider. I miss having a partner and a playmate. I really miss having a best friend who understands me without any effort on my part to be understood.
I miss this stuff right now. It hurts me in this moment not to have it and there is no relief by looking forward or backward. I suspect it will be a very long time before I'm able to consider another romantic relationship. Even then, I would have to start from the beginning and...seriously...Fuck That.
(Sorry for the language but it took 21 years to build the relationship I had with Brian and those are the right words to accurately communicate how I feel about the idea of starting over.)
This might be the thing that I get stuck on for awhile. I honestly believe that sex outside of marriage is a generally destructive behavior, but in my experience (which admittedly does not extend past my senior year of high school) not having sex outside of marriage can also cause quite a bit of turmoil.
Brian's the only partner I've ever had, but that's only because our relationship worked out. We weren't married. In fact we had only been dating a few months the first time. All my previous romantic endeavors were defined by the drive toward and resistance to sexual interaction and I just didn't want to deal with it anymore.
So how does that translate? I don't know. I imagine that finding a physical relationship wouldn't be terribly difficult and it might provide some temporary comfort, but it would fall so far short of the thing that I am missing that I doubt it would be worth the effort and risk.
I suppose it's a matter of timing, but it's also a matter of both grace and necessity that there are so many new people in my life. We moved to our new community and I changed jobs only about a year before Brian got sick.
Brian's illness was a catalyst for some relationships to grow close very quickly and for other relationships to become awkward and fade a bit. His passing and my efforts to heal have introduced me to all sorts of new people, some of whom I suspect will become close friends and others will probably be a temporary comfort. I've also reconnected with friends I'd thought I'd lost and discovered a level of sincerity in relationships I'd always considered superficial.
As much as I appreciate these new or evolved relationships, it kind of bothers me that so many people only know me as this weepy, unreliable, self-centered flake who barely leaves her house.
I have no choice right now but to be weak and vulnerable and needy and I absolutely hate it. This is NOT who I am.
I'm supposed to be a badass. I'm supposed to be creative and efficient and resourceful and brilliant. I'm supposed to be bulletproof. I'm the one who can deal with the crazies without getting any on me. I create solutions when all else has already failed and I bring out the best in the people around me.
Just not right now. Right now I suck.
I don't think I will, nor do I even want to get back to being my old self (whatever that would mean), but I am working very hard to suck less and hopefully, over time, I'll be a badass again.
We were doing laundry at Camp Darby in Livorno, Italy during a trip with my parents that could easily be likened to a Griswold family vacation. . There was a shoppette next door so we got water guns to help pass the time.
Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.
None of this thinking and planning and worrying and tinkering puts me in control of anything. It doesn't make me happy or fulfilled in any way. It's just something to do.
I couldn't be still, even when Brian was in his last hours. Even then I was strategizing and organizing and planning. I didn't lay down beside him like I should have. Instead I was worrying about the medicine and adjusting his bed and fixing his blankets. I was doing for him instead of being with him.
It was hard to talk about death with Brian while he was dying. We changed the words and talked about when the carnival comes, and he referred to the afterlife as going to play on the playground. He was looking forward to seeing his parents and was pretty happy never to have to work through the summer heat again. He wasn't afraid at all.
Brian recognized that his story ended well. He started with nothing and through hard work he acquired everything he'd ever wanted. In a way, I think he was relieved that he would never lose it.
Now that the carnival has come and gone and Brian is off playing on the playground, it's time for my story to continue. Intellectually, I know that it's necessary to establish my own identity, but every step forward is a step further away from the life I shared with Brian. It's uncomfortable and I don't like it.
I've been one half of "Brian and I" my entire adult life. I still say "we" and "our" and I still wear my rings. It brings me comfort and security to continue defining myself by the context of my relationship with Brian - I was his wife and now I am his widow and I'm not in a rush to be anything else.
The grieving process often makes me feel like a toddler learning to walk. I get excited when I start moving forward and will often lean into it too much or get going too fast. From time to time I get ahead of myself and end up falling on my face.
With that said, I am anxious to discover who I am independent of my marriage. This is the first time in my life that I've lived alone and if I'm honest, I don't hate it. There are definitely times when I don't know what to do with myself, but I'm learning to appreciate the autonomy.
There's not a lot that is good about grieving, but I find that it does give one a fresh perspective from which deeply held beliefs can be examined and that's a good thing. With that in mind, this post is entirely about religion and may be exceptionally uncomfortable for some. You've been warned.
Having grown up in a Christian household, the tenants of my faith were passed on to me as irrefutable truth. Belief in God was the default setting and further examination or consideration, for the most part, wasn't necessary. I knew what was what.
Over the years, a lot of random ideas got mixed in with my Sunday school education. Pop culture, modern mythology, personal opinion and even ego were built into my assumptions about the nature of God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit.
Some Examples:
Suffering will be evenly distributed with joy.
Good deeds will be rewarded with good fortune.
Pain serves the purposes of either punishment or assessment.
You get points for being good, for staying faithful through adversity, for spending time and money on church-y stuff and for talking people into Christianity.
God is important and I as an individual am not on his radar.
Things being what they are, I find that I have a new curiosity about the mechanics of faith and hope. I have questions about God's role in the details of my life and the space I occupy. Before Brian's death, God was far away with a lot to do and while I would send him a voicemail style prayer from time to time, I never really expected or listened for an answer. Faith and hope were abstract concepts. They were poetic words used to evoke emotion and bypass logic or reason.
In the same way that shadows are used to create texture and definition in an artistic composition, this dark season that started when Brian was diagnosed and everything I've been through in mourning his passing has added significant depth to my relationship with God and my experience of the human condition.
In my entire life, I've never been more certain of my faith... or more confused by it. As I sort through the contradictions, every answer seems to come with a new question. But I'm persistent and resourceful and I feel like I'm on a good path to getting all of this chaos straightened out and put away in my mind. That's not to say that I don't have doubts or that the pain of this loss is even a little bit lighter. It's not.
But I have hope.
Our engagement photos taken in 1994 at K-Mart in Alliance, Ohio.
Don't be afraid to spend more for a well made product.
Buy the one you really want or you'll end up buying two.
There's almost nothing on this earth that can't be made fun of.
When given the choice, always get the filet.
It's ok to let other people laugh at you if you know you are the best and the brightest.
Movies should have explosions, ninjas or zombies. Good movies have all three.
Brian made me laugh. A lot. He had a bizarre and inappropriate sense of humor, a lightning fast wit and could not be embarrassed. You never knew what would come out of his mouth, but there was a good chance it would be both offensive and hysterical.
Some of his more memorable quotes:
Me: "If I eat all those Oreos, I'll be 300 pounds!" Brian: "You're not going to lose 200 pounds by eating cookies..."
"Shanks.....shooze!" There's a big long story behind this about running through the airport without his shoes because we were late for a flight and he didn't have time to put them back on after security. It's much funnier in person and so much funnier told by Brian (as most stories are).
Brian making his "shoes" face.
"You can't trust Jason. He can't tell the difference between filet and a dirty sock." - to a waitress at Olive Garden while discussing which menu items taste the best.
"Rednecks making left hand turns." In reference to Nascar.
"Snob Cheese" Brian wasn't fancy. In fact, he was adamant about not being fancy. Anytime we did something even remotely formal, he would find subtle ways to hillbilly it up a bit. When I started buying a particular cheese that I really liked to go with wine or for entertaining, he dubbed it "snob cheese." For whatever reason, it caught on and now pretty much everyone I know calls it snob cheese.
"Poop!" This is a single-word exclamation spoken in high voice and said very quickly. He picked it up from Beavis and Butthead back in the 90s and said it pretty much anytime it was even remotely applicable.
"God's law is greater!" Always said in his best excited southern baptist preacher voice. Usually used when he wanted to lighten up a conversation about politics or religion.
"We are Americans. The most powerful country in the world..." While negotiating a refund with a customer service representative of Irish discount airline Ryan Air.
"Sprechen sie 'boom?'" I don't remember the exact context, but he used to say this a lot when we were in Germany. The general idea was that Brian supported a might-makes-right foreign policy. It translates to: "do you speak 'boom'" in German.
"Wo sind die sheisse haus?" Literally translates to "where is the shit house" in German. This was Brian's unique and ever so tacky way of asking for directions to the nearest restroom. It's worth noting that while "sheisse" translates to "shit" it is not really slang. He might as well have been asking for the fecal house. He got an answer every time though.
My brain function and memory is pretty poor at the moment, so I'm sure there's more to add. Brian had a LOT of catch phrases.
My griefshare homework suggested writing a grief letter expressing the things I'm struggling with and how my friends and family can help. This is my version of that.
Things I'm struggling with:
Inertia - It's incredibly hard for me to move when I'm resting or rest when I'm moving. I don't change gears or directions very quickly. I'm not as efficient or productive as I was before which makes it hard for me to stay on schedule and get things done. As a result, I'm often running late and unprepared for whatever it is we're supposed to be doing. Conversations with me can be disjointed and hard to follow. I sometimes get stuck in a single thought process and other times my mind is racing and I can't focus.
Selfish- I have a hard time listening to the things my friends, family and co-workers talk to me about. Even if I try, I find I simply can't care about most of the trivial things that people find to complain about. I'm impatient, intolerant and irritable and listening to someone whine about things that are probably perfectly valid problems is just too much for me.
Can't seem to lose weight? My husband is dead. Your co-worker took credit for your idea? My husband is dead. Your commute sucks, you're going bald, and your wife kicked you out? Those are all valid and serious issues, but I can't seem to find it in myself to care. I'll be quiet while you talk about it and I'll try not to be indignant or dismissive, but in the end, my husband is dead and that's the only thing I can seem to think or care about at the moment.
Isolation - I'm not terribly interested in going out into the world most of the time. I don't belong there right now. I'm not in the same place as everyone else and I'm very aware of it. Experiencing emotions when I'm out in public is embarrassing and uncomfortable. I feel like I'm off balance when I am among people. It takes a lot of effort to smile and be cordial and interact like a civilized human. It's completely exhausting.
I am much more at ease when I'm home. It's secure and stable, my dogs are here and I know where the food is. I've gotten used to being here without Brian. I've taken ownership of this space and I'm able to function fairly normally here.
Some things my friends can do that are helpful
Hang out with me at my house. I may or may not entertain you, but I'll definitely appreciate your presence.
Text/Chat - I find that both real time and asynchronous conversations via text and chat help me feel connected to other people. I can talk and even if something in the conversation triggers an emotional response, it can't be seen on my face. It's up to me to share it.
Video Games - One of the most helpful things for me so far has been playing Rocket League with my friend in Texas. It's lighthearted / mindless fun and a great distraction. Best of all, I can play with friends without ever leaving the house. I have XBOX One, Wii U and a PC. Let me know if you want to play.
Come with me to some place I routinely go - Boyce Thompson Arboretum, Dog Park, church, Eastmark community functions. These are places and activities where I feel stable and secure (most of the time).
Work - I'm unfocused to say the least. Mental tasks are harder for me and keeping track of details is nearly impossible. I am operating at about 70% capacity at the most right now. Luckily, I started out as a badass, so I'm still more functional than most of my peers.
Troubleshooting and problem solving are stressful for me and it takes much longer to recover from a distraction than normal. I'm less efficient when multi-tasking which means I need fewer disruptions and a less chaotic workflow to be most effective. Oh...and the ridiculous passive aggressive nature of office politics is really draining. I hope my co-workers will be patient and understanding when I don't have the energy to tip toe around their fragile egos.
Money - I have a budget that I can work with but it doesn't include a lot of frivolity. I want to and am able to pay for myself when I'm out with friends, but for now it's best to stick with low or no cost activities and reasonably priced restaurants. Also, if anyone has tips for how to be an avid NFL fan without a sports TV package, that would be great.
Brian and Tess "watching the game" on any given
Sunday during NFL season at the old house.
In the first month after Brian passed away I used to have simulated conversations with him in my own mind. At first it wasn't intentional, it just kind of happened. After 21 years together I just know how he would have responded in any given situation and the way he would have replied to things I might say. I know his voice and could recreate it in my mind, so I would just fill in his side of the conversation. It was helpful in working through some of the guilt and regret that comes with the process of grieving.
To be honest, I think I did this when he was alive as well. In fact, I suspect anyone in a long term relationship has probably done it. I would basically have an entire two-sided argument entirely in my own head. I would think about what I wanted to say and then I would just KNOW what his response would be and how he would sound saying it, so then I would think about it and consider my counterpoint and on and on.
With that in mind, these are a handful of questions I wish I had thought to ask while Brian was still here. I think his answers would have been different in the last few days of his illness than they might have been prior to his diagnosis, but I think I can still make a pretty good guess at how he would have answered.
How do you want to be remembered?
I want to be remembered as a carefree and fun-loving guy who told great stories and made everyone laugh.
What's the most important thing you want me to remember about you?
I love you. That's cheating, pick something else.
I'm great in bed? Be serious!
I wanted you to be happy. That's what I want you to remember about me. What was your single greatest accomplishment?
Being debt free and able to buy exactly the house and furniture and car and pool that I wanted without compromising on any detail. I started out with next to nothing - everything I have represents hard work and perseverance. I'm proud of that.
Will you forgive me?
For what? For everything I ever did wrong in our relationship.
Sure. Next question?
Will you pray with me?
Do I have to? Yes
Then I will.
In the early part of our marriage we argued a lot about going to church and participating in organized religion, so I stopped bringing it up. More recently Brian referred to himself as a Christian and he agreed with me that God's grace was present throughout this experience. I asked Brian to pray with the hospice chaplain and he agreed that he would, but the chaplain got there too late. I know that Brian said the magic prayer when he was a teenager (any christian will know what I'm talking about - if you don't know we can chat later). I'm certain that Brian is in heaven, but I would feel a lot better about it if I had just asked him to pray with ME instead of waiting for the chaplain.
On a related note:
Lately I've shifted from talking to Brian, who can not hear me, to talking to God, who I believe does hear me. I can never know if the answers I get from God and Jesus are real or if they are similarly simulated responses based on scriptural knowledge or maybe even just giving myself the answer I want to hear. I'm still wrestling with that a little, but I've made a conscious decision to try to abandon doubt and rely on faith.
I find that I like the feeling of tears on my cheeks.
Shortly after Brian died, my brain wouldn't allow me to feel much of anything. I'm thankful for this now, but at the time I thought maybe it was an indicator that I didn't really love my husband or that I was a cold and callous person.
I remember talking to friends and family about it and expressing a fear that I wasn't sad enough. I was afraid that someday it would all come at once and overwhelm me, or that if I couldn't figure out how to feel what I was supposed to be feeling, that I would lose my mind.
After what I think was about a month, the emotional barriers eventually started letting things get through to be processed.
I was driving to work the first time I really, REALLY cried. The feeling of those big, fat hot tears rolling down my face was such a relief. The pain of grief is all I have left of the love of my life, and feeling the full force of it was so much better than the numbness of those first several weeks.
As time goes by, I find that my tears have changed. I remember thinking how unusually fat and hot my tears were that time in the car (and on several other occasions since then). I had never cried like that before. These were the tears that Brian deserved. This was the intensity of emotion that our relationship inspired. In that way, it was familiar and comforting to feel those big fat tears burning down my face.
I can't and don't want to live in a state of overwhelming pain. As time passes and I go through the process of grieving, my tears have gotten smaller and they aren't hot anymore. I know this is a good thing, but I still feel guilty when I realize that the intensity is fading. (Please don't comment on that sentence.)
Sometimes I experience emotion and the pain of grief without tears, but it's not as satisfying. My tears are my connection to and expression of the love I shared with Brian. Whether they are the big, burning tears of pain and loss or the quiet, cool stream that comes with the sweet memories of our times together, I find that I appreciate my tears now and am not so eager to wipe them away.
My husband passed away in June 2015. I'm participating in a counseling group called GriefShare that recommends keeping a journal of my grief process. The suggestion is to keep a separate private notebook, but I think I'm going to share it here instead.
Brian and I were a force of nature - beautiful, powerful, transforming, and sometimes destructive. Drew Barrymore and Paul Rudd could make a movie about us, but it would have to be directed by Stanley Kubric (or maybe Quentin Tarantino).
Our relationship was beautiful and sweet and true. We shared an unconditional love that was tested from all sides. We failed each other and forgave each other over and over for 21 years. Our scars made us stronger. We grew up together. We faced down hard times and celebrated good ones together. Whatever we were doing, we did it together.
We weren't a perfect couple, but we shared a perfect love and were perfect for each other. If I were a Mad Lib, Brian was the random, funny words that filled in the blanks.
I miss him like an idiot misses the point and I don't really know how to be me without him.
At the beginning of the year my husband and I ordered a pool from Paddock Pools and Spas. It was to be my 40th birthday gift and we were planning a huge pool party.
I created a Facebook event and invited nearly everyone I know. My sister's family, whom I haven't seen in about 7 years, planned a road trip from northeast Ohio. My aunt was considering flying down from Michigan and my parents were coming in from Florida. It was going to be an event.
As it turns out, Paddock pools was never even capable of building our pool. They were having financial problems and didn't have the capital to hire contractors. They knew when they took my $1,000 deposit that they were stealing my money. At least three separate people within the Paddock organization told me blatant lies about the status of our permit or the progress of our project and assured us that we could still get the pool done by my birthday.
In early May my husband, Brian, was diagnosed with late stage cancer of the bile duct.
It was just too much. We didn't have the energy or fortitude to keep wrestling with the pool company, so we canceled the project and the party. We decided to accept the loss of our deposit and move on.
In the meantime, our permit went through at the city of Mesa. Travis, a representative we'd been in contact with from California Pools and Landscape emailed us when he saw our name on the public document and urged us to reconsider California Pools.
We talked it out and decided it just wasn't the right time to make that kind of purchase. Brian was very sick and we didn't want the hassle or the expense.
It was completely deflating to give up. Brian had been looking forward to getting a pool from the moment we signed to have our house built. He was giddy about it. Canceling the project felt a lot like a resignation.
Travis called a few days later to follow up. I told him we weren't going to move forward with the pool because there was no way it would be done in time for my birthday. We wanted to see what would happen with Brian's chemo and maybe get the pool the following summer. Travis said he understood and offered sympathy for Brian's situation.
He was about to hang up when I asked him if there was anyway at all to have the entire project complete in time for Brian to swim with me on my birthday this summer. The stars would have to align in our favor, but he said it might be possible.
I spoke with Brian and told him that I wanted to step out in faith and let California Pools build our pool this summer. He agreed.
It felt really good to operate under the assumption of a best case scenario and moving forward with the project somehow gave us hope.
As Brian started his treatments, swimming in the pool together became our battle cry. It was something we could look forward to and rally around.
When I explained the situation and our time frame to California Pools Manager Nicole S. I told her I was counting on her team to save my birthday from eminent ruin, fight cancer and restore our faith in humanity.
From that point forward the California Pools team was all in.
Every person I interacted with throughout the entire process seemed to be personally invested in meeting our goal. I was worried the process would be a hassle or add to our stress, but it was the exact opposite.
Cindy, our scheduler, was in constant communication and made sure I understood everything I needed to do to avoid delays. Design specialist Lori Maas was responsive and actually met with me over a holiday weekend and all of the contractors who worked on our project were professional, efficient and friendly. They definitely restored our faith in humanity.
In the middle of June I let the team know that Brian's treatments weren't working and we were bringing him home for hospice care.
I knew they were already doing everything they could, but the goal of swimming together in our pool had become a central theme throughout the entire experience and our timeline had shortened significantly.
The California Pools team looked over what we had left to do and considered potential delays. They asked if I had the alarms I needed to pass the final inspection and arranged to have them installed. In our last few days in the hospital, they worked with me at all hours of the day to make sure everything was in order.
I felt like the entire organization had taken ownership of our story and had gone way above and beyond to take care of my husband and I. It was touching and uplifting and although we knew Brian would not win his battle with cancer, California Pools had definitely joined the fight.
Brian passed less than 24 hours after coming home from the hospital. He had only been sick for a month. Although he never got to swim in our pool with me, the pool served as a source of comfort and hope for him.
This is not a sad ending to this story. We didn't fail to meet our goal. This pool is the last gift my husband will ever give me. It was intended to be my 40th birthday gift and I will cherish it as such. Being able to swim in this pool on my birthday this summer will be a source of comfort on what is sure to be a very hard day.
The pool will be complete at the end of next week. We will be celebrating Brian's life with an open house and pool party June 27 from 11 a.m. - 7 p.m. Pastor Darren of Focus 314 will be available from 2-4 to serve as a spiritual counselor.
Brian was in love with the idea of a backyard pool. He set up a cheap above ground pool every year in the backyard at our old house. Here's Tess and Brian in the pool in San Tan.
