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.

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.

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.