So Many Taboos

Brian was the one who...

Knew me completely

Loved me unconditionally

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.

Brian and Tess hiking near Williams, Arizona. 

This Might Actually Be A Little Arrogant

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.

I wish I could learn to be still

I am incapable of just being still.

Things I do instead:

• Worry
• Tinker
• Toil
• Think. Think. Think.
• Plan. Plan. Plan.
• Analyze
• Strategize
• Organize
• Assess
• Review
• Audit
• 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.

Continuing The Story

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. 

Brian and I with my grandparents at our wedding.   

Good Grief...

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.