1,051,200 Minutes

Today was hard, but not really any harder than any other day. Wednesday was harder. Wednesday was the 3rd of February and two years ago the 3rd of February was your last really good day. You played with a litter of kittens and ate an omelet for breakfast. It was 60* (after two full weeks of snow and bitter cold) so we took a walk around the neighborhood (well, for you it was more of a roll). You watched your favorite movie (Logan), and drank coffee (thickened so you wouldn’t choke). People who loved you visited with you, and said goodbye to you. The Super Bowl was that night and you made a little joke about the Browns not playing (like you did every year).

You lived two full days after that but I barely remember anything about those two days because you were alive but you didn’t fully live. Not like you did on February 3rd… two years ago.

Today is February 6th. Two years ago you died on February 6th. Two years ago you barely lived on February 6th. Actually you only lived for 6 minutes of February 6th two years ago, even though your death certificate says you lived for 46 minutes on February 6th. I tend to think of certificates as things you earn for doing something, but even if you do nothing else in your lifetime you get two certificates (at least in our modern civilized society). You get a certificate when you start breathing, and you get one when you stop breathing.

When you stopped breathing on February 6th, two years ago, it took a little while for me to collect myself, call the hospice nurse, wait for the nurse to arrive, and then for her to confirm with the doctor over the phone that you were indeed dead. They couldn’t take my word for it that you had been dead since 12:06am, so you got credit for an extra 40 minutes of living. I think you would have liked that. You always did like a good deal.

I have always been a pretty competitive person, which presents a challenge because I have also always been a pretty mediocre athlete, and I was only a slightly above average student. I additionally tend to root for pretty mediocre sports teams whose accomplishments include things like – still playing football in January at least once every 20 or so years, and – producing the most Cy Young Award winners who go on to win a World Series with another team (I’m only guessing on that second one, but that seems like an accurate Cleveland stat).

Because of this I’ve had to cope with my competitive nature by competing with myself. I set achievable goals and then push myself to achieve them which is why I can say things like “I have marathon time ~~of just over 8 hours~~.” I did that a lot while you were sick. I set goals for myself as a cancer wife and accomplished things that were much more certificate worthy than just breathing, although ironically “continuing to breath while being a cancer wife” makes one worthy of a certificate, or at least several gold stars.

Taking care of you was like a marathon, the slow and steady kind we liked to do together (and did do together 3 times). There was a rush of excitement at the beginning as we built ourselves up to tackle something that we were told would likely kill you. The first year was hard, but not impossible. And then it suddenly got harder and felt completely and utterly impossible (like anyone who has ever walked or I suppose run Heartbreak Hill in Boston would understand). And finally there was this sprint to the finish (only a figurative sprint of course as I cannot emphasize this enough… I do not run). We were exhausted and knew it was going to end but didn’t quite believe it actually would. And then we were at the finish line. The race ended. You died. At 12:06 AM on February 6th, two years ago.

I have lived for two years without you. You were ten years older than I (well 10 years, 4 months and 16 days), so you still have the edge in overall minutes. But each day that I keep breathing I close that gap a little more. In those first days after you died, two years ago, it felt impossible that I could breathe long enough to officially catch up to you. Like those first days after finishing a marathon when your legs don’t work right. After two years of continuing to breath, it is starting to feel possible that some day I’ll close that gap completely and officially have breathed for more minutes than you did. Maybe I’ll make a certificate for myself. I probably should have pushed for a more accurate TOD on your death certificate just in case that 40 minutes factors into the final count (I told you I was competitive). You would have laughed at that joke, or more likely you would have made that joke before I had the chance to.

12:06 AM, two years ago. The moment you died. There was nothing particularly momentous about it. When I talk about you (which is a lot) I rarely talk about that moment because it was so insignificant in comparison to so many of the moments you lived before that one. The moments since then, two years worth of moments, felt at first like they would forever lack significance. But just as it became easier to breathe, it has become easier to see the benefit of continuing to breathe.

There is a part of me that thought everything would go back to normal when we reached the finish line. Like, you would die and that meant that all of the cancer stuff would be over, and you would get to be you again. We would collect our certificates, high five each other, and go back to our lives the way they were before we started that 28 month marathon. But it has been two years and I am starting to think there won’t be a certificate for me.

An Ode to My Subaru (and the man who bought it for me).

I hate shopping. No, hate is not a strong enough word. I despise shopping. I can handle shopping out of necessity, but shopping for fun has really never been my cup of tea (drinking cups of tea in places where others shop, specifically for books, is something I quite enjoy, however). In this way my husband and I were a bit of a mismatch from the start. My perfect Sunday involves watching football games I care about, and napping through football games I don’t care about, as well as walking the dog at halftime and/or in between games to get some fresh air and offset the calories from all of the football snacks I like to eat.

Travis was generally down for the snacks and the naps (and not completely opposed to the football), but he also had this strange compulsion to spend his Sundays going to places where they sell things, looking at those things, and maybe or maybe not buying those things. He’d then spend even more time thinking about all the things he’d looked at, comparing the cost of related things online and then, on a subsequent Sunday, he would want to return to the places that sell the things and look at them again (and maybe or maybe not buy them). This is a process he would want to repeat over and over and over again with just about every possible purchase you can think of.

At first I was fascinated by this behavior, then frustrated, and finally I decided to use it to my advantage. If I married this guy I would never have to shop for anything, ever again! Sure, there were other reasons that I said “yes!” when he proposed, but the luxury of being the only wife sitting in the “husband seats” that are conveniently placed in between the stores in shopping malls, and relaxing in my car in the Target parking lot playing Words With Friends on my phone while listening to a baseball game on the radio… was a pretty sweet perk. When we needed a new stove I gave him the basic features I was looking for (cooks food and won’t catch the house on fire), along with a general budget ($0 would be great but there’s a little wiggle room, I suppose), and he delivered the perfect stove/oven that did those things and even some more things that I didn’t realize a cooking appliance could do. Paint colors for the bathroom he’d just finished remodeling? I just handed him a blue t-shirt and said “I like this, but as a paint and maybe not quite so loud” and he sourced out the most perfect color combo that gave me the feeling I was showering seaside (and he found it on sale!).

In the months, now turning to years, since Travis died I can’t count the number of times I have appreciated his careful and thoughtful shopping skills. Most of the winter coats I’ve purchased for myself have holes and broken zippers while his look like the just came off of the store rack, and so I have taken to wearing his old coats. I used to think socks were just something you wore as a necessary barrier between your feet and certain shoes, but thanks to his collection of Smart Wool summer and winter hiking socks that I started stealing while he was still alive, I haven’t had a blister in at least 5 years (even while walking multiple marathons during that time). And I think I cook 90% of my meals in his cast iron skillets, which I am pretty sure are older than I am. But, in spite of his best shopping efforts, many of the things he bought for himself/me/us are wearing, breaking and fading. Dishes are chipped and cracked, blankets have holes, and sadly, my beloved 2014 Subaru Forester is showing signs that the year 2021 may be her last in my possession.

My Forester is my first car that was just mine. All of my prior cars were family hand-me-downs acquired by calling my Dad and saying “hey, I need a car, do you know anyone that has a car they’d like to get rid of?” My actual first car, a Ford Escort mini-wagon, was sourced in just this way. My Dad got it from his brother Tom, and when I was done with it (moving to a place where I wouldn’t need a car for at least a year) it went to my cousin Maddie. It’s one of many cars I used to drive that I’d see in the driveway at a family Christmas party and think to myself “wait, am I already here?”

I had a new job with a daily commute of about 100 miles roundtrip, (it was also up hill both ways in the snow and that’s not hyperbole, just google “Cherry Valley, NY”), and my little Hyundai just wasn’t cutting it. I needed something with a little more oomph. But as I reached for my phone to call my Dad and ask him who may be looking to get rid of a car with some oomph, Travis stopped me and informed me that there was another way to acquire cars. A method people without a giant family have been using since the dawn of cars… something called “car shopping.” I cringed at the thought but begrudgingly agreed to go on a few test drives. After dragging me to a couple of dealerships where I rolled my eyes and whined like an ungrateful teenager, we both decided it would be best for me to just give him my list of wants (stick shift, cruise control, can go up hills without dying, unlikely to catch on fire spontaneously, and most importantly, longevity, because I don’t want to be doing this again in two years!), and a general budget ($0 would be great but there’s a little wiggle room, I suppose).

Travis always loved the cars he drove and felt a connection to them, but that had never been my experience. They were just transportation. But my Subaru was different. I could see our future when I looked at that car – kids in the backseat and dog in the rear cargo area, driving to Thanksgiving in Delaware, or on a cross country trip visiting all of the National Parks on our bucket list. I envisioned us bringing our babies home from the hospital in that car, driving them to their first t-ball practices, and I saw myself vacuuming dog hair and goldfish crackers out of the seat crevices. These humble dreams were exactly what Travis had in mind when he lovingly selected this particular car after meticulously reviewing everything that was on the market.

Unfortunately, we didn’t get kid miles. No, we got chemo miles. The car was everything we needed as we drove the 110 mile roundtrip loop to therapy appointments and various treatments on an almost daily basis for the better part of two years (often uphill both ways in the snow). It was safe, reliable, and never failed to get in or out of our insanely steep hillside driveway even after a snowstorm (who knew shopping for a car that had 8 inches of ground clearance was so important??). Instead of bringing babies home from the hospital my Subaru brought Travis home from the hospital after three brain surgeries and a month in the ICU. There were no spontaneous family road trips with our kids, or cross country adventures, but it did deliver us safely to meticulously planned last vacations while comfortably carrying a dog in the backseat and a wheelchair in the rear cargo area. It moved us from New York to Ohio when I needed more help taking care of Travis in his final months of life. And it picked up Travis’ ashes from the funeral home and carried them from Ohio to New Hampshire, and the final resting place he had selected for himself.

For the second time this year my Subaru is in the shop for some pretty major and costly repairs (not surprising for a car with 200,000+ miles). I sadly fear its time to start… shopping. It breaks my heart to think about the joy he would have taken in selecting the right features for our next phase of life. But, harder still is watching the pieces of him that do still exist in my daily life slowly fade and disappear. His coats no longer smell like him because I wear them so much, and his socks now just look like my socks on my feet. The last of the pieces of furniture he picked out for our old house are now in my house, a place where he never lived. The puppy he gave me for our first Christmas together (who he hand picked from a shelter after a painstaking search because I said I wanted a dog who would go on long hikes, and was big but not too big ) is now approaching 13 years old and needs to be helped up onto my (not our) bed at night. And his cat, well the vet assures me that his cat is the kind of cat who is just ornery enough to live forever so I guess some things don’t change…

But the car, my car, has been a bit of a safe space for me these past two years as I have navigated life without Travis. I have kept his sunglasses on the dash right where he left them, since the day he died, because I just can’t bear to take them out (and because the medication he’s on makes him light sensitive so he needs them whenever we go anywhere). I still put my hand on the seat where his legs should be because when I put my hand on his knee he’d put his hand on top of mine and rub my thumb with his thumb, and I swear I can still feel it when my hand is in that spot on the seat.

I was returning home from delivering Christmas presents to the home of a fellow brain cancer widow when the odometer ticked up over 200,000 miles this past December. The baby he never met but that we had always hoped for was sleeping soundly in the backseat, the dog in the rear cargo area. I cried and patted the passenger seat next to me right where Travis’ knee was for the majority of those 200,000 miles. I double-checked the center console to make sure his sunglasses were still there, just in case he needed them, and continued cruising on to mile 200,001.

Logan Clare: An Origin Story

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You were born in the midst of a May snowstorm, but that’s hardly the most remarkable thing about your birth story. Bringing you into this world took years of planning, hoping, and dreaming. The road to your arrival includes a tragic love story, the emergence and destruction of a superhero, a high tech scientific laboratory, a pandemic, and a myriad of plot twists worthy of a full length feature film (or perhaps even a trilogy).

For years your Father and I talked about having children. We tried, in the way many young couples do, but were somehow unsuccessful in growing our family beyond the two of us (and the menagerie of pets we’d acquired). At one point we were successful in conceiving the child who would have been your older sibling, but they were gone from the portrait we were painting for our future almost as quickly as they had first appeared. While we were still grappling with that loss, life suddenly threw us one of the most cruel and complex curveballs we could ever imagine.

At some point in your life, when you encounter difficulty, someone may say something like – “look, it’s not brain surgery!” While their point may be to belittle the extent of your struggle with a flippant retort, the remark they are making is rooted in the fact that brain surgery is really freaking hard. And it doesn’t matter if you’re the actual brain surgeon (although yes, their role is exceptionally difficult), the patient, or one of the people who has to sit by and wait to find out how successful the operation was… brain surgery is, indeed, really freaking hard. And your Dad had three of them in under a week’s time.

The first operation was largely successful, as 80% of the tumor invading his brain was ultimately removed. The second, also a success, as the massive hemorrhage created during the first procedure was repaired. And the third, also successful, as the neurosurgeon was able to relieve the swelling that developed in the days following the first two efforts. But as your Dad began to wake up, it was clear he was no longer himself. The series of operations had changed the very fiber of his existence.

Now I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself, but your Dad, who had previously been just a “normal guy” (normal to others, anyways, I always thought he was pretty exceptional), had emerged from brain surgery as an actual, honest-to-goodness superhero. Some of his doctors brushed it off as a drug and surgery driven delusion, but I saw it with my own eyes. No tall buildings were lept in a single bound, but marathons were conquered and, with the drive and determination your Dad displayed, I think he could have taken on a building if that’s what he’d put his mind to.

For 28 months, your Dad fought everything that was thrown at him. He knew that the cancer was unbeatable, but that didn’t stop him from fighting. All the while, we continued to dream about growing our family… we continued to dream about you. As the cancer (along with the medicine he was taking to fight the cancer) threatened to destroy that dream, he did what any good superhero would do. He found a way to outsmart the villain. He called in super friends (in our case a fertility doctor and her team of scientists) so that when the time was right, you could come to be. A lot of parents worry about the day when their child will come to them and ask “where do babies come from?” My only concern about that day is that I won’t be able to accurately explain the science behind the miracle that is you!

Your Dad desperately wanted to meet you (and, maybe he did — you’ll have to tell me when you’re older). Together we imagined the person you would grow up to be. We talked about all of the fun adventures we’d have as a family. Whose eyes you’d have (they’re mine). Whose smile you’d have (it’s his). It breaks my heart to know that you will never have a photo of the two of you together. It hurts that you won’t get to squeeze him or wind your tiny fingers in to his beard and tug at it as you fall asleep in his arms. And I’m sorry that you’ll never get to hear him tell you any of the Dad jokes he’d been practicing for years. While there are so many things he won’t be here to give you, he wanted to make sure that you did have something special that was just from him: Your name.

I didn’t know if we were expecting a daughter or a son until the moment the doctor placed you in my arms. But your Dad had told me two years prior that our daughter would need a good strong name… Logan, just like The Wolverine. I told him that I would need to meet you first to know if the name fit. Not just any little girl can be named Logan, so I had to make sure that was really your name. It’s a superhero’s name after all. And I needed to make sure that you exhibited the same super strength as your Dad.

The world will forever talk about the year 2020 as a year of chaos and struggle. The history books will talk of a pandemic that swept the globe and a wave of civil unrest that swept through our nation. They’ll talk about how the economy collapsed as millions lost jobs. Baseball was shut down until July. Restaurants, theaters and public places were closed and boarded up, and families were forced to distance themselves from one another (also – murder hornets were briefly a thing). But, in the midst of all of this chaos… there was you.

You were born in the middle of a May snowstorm. I delivered you without a partner because your Dad had died, and the threat of a killer virus made it too dangerous to bring in a pinch hitter. I had a broken leg, which contributed to the complexity of your arrival. You were six weeks early and weighed less than 5 pounds. The nurses described you as feisty. There was no denying your super strength from the moment you came screaming into this world. You are a mix of the best parts of both of us. You are strong. You are super. You are Logan.

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At Least

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When my husband died last year I immediately gave myself a set of daily living rules to make sure that I didn’t crawl into a hole and die right along with him (which would have been my preference at the time so the rules were, and continue to be, really important). At first there were three rules that were 100% focused on just keeping me alive…

Take 10,000 steps a day. You can go back to bed and stay there the rest of the day if you accomplish this goal, but you must take 10,000 steps – no excuses.
Drink 1 gallon of water a day. You may not have a desire to eat or drink anything but you must drink water. Fill the bottle up and keep drinking all day, everyday – no excuses.
No junk food in the house. If you decide you want to eat you will eat, and you will eat everything in sight and that’s just not a good idea, so no junk food (including take out/drive thru food) – no excuses.

As the weeks went by these rules helped me to get through my house plant phase. I made sure I had plenty of sunlight and water while making a conscious effort not to overfeed myself, but had zero expectations of effort or activity beyond that. It worked for awhile but soon the danger of living too long in the house plant phase became apparent. I had to make sure to expand my efforts to stay alive before my roots took hold in the recliner that I’d bought for my husband a few months before his death. I’d tell myself that if Travis could see me he’d be livid that I was wasting my time sulking around the house instead of enjoying my life (I mean, at least I had a life to enjoy, right?), but thoughts like that just made me feel guilty and more sluggish, so I made more rules.

4. Accept one social invitation each week. You must say “yes” to at least one social request from a well-meaning friend or family member each week. You can turn everyone else down and just stay home, but you must say “yes” once. If no one asks you to go anywhere you must do something social with strangers (yikes!).

5. Give yourself something to look forward to. Plan for the future because odds are that you’ll have one. Plan a trip, buy tickets to a show/concert, and try to let yourself drift into day dreams about the fun you’ll have doing those activities.

These two added rules, a bit more abstract, were aimed squarely at recognizing that I was not a house plant, but an actual living/breathing animal who needed more than just food and water to survive. I needed to engage with other people, have conversations, and have hope for the future. All of these activities were really tough because my life revolved completely around my own misery. I was (and continue to be) lucky to have people in my life who tolerate my lack of ability to filter out off hand remarks about death and despair, but I’m sure spending time with me during this anti-social-wounded-puppy-phase was draining for them as they wondered if they’d be able to reach out and touch me without me biting off one of their fingers.

Over time I got a job (one that still allowed me to take things slow by working mostly from home), began reaching out to others a bit more, established some semblance of a routine, and stopped biting people (for the most part). The rules I created for myself kept me breathing, initially, and eventually helped me start to enjoy life again. The last rule, which had been the hardest, suddenly became the easiest a few months ago as bits and pieces of my future started to take place. I was looking forward to events, activities, and celebrations, most of which centered around the exciting turn my life was going to take as I prepare for the birth of my first child.

But then, suddenly, everything came to a halt. I, along with much of the world, was forced into house plant mode. My coping mechanisms were stripped away one by one as the rules that were keeping me alive became impossible to follow. There were no social requests to accept, and as the days ticked by each of the things I’d been excited to do were cancelled. The no junk food in the house rule went out the window as restaurants closed. I was once again left with sunlight and water.

I focused on walking my dog obsessively, setting a slightly higher target of 5 (socially distanced from everyone else on the trails) miles each day. As I approached my third trimester in a world without public restrooms this goal became more challenging so I had to break up the 5 miles into those smaller chunks spread out through the day. Drinking a gallon of water became equally challenging, but I was making it work and holding it together, until this week when I was tossed another curveball. As I set off for a hike with my dog on one of our favorite trails I took a funny step, fell to the ground, and heard a crack that I hoped was a stick breaking under my foot. A few hours later an x-ray would confirm that, unfortunately, it was not a stick.

And so went the last rule. After consistently and obsessively meeting my 10,000 steps a day goal for over a year I failed for the first time managing only a few hundred steps, most of which were taken as I dragged myself back to my car with a worried and confused dog in tow. I felt incredibly defeated as I examined the current state of my life. I was already an 8 months pregnant widow living alone in the midst of a global pandemic, and now I was all of those things… with a broken ankle.

I’ve gone over the list of “at leasts” in my head a few dozen times. At least it’s not a really bad break and will heal nicely on its own. At least you didn’t hurt the baby when you fell. At least you were relatively close to your car and didn’t have to hobble 5 miles back down a trail. At least you have loving and supportive parents who will drop everything to take care of you at a moment’s notice. And my favorite… At least it’s not a brain tumor.

But while I’m grateful that all of those things are true, I’ve come to realize over the past several years that the least comforting statements (whether they come from myself or another person), begin with the words “at least.” When Travis’ battle with brain cancer began and he was given a less than 10% of surviving for two years we heard… at least there’s a chance, at least you have each other, at least you don’t have children. And when he died I heard.. at least you had time to prepare for his death, at least you know he’s in a better place, at least he’s not suffering anymore, at least you’re young and can find someone new, and again… at least you don’t have children. At least, at least, at least.

But the reality of my situation right now is that it’s incredibly hard. I’m still grieving the loss of my husband, anticipating bringing his child into the world without him here, doing so at a time when that world is in total chaos, and now my ankle really hurts and I can’t do the one thing that has consistently brought me comfort and joy for the past year… walk my dog. You can tell me to count my blessings as much as you want (which is just a fancy way of saying “at least”), but you know what, I don’t want to and I don’t have to because things just really fucking suck right now.

And I hope that as you read this you aren’t thinking to yourself “wow, at least I’m not 8 months pregnant, widowed, alone, with a broken ankle during a pandemic!” because I bet things are pretty hard for some of you right now as well. If taking stock of all of the things that you are blessed to have helps you, by all means, do it. But if not, don’t try to cheer yourself up by telling yourself how much worse things could be. Be mad. Be hurt. Be frustrated and bothered by all of the challenges you’re facing. Own it and let yourself feel sad that you’re missing out on things that bring you joy.

Don’t compare your challenges to others. If things are extra hard for you right now don’t tell others whose lives you perceive to be somehow less difficult that they should be grateful for what they have. And if you perceive other’s lives to be more difficult than your own, don’t force yourself to count the blessings that may not be worth counting at the moment. If the hardest thing for you to deal with right now is the fact that you can’t enjoy a baseball game (and trust me, there are days where that’s hurt more than my broken ankle), then that is still pretty damn hard. Try not to live and wallow in the reality of the hard things, but still, let yourself feel them without forcing yourself to push them away.

I don’t believe that there really are differing degrees of difficulty (outside of the realm of olympic sports, perhaps). If it’s hard for you, it’s hard, and that’s all that matters. And I’m sorry if things are hard for you right now.

She’s not Megan

My dog recently suffered a loss. It was the kind of a loss that I know a little something about. The loss of a partner. The loss of the one you used to “do life” with. The loss of a best friend.

image1 (2) — Megan & Duncan, December 2008

Duncan first met the love of his life in 2008, about an hour after Travis and I adopted him from a shelter in Ohio. Megan, my parent’s black lab/golden retriever/who the hell really knows mix was about three at the time, and just aching for some canine companionship. And Duncan, an abandoned puppy who never knew his mother was in desperate need of some maternal guidance. Their eyes locked, their tails wagged in unison, and in that moment they both discovered exactly what had been missing from their lives. Each other.

While Duncan would go on to spend most of his life in New York, and Megan lived out all 14 of her years as an Ohio resident, the pair spent a significant amount of time together. My parents, who regularly traveled the I-90 corridor en route to visit my sister in the greater Boston area, would drop Megan off for days or sometimes even weeks at a time. She’d settle in to our menagerie with ease, somehow even co-existing peacefully with our cats in spite of her overtly murderous nature. Likewise, when we were scheduled for extensive travel, we’d make arrangements for my parents to care for Duncan. When we’d split them up after a long, or even a short visit both would spend the subsequent days pouting before eventually returning to their individual routines.

When Travis was diagnosed with a brain tumor in 2016 my parent’s asked if there was anything they could do. “Can you come get Duncan?” I asked, knowing that dealing with the impending chaos would be easier without worrying about our dog, and knowing that they’d be at our door step as fast as their Hyundai could carry them. Duncan would remain with them throughout much of the 28 months of Travis’ illness. Even during the periods where Travis enjoyed relatively good health it was nearly impossible to juggle constant medical appointments two hours away and properly care for a dog (especially one as spoiled as Dunc). He missed us, that was apparent each time he visited, but living with Megan was hardly a consolation prize, as he flourished with her by his side.

As the end of Travis’ life neared I let both of my parents know that I was going to need Duncan to help me get through the immediate aftermath of losing my husband. I worried a bit that he wouldn’t come willingly, that he’d spent too much time bonding with Megan (not to mention bonding with my Dad’s running schedule, and my mom’s endless supply of dog snacks) to leave and return to a life with me and the cats. Much to my surprise and delight, he immediately fell into my routine (or lack there of). It may have had something to do with the fact that in those early days after Travis died I walked, a lot. I didn’t know what else to do so I just wandered. I’d grab Duncan’s leash and we’d just go. My step-counting app would read 6 miles, and I’d have no idea how it got there. Duncan was far from reluctant in helping me through this particular manifestation of grief that I was experiencing, he likewise had no trouble assisting me through the long naps that followed the long hikes. We were a good team.

Unfortunately, Megan didn’t fare so well. My parents reported that she didn’t want to take walks or really even leave the house. She was approaching 14 years old and with the large quantity of lumps distributed throughout her entire body she seemed, at that point, to be more cancer than dog. They feared her end was nigh and asked if they could bring her for a visit. Her visit would end up lasting the better part of three months as she suddenly perked up once Duncan was back in her life.

Her vision and hearing seemed to be significantly impaired, which explained her hesitance to take walks without Duncan by her side. He displayed an incredible amount of empathy and patience for his companion as she slowed down. Our six mile days ended as Megan couldn’t quite keep up with that pace. Duncan didn’t seem to mind slowing down for her, adopting her schedule, and giving way to her needs. The dog who regularly stares me down at 6:00am, demanding that we walk now (right now!), was instead patiently waiting for Megan’s aching joints to wake up each morning, as shorter mid-day adventures became our new routine.

I was perfectly equipped to handle this sort of doggy-home-hospice situation, having just been through it with my own human companion. I was working mostly from home making me available to walk Meg whenever she was awake enough to go. I was occupying a house with which Megan was familiar, having spent the majority of her life there. And I was dealing with significant grief that included feeling a lack of purpose having spent the better part of three years providing care for a man who was no longer in need of anything from me.

Each day Megan seemed a bit slower, and a little less capable. But she was eating, drinking, playing and smiling so it seemed best to just let her live her life rather than providing any intervention. And then, on a warm Sunday evening in June, Duncan watched helplessly as the love of his life suddenly lost the ability to stand up on her own. Just hours before they’d hiked a solid two miles and danced in a river together, and now this. He stared at me, his eyes begging me to do something to fix her and make it better, while somehow knowing that there was nothing that could be done. He said goodbye in the same room where they’d first met nearly 11 years prior, and stood by quietly as my dad and I helped her into the back end of my Subaru for her last ride.

Duncan’s grief seemed to manifest itself in much the same way that mine had a few months prior, with a need to wander. We’d find a trail to hike and he’d insist on taking every side trail we encountered until the miles began to rack up. It was 7 miles that first day, 6 the next, we’d hit 8 on Wednesday that week. We’d get home from a walk, he’d nap for a few hours and then begin asking for another walk. How could I say no? Each time my parents visited he looked for Megan hoping she’d get out of their car. Instinctively he knew she wouldn’t be there, but he still looked, just in case.

A few weeks back a dog did emerge from their car. You see, while the options for finding reliable human companionship after you lose your life partner are few and far between (and sometimes creepy and terrifying), there are shelters and rescue organizations that can help you find new four-legged friends pretty quickly. They’re just there, waiting, wagging and wanting your love. And while they can never replace what we’ve lost, they seem to need us as much as we need them.

Ms. Halle Berry, my parent’s recently adopted awkward, gangly, chocolate lab/who the hell really knows mix, immediately locked eyes with Duncan and embraced him as the mentor she’d been waiting her whole short life to meet. Duncan’s greeting was less than enthusiastic, but not entirely unfriendly, and he’s even allowed himself to enjoy her company on occasion during their brief time together. He’s approached his relationship with this new recruit, in a manner similar to most of his other dog encounters. Duncan can be friends with other dogs on Duncan’s terms and when it’s convenient or desirable for Duncan. It’s often confusing for the other dog especially those for whom Duncan assigns the status of “outside friends,” which is exactly what it sounds like. Duncan’s “outside friends” are dogs that he will only play with outside, immediately ignoring and shunning them as soon as they step inside a building.

Halle is a wonderful companion and has started to fill in small pieces of the Megan-sized holes that were left in my parent’s hearts. She seems bound and determined to make Duncan fall in love with her, courting his affections in every way she can think including punching him, dropping toys on his head while he sleeps, chewing on his face, and body slamming him as she runs full force across the yard. Mostly he ignores her, occasionally acquiescing to her advances with something that resembles friendship. Unfortunately for Halle there’s just not much she can do to change Duncan’s opinion of her (although less face biting might help some). In Duncan’s mind there really are only two dogs who have existed in this world aside from himself – Megan, and everyone else. And thus she suffers from the same fatal flaw as every dog he’s ever met. She’s not Megan.

She Already Knows

On my 33rd birthday I wrote an open letter to my 23 year old self discussing the crazy twists and turns my life had taken during the decade of time that had just passed. I woke up on my 35th birthday with a similar desire to write to 25 year old me, but just couldn’t bring myself to tell her what her (0ur) life looks like today. How do you tell someone who is just about to get engaged, buy a house, and land her dream job that exactly ten years from that day she’ll be single, unemployed, living in her childhood home, and checking virtually all of the boxes on the crazy cat lady score card? While I seem to be falling short on providing proper guidance to my younger self at the moment, there is no shortage of advice being sent my way. With plenty of wisdom to choose from I thought perhaps I could cobble together something for her (me) from the advice of others, but I wasn’t quite sure where to begin.

I could start with the friend of a friend who told me that she was “a mess when her husband left her” but that she “reclaimed her life” by doing all of the things she couldn’t do when they were together. Even though my husband didn’t exactly leave but rather died, I put her advice into action and tried to think of things that the confines of my marriage had prevented me from doing. All I could come up with, however, was watching movies with Ashton Kutcher in them and wearing colorful pants. Travis and I were so insanely compatible that those are literally the only two things I could think of that he despised, that I might actually like. And after perusing the Kutcher compendium on Netflix and browsing the vast world of floral leggings available in online stores, I’ve come to the conclusion that he may have actually been saving me from myself with these two very reasonable deal-breakers.

There was also the more practically focused advice from the 91 year old widow who cornered me after a church service and recommended that I invest in a life alert button since I’m “all alone now and could fall and be on the floor for days before anyone knew.” While being seen as a peer by a nonagenarian could be a shock to 25 year old me’s system, at least then she’d know that she’s not alone in all of this. My new friend had further offered to help me gain residence in her retirement community, but I had to stop short of filling out the application when she told me I wasn’t actually eligible to live there until I was 55. Perhaps someday 65 year old me will be able to reach 55 year old me and let us all know if this gels with our future plans.

Of course I also need to consider the potential impact on the cosmos if one of these letters were to somehow actually reach her (me). I’m not exactly sure how time travel works, but I’ve read enough science fiction to know that confronting one’s younger self with bad news is a recipe for disaster in the form of disrupted timelines and alternate realities. 25 year old me was a real go-getter. Who knows what calamities she’d inadvertently set off in pursuit of changing her fate. Worse yet, what moments of joy she may have caused us to miss as she sought to avoid her (our) own sorrow.

No, it’s better not to try and reach her. It’s better not to warn her of the things that lie ahead. After all, she already knows everything she needs to know to get through what’s to come. She knows she loves Travis and that being his wife is something she both wants and feels called to do. But she also knows that he’s not her better half (and she is not his). She knows that considering herself to be only a fraction of a person in need of finding her missing piece is at best a tired fairy tale, and at worst a socially imposed mandate that makes those living a life without a partner feel somehow incomplete. She absolutely loves the life they’re building together, but she knows that what makes their relationship work is that they are both entirely whole people who don’t complete, but rather compliment each other extremely well. She already knows that if she is ever without him she will miss him terribly, but that she can indeed go on without him because she’s strong and will only become stronger with the love and support he’ll provide during the years she has him by her side. 35 year old me may require constant reminders of all of this, but 25 year old me is a lot smarter than she (I) thinks (thought). She already knows.

Staring into the Sun – One Month a Widow

I’m ok. Taking it one day at a time. Some days are better than others.

If you’ve spoken to me in the past month you’ve probably heard these responses to your questions about my general health and well being. If you haven’t spoken to me please rest assured that – I’m ok, taking it one day at a time, and that some days are better than others. Also, don’t feel bad if you haven’t spoken to me because I’m not much for talking at the moment – mostly because people keep asking me how I’m doing and I’m sick of saying that I’m ok and taking it one day at a time because some days are better than others.

I’d like it if we could be as blunt with each other as Mike the Verizon guy and I were when I finally had the energy to have my husband’s line disconnected after three weeks of paying for a service that he was decidedly no longer using.

Mike: Will your husband be keeping 
the line and activating service
with us or another company?
Julie: No, he's dead. 
Mike: Ok. Understood.

But, that wouldn’t be polite. Social convention dictates how our conversation should go. You ask me how I’m doing and I respond with one of the aforementioned platitudes that falls somewhere between the oft spoke – I’m good, great or well (there’s no way you’d buy that anyways) – and saying anything that would result in you asking more questions about how I’m actually doing.

The reality is that I’m not really ok. I am taking things slowly but it’s more like one minute at a time, and although some days are indeed better than others, most days during this past month have been pretty terrible. Losing my husband was the most painful, traumatic, horrifically terrifying experience I have ever had, and being forced to rebuild my life from the scraps of what once was, just plain sucks.

With 28 months to prepare for this moment you would think I would have been more prepared, especially since a grade 4 brain cancer diagnosis does not carry with it much hope. Even with the most aggressive course of treatment available we were told to expect no more than another year together, so the fact that he lived for two years and some change was somewhat miraculous. But still, we hoped. We hoped he’d be the odd one for whom all of the treatments worked. We hoped he’d be part of the mere 10% who live 5 years past diagnosis. We hoped he’d be the one who gave others hope spending the rest of his long life inspiring them by standing up and saying “look, I made it and you can too!”

We balanced our hope with reality because we understood that the odds were not in our favor. We talked about dying and funerals, what he would want his legacy to be, and discussed me moving on without him. But we couldn’t linger in those moments for too long. We had to keep hope firmly in our sights while giving only an occasional glance to reality. Staring at reality was like staring into the sun – a blindingly painful reminder of what was to come.

A month after his death and glancing at reality is no longer an option. While hope still exists it has now been banished to the periphery, and exists in a form that no longer matches the life I once knew. Glancing at this new version of hope hurts almost as much as staring at reality. And so I find myself just constantly staring into the sun.

But… I’m ok. Taking it one day at a time. Some days are better than others.