Tag Archives: love

When Do We Stop Touching the Street?

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Abbi at 6, realizing she may be small but is a giant inside!

I took this photo probably ten years ago, maybe more.
I had just bought a medium format camera, a Yashica, from a colleague for a decent price and I was experimenting with the camera.

As I was staring down the top of the little box, watching the reflex prism and getting used to the strange counter intuitive movement I heard “Daddy! Look at me! I can touch the street!”

As I turned around Abbi was standing next to the concrete steps that led up to our little home on 50th street in Omaha. Her arms were up, and she was giddy that she could look at her shadow projected in perfect position so it looked like she was touching the street. With the hand rail, steps and her shadow, the lines were just perfect to snap a photo.

The thing is, she was a tiny little girl, the kind of kid Andrea and I both needed for our first.  When Andrea got pregnant with Abbi, she wasn’t happy.  She wasn’t indifferent.  She wasn’t even pensive, much like I was for both Hannah and the boys.

She freaked out!  I mean, catatonic, hair on fire, a hare’s breath from falling off the ledge freaking out.  You know what, I got it, even then.  We were only 22/23 at the time.  We were young, stupid, and married only a year.  We had amazing plans, travel we wanted to do, and a whole life that wasn’t planned out, but we weren’t ready to be parents.  Still, she was freaking out, and even though I wanted to freak out too, one of us had to be calm.

But something happened after Abbi was born.  She was this adorable little thing, hungry, helpless, and the strangely perfect combination of the two of us.  Sure, she had problems.  As a baby her GI tract was so messed up she had vomiting episodes that make the exorcist look like and episode of Sesame Street.  She needed handmade formula because she was allergic to EVERYTHING!

But she was also the best kid, which was what we needed.  Sure, we had our battle of wills.  We had our crazy arguments.  But she always was this smiling, bright little star that made both of us beam.  While Andrea swore that Abbi was distant from her because she was so anxiety ridden through the whole pregnancy, she would be heartbroken to see how much her daughter misses her.  Abbi doesn’t have breakdowns, doesn’t burst into tears.  But I can see the missing pieces when I talk to her.  When she has a problem with her math homework, when she’s having boy problems, when she can’t get a date for Homecoming.  Still, there are times when she does something silly, not the adult Abbi she sees herself becoming, but the goofy, funny little kid – the same silly things that her Mom would do that made all of us love her so much more than we already did.

And I’ve noticed something, being the only adult in a house full of children.  They have this amazing ability to look at the world with amazement.  They can see their shadow and say “hey, I can touch the street”.  When I walk with the boys they see a rock in front of them and they kick it.  They don’t run, in fact they keep the pace, moving slowly right or left to meet up with the path of the rock . . . and kick it again.  I get that it’s a rock, but it’s still a great indication of how they keep imagining the way things should go.

It’s made me think of something.  The best times in our lives, the ones that we remember, laughing, falling over giggling, and loving every minute of it are the ones where we suspend our reality to look at the world through their eyes.  It’s why we love going to theme parks.  Take the analogy further – it’s why we ended up on the freaking moon!

Now Abbi is 16.  I see some of that imagination wane.  The small twinkling of that brightness comes back sometimes, and I see it: when she’s singing in the choir; when she’s dancing with the iPod in her room (and thinks I didn’t see her); when she gets an invitation to a party some popular kid is throwing and other people didn’t.  I realize that those horrible ’80s movies we all watched as teens aren’t popular because they were amazing films.  I mean, look at Ferris Bueller. Like he could jump on a parade float, get the crowd singing and get away without one bit of police brutality?  But what made them golden – what makes us keep loving them – is that suspension of disbelief.  We never thought Molly Ringwald would end up with Andrew McCarthy, but then, Ducky never lives happily ever after either.  But we have just enough of that little kid left in us to still think those are the greatest moments ever.

I’ve realized it’s OK to think that, too.  Why kill the one thing that keeps us from falling off the cliff ourselves?

I wish I knew when we stopped trying to touch the street.  I’d stop it, and challenge us all to reach for the moon instead!

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You’re Gonna Carry That Weight

I'm not carrying the weight of the world, but it's enough...

I carry a lot of weight on my shoulders every day.

That’s no mere metaphor, it is literal as well as figurative.

When I met my lovely wife I weighed a mere 180 pounds.  I fluctuated, sure, going up and down, 190, 180, 197, 195 . . . no massive surges in either direction that would cause me to even track my weight every day, though.  That is, until about a year ago . . . maybe 18 months.

I gained a substantial amount of weight.  In fact, by the time of the funeral, pictures of which now horrify me for vain reasons as well as emotional ones, I had ballooned to a whopping 250 or 270.  Not sure, by that point I was too embarrassed to look.  It’s painful to carry that much.  Walking was slow, I had a hard time catching my breath, and I could tell my metabolism had changed to the point that I can’t eat whatever I want and assume my body will just burn off whatever I need.

That’s changed.  Not because I’ve taken control, focused my mind and body and begun a stringent training routine that involves drinking some sort of green, grass-flavored liquid and running before the sun rises in the East.  It’s changed because I just don’t have the time to sit on my ass and munch on crap while watching television.  I also have a job that gets me out of the building and isn’t stuck dealing with turning a million stories with too few resources and too much pressure.  Yeah, the pressure’s there, but last week I was riding in a boat while interviewing a guy on a story out in the Bay.  What other job lets you do that?

I’ve lost almost 20 pounds since then.  The other weight isn’t coming off, not anytime soon.

I’ve done my best to make decisions that I thought would create the least amount of chaos; inflict the least amount of damage.  Hasn’t always worked out that way, and the road is paved with my good intentions, as they say, but it’s the best I could do.

When Andrea first went into the ICU, we didn’t have the kids come in.  Andrea was very weak and she just needed to get stronger to handle the pull and need of the kids, both emotionally and physically.  I’m not sure if we ever had a discussion that said “keep them home for now,” but I did anyway.

When she went into respiratory arrest everything changed.  I’ve described the panic, I won’t relive that with you.  But in that first day, nervous, hurried and hyper to the point of talking for every single second, I made a lot of decisions I regret, but don’t know that I’d change.  Whether it is true or not, I believe that those in a coma, or in Andrea’s case, sedation, can hear us.  I hear the kids in the twilight of my dreams when they come into my room just before they wake me up.  Why couldn’t Andrea?  So as a result I didn’t stop talking.  Not from the minute I arrived through my way out the door each night.

It’s also why I kept everyone away.  With the kids it was for two reasons: first, I didn’t want them to see her that way.  If you’ve ever seen someone intubated, on a respirator and fighting for every breath, you know it’s horrible.  The medical dramas make it look so romantic, a frenzied operation that pits the nurse or doctor above the patient’s head, the scramble of activity and the rush to get the tube inside and get the person breathing just in time . . . believe me, that might be the first few seconds.  The rest aren’t.

The tube is all the way down the throat.  So when the nurse comes in, sedated as Andrea is, they touch, move or adjust that tube, Andrea feels it.  She jumps.  She cringes.  She grimaces.  Nothing about it is comfortable for her or for me.  I saw it when my Dad was recovering from heart surgery, and it’s one of the few times I’ve seen my mother cry.  I watched it, every time they came into the room with Andrea, and I faced it because I felt like she needed me there.

That awareness is also why I kept most everyone out.  Andrea’s sister Amy came, and that was fine.  She was always a comfort to Andrea, who loved her deeply.  Andrea also had a connection with her sister, loved her children almost as deeply as her own, and was comfortable around her.  She told Amy things she didn’t tell anyone else.  Her visit was welcome.

But I kept Andrea’s parents away as long as I could.  Andrea always tensed up, with every visit when they were there.  Andrea’s mom, you see, had come down with a degenerative brain disorder, something akin to Parkinson’s but faster acting and harder hitting.  Andrea would visit their house and I would take her call on the way home, in tears, often distressed either by the further deterioration of her mother or because of some argument with her parents.  Neither made things easy on her.  It was this stress, this tensing that I thought she didn’t need that I tried to keep away.  They did visit once, and Andrea’s body was more rigid, the seemingly reflexive movements growing faster.  Andrea didn’t need to be subjected to this every day, and neither did her parents.  I was there, I didn’t like what I saw, but you don’t abandon someone you love because you’re uncomfortable.

You have to understand, I sincerely thought, even by then, she would get better.  It was just pneumonia.  I know it’s horrible and that people can still die from it, but I thought we’d come through it and be stronger for it.  I had no idea that it would just be . . . over.

Now, I wonder where the kids’ heads are.  Are they mad at me because they didn’t see their Mom those days?  Do they wonder if she was thinking about them?  None of them act out to me or seem like they are upset about it.  But the signs creep out that they wonder.  I was determined, though, that their memory of their mother be the best memories, the ones that revolved around her dancing in the middle of the living room with them to some goofy little song.  The woman who sat at the table with her huge mug of coffee and infectious laugh.  I didn’t want them to see or remember her with the plastic tubing snaking around her like tentacles; the black marker on her leg to indicate which one had an infection; the tube full of greyish crap that they pulled out of her lungs through it all.

After the funeral, the hospital let me know there was a bunch of stuff of Andrea’s that I had left behind.  It took a lot for me to go to the hospital then, but I did it.  I wasn’t going to leave any of her behind.  I was pretty proud, too, I’d done fairly well and held it together.  That is until they handed me the items.  They’d taken a bunch of her stuff, her clothes, shoes, even the copy of “The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo” and tossed it into a clear plastic garbage bag.  That wouldn’t have been so bad, except in the bottom were the get well cards the kids had made for Andrea – cards that she’d been able to read, just hours before she took her bad turn.

They all seemed, at least at that moment, to plead for her to come home.  They told how much they missed her, nearly begged her to come home, that they needed her.  It was like a visible representation of their hearts ripping in two.  The weight got a little heavier, as did my heart.

Now, when I’m home and Sam’s playing upstairs or reading, he’ll shout down every 15 or 20 minutes:

“Hey dad?”

“Yeah Sam?”

“I love you!”

Hannah will stop me in the middle of walking from the flour to the sugar while making cookies to hug me, in the most inopportune moments.

Noah wants to be around and have some sort of activity every second of every day.

Abbi, well she has a lot of responsibility she shoulders now, whether I pull it off of her or not.  All of this is a result of my decisions.

Were they the right ones?  I don’t know.  I will never know, I don’t think.  It’s a very solitary thing, to carry this weight.  My parents helped carry some of it, holding me up after they arrived.  Still, the decisions I made, alone, when nobody else was around, I have to live with whether they’re right or not.  It’s one of those horrible points in life, where every decision will have bad consequences, you just have to measure which decision has the fewest.

I am fortunate to have 4 amazing children, who tell me things, who let me know if they’re down or miss their mom, or just need help.  I can live with Sam freaking out in a store if we’re not all together or Noah constantly under foot.  Why?  Because we’re far stronger together than individually.

I make no decision about our family without their input now.  I don’t care how minute.  They’re involved, and they’re part of it all, which is as it should be.  It’s not because I want them to shoulder the burden, it’s because they should never have to feel left out again.  They should not be alone in the dark.

But mostly, I just want to make sure they don’t have to carry that weight.  Pick your musical metaphor, use whatever philosophical platitude suits you best.

No matter, I’m going to carry that weight . . . a long time.

Andrea’s Airplane Music . . .

I had mentioned an old mix tape before thought it might be fun to list the tracks for you. Some are as subtle as a 2×4 and others…well I don’t know what my mind was thinking 20 years ago.

Rush : Dreamline
Stevie Ray Vaughan: Couldn’t Stand the Weather
ERic Clapton: After Midnight
Steve Winwood: One and Only Man
ERic Clapton: Forever Man
Doobie Brothers: Dangerous
ZZ Top: La Grange
Eagles: Victim of Love
Joe Walsh: All of a Sudden
Led Zeppelin: Ten Years Gone
Pink Floyd: On the Turning Away

Side 2
John Mayall and the Bluesbreakers: Made Me Wanna Go
Allman Brothers: One Way Out
The Who: Magic Bus
Robert Cray and the Memphis Horns: Consequences
STevie Ray Vaughan: Tightrope
Vaughan Brothers: Telephone Song
Led Zeppelin: The Song Remains the Same
ZZ Top: waiting for the bus/Jesus just left Chicago
Eric Clapton: just like a prisoner/behind the sun

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Isn’t It a Pity

I started writing this blog for a couple reasons.  The first, of course, was selfish.  It’s helping me, giving me an outlet to sort through everything that’s going on in my household and my head.  I talked with Andrea about everything, so when you go from having that adult who shares all of your thoughts, feelings and helps you decompress from the day.  You have no idea how important that is and how much you miss it when the most intelligent conversation you have is with four children and not with another adult of similar ilk.

Another reason is to try and touch, if just a little, the memories and history of the first half of my family’s journey.  I have to do this now because I can see the small pieces of her falling away, disintegrating an atom at a time, the memories flying away like pieces of pollen in the wind.  I hope only to retain some of those particles so that they don’t disappear altogether.

The last reason, and the one that pushes me to connect with others via this blog, is to remove the lid from this box that some people (emphasis on SOME people) want to throw you into.

There’s a tendency to ask someone like me how you’re doing, which is fine.  But the next step is always to say “it will get better,” or “you’ll heal, you will meet someone, you will find another person . . ” insert your own cliche’d moment here.  The reality is, it won’t get better, nor should it, and I don’t want it to.  This is what people just don’t seem to understand.  We have such a need in society to want everyone to be OK, but not actually face the things they are going through.  I don’t want to think you will be sad, depressed, stressed out, or even hurting.  I don’t want to face that you might be alone, so damn the consequences, I’m telling you that it will pass and you will get better and you will fall in love again and the world will be bright, full of rainbows, sunshine and unicorns.

Isn’t it a pity.

If I touch even one person to face reality . . . I feel like this has been worthwhile.  Here’s what I want everyone to face, and this isn’t easy for me to write, but if I can face this, I think you can, too.

After Andrea took a turn in the ICU I went into a frenzy of panicked activity.

I spent the next two days talking until I was hoarse.  I took so many phone calls I couldn’t handle it.  I eventually forced people to look at my Twitter feed because my phone kept dying.  I started reading “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” out loud hoping that I was just so annoying that she’d wake up and tell me to shut the hell up.  I hid in the corner of the room, behind the curtain, hoping they’d miss me and I would stay for longer, maybe the entire night, in the hospital.  I asked her what she thought we should do for our anniversary, what I should bring to her here in the hospital.  I needed her to stay around for our anniversary, it was 18 years after all.

We got married young, and we were stupid.  We were still kids at the time, and I was just so insanely paralyzed by shyness, brought on by a paralyzing lack of self-confidence, and it translated to most people that I was awkward, even uncomfortably silent.  But she never saw that, she saw the person I was at home, the guy that could be normal and boisterous and emotional when he was behind a microphone with a guitar.  She saw that, even when I wasn’t hiding behind the Stratocaster and tweed amplifier.

She made it to 18 years.  Barely.

This is a long setup, I get that, but it tells you what I was going through when the world started trying to shove me into a box.

Saturday morning, March 26th, 18 years to the day that I wiped the emotional tears from Andrea’s eyes as we told each other “’til death do us part”, the hospital called me and said Andrea was “in some distress”.  No big deal, right?  That sounds pretty basic.  I was already on the way and they didn’t sound like it was a big deal.

Until I got to the hospital.  When I buzzed the doors, they got strangely quiet and I heard the nurses scrambling, saying “it’s her husband” in the background, unsure what to do.  The doors opened and I walked into the most chaotic, insane situation I’ve ever experienced.  3 nurses were taking turns pumping up and down on Andrea’s chest, injecting medications to the Y-shaped connector where the IV tubing that snaked its way to Andrea’s arm.  They were doing that CPR count as they pushed, her chest caving in with each compression.

Everything around me started to swirl.  You know how people say they actually see everything turn red when they’re really angry?  Mine went white.  Don’t ask me why, it just got covered in a milky white haze.  The doctor was calmly shouting commands to the nurses.

If all you have seen of this type of scene is what’s on TV, it’s just so inaccurate.  The room had a flurry of activity, but it was oddly quiet, which was even worse.  As they worked on Andrea I could hear one of her ribs break.  I was a mess, begging her to stay with me.  I was in a mad-dash panic and all I could think was “stay with me, please!”  As each piece of medical equipment ticked away, I was thinking how I can’t do this.  I can’t break my kids’ hearts.

Then the doctor came over and told me they’d been doing this for more than half an hour, maybe longer, and that even if they kept going they didn’t know how much oxygen her brain had been deprived of.  He’d keep going, but it was really up to me.  I reached up, held her foot, and saw every horrible thing that was happening to her.  I just couldn’t take it anymore.

Here’s where the lid of the box opened.

The hospital chaplain too me into another room, as I nearly hyperventilated in emotion.  I haven’t cried in years, but I was a mess.  Here I thought they were going to help me, try to give me tools to move forward.  Instead, they literally overwhelmed me with crap.  I had to start looking at decisions.  I had to pick out a mortuary.  I had to look at a string of things that needed to be taken care of.  It wasn’t an hour since she was gone and the hospital told me I had to start making arrangements.  The kids didn’t even know their mother was gone yet.

Then came the string of phone calls.  Lots of them were really sincere, helpful, and seriously emotional as I was.  Others gave me awful platitudes and talked to me only so I could make them feel better.  This is what I’ve dealt with, a metaphorical version of the hospital.  Get the person out of this room, make the room look empty, make this go away.

Where I’m comforting my kids and trying so hard to keep daily life just daily life, many people just don’t know how to handle that.  Why doesn’t he just stay in the box?  It makes them feel better to think that I will get over things, that the wound will heal, I will move on, the world will get better, and everything is perfect.

Sorry, it doesn’t work that way.  God help me, sometimes I wish it did.  The kids just don’t have a Mom.  No other woman will be their Mom.  No other person understands me the way Andrea did.  This isn’t life the way it had been, it’s a new life and a new story.  People cannot seem to accept that for right now we have to do this without her and have a hole in our lives.  It’s easier to try and tell us that “all wounds heal” and “everything will get better”.  I’m sorry folks, it won’t.

That doesn’t mean we can’t do it.  We don’t lose the pain, folks.  We learn to live with it.  I don’t crave the day that I don’t think about Andrea all the time, I dread it.  This woman was one of the greatest part of our lives, so why would we want to make it disappear?  Yes, right now it hurts like hell.  But we also have amazing memories and wonderful fondness for her.  It bothers people that we can have both.  People want you to fit the mold.  A mom and a dad.  Parenting the kids.  This isn’t a diatribe about single parenting.  Divorce still leaves two parents.  If you have a problem you can still call that other parent, whether you are friendly or not, because the greater good of your children is there.

But people just can’t seem to handle that life is so complicated.  We just don’t fit in the box.

I know this is the second post in as many days to use music, but to use a former Beatle’s line: “Isn’t it a pity.  Isn’t it a shame.  How we break each other’s hearts.  We cause each other pain.”

We’re only immortal for a limited time . . .

When we are young, wandering the face of the earth, wondering what our dreams might be worth, learning that we’re only immortal for a limited time.”

Yes, I know, it takes some guts to start a post with a quote from the band Rush.  There’s a reason for it, beyond the oddly philosophical bent to the lyric.

My oldest daughter had a brief moment of clarity, a space between the angst and hormonal intensity of a typical sixteen-year-old’s reality.  We were sitting at our kitchen table together, the last two holdouts of our family dinner, an exercise that seems to be growing exponentially shorter by the day.

The whole point to dinner at the table is so that I can talk to them all and know what’s been going on.  I know what little girl takes delight in emotionally torturing Noah, seemingly for little reason.  I know what part of the field trip they just took impressed Sam the most.  I know the long-term plan Hannah has for getting her friends musically educated so they can have a band and play Green Day and Pink Floyd songs together.  I also know what boys are cute and what party Abbi is invited to that boosts her morale and confidence.

I also rotate music choices.  Here’s where we diverge from the path we traveled as a full family.  Andrea hated my stereo system.  She thought it was clunky, old, big, noisy and outdated.  I love it.  Where Andrea loved the convenience of the newer, bookshelf stereo or just throwing a CD in the DVD player, the lack of audio quality bugged the hell out of me.  So one of the first things I did was to set up the stereo, in a shelving set in the corner, speakers on the floor, part of the decor, in a very retro-looking setup I’ve seen on a dozen romantic comedies or so, where the male love interest somehow has an old, expensive turntable and a full LP collection that nobody I ever knew owned.  Even when LP’s were all you had.

Yes, I’m strangely retro now.  Funny thing is, it wasn’t by choice.  It’s cool now to be collecting vinyl and listening to your stereo.  I think we’ve confirmed that I’m not cool.  I just never stopped listening to my vinyl.  Guess I shouldn’t reveal that and just act like I’m cool. (Yeah, I know, if you have to act cool, you aren’t)

There’s a point here, bear with me.  We rotate the music choices.  Each night, a different person in the family gets to pick a record.  (CD’s too, if they want, but I prefer the vinyl.)  This night, we had some new record playing, that expensive audiophile 180g vinyl that Odd Job from Goldfinger could use to cut off your head.  It was a bit melancholy, and Abbi mentioned something I’ve been thinking . . . even posted here . . . for some time.

“It’s been a lot harder this last few weeks, Dad.  I don’t know why that is.  It’s just been harder.”  She hadn’t expected that.  She wasn’t sure why but I was.  I’ve said it before, Fall is our time.  Andrea and I just loved everything that came with it.  Her birthday is also the 30th of October.  How do you face an occasion you never got right without the person you disappointed for so many years?

As we reviewed how we’d trudge through the rest of the month Abbi went to her room, likely to commiserate with friends.  I noticed that the old cassette player had a tape in it, one I’d put there when we moved and forgotten.  It was an old “mix tape”.  For those unfamiliar, a “mix tape” was a way to show you cared for someone without getting hurt too badly if they said the feelings weren’t mutual.  You took the time and effort to find songs and artists that you thought the person would like, timing out two sides to a cassette, positioning the songs so that there’s no dead air at the end of a side, perfectly placed so the last notes fade, the leader tape streams over the heads of the deck, and the clunk of the mechanism stopping signals the listener to rotate the tape and see what awaits them on the other side.

This tape was one I had made for Andrea when we first started dating.  I know it was for a trip she was making, I think to visit our mutual friend Annie, on the East Coast.  It was all music we’d listened to at work.  but there were hints of things we’d played while wiling away the evenings in those intense, romantic first weeks.  It also had the song quoted above, seemingly out of place other than it was from that era.

But it fits for two reasons.  First, I had taken Andrea on our first official “date” (I’ll go over why it’s in quotation marks on another post) to see Rush.  She could have cared less, I know now.  It was cold, with black ice all over the pavement.  We walked together toward the Civic Auditorium in Omaha, Andrea in a bright red, full-length red coat that had a big scooping hood that draped off the back, framing her shoulders as it hung below them.  She slipped slightly, grabbing my elbow as my arm went around her waist.  It could  have been filmed, that moment, where she leaned there, in my arms, the briefest of eternal pauses as she steadied herself in my arms.  And then she smiled, laughing in her eyes, telling me “it wouldn’t surprise me if you did this on purpose, just so you could see the California girl fall on her ass!”  It’s one of those moments you are sure was in a John Hughes film, the California girl meets the Midwestern boy.  It’s either that or a Bob Seger song, not sure which.

I was walking 2 feet above the ground the rest of the night.  I didn’t know until later she could have cared less about the band, she went because I asked her.  Some Romeo, right?  Ask a girl out and the venue is one where you can’t talk because it’s so loud.  It’s either stupid or it’s genius.

This song, those two albums: Presto and Roll the Bones, were more commercial and probably most accessible to her.  We ran into friends at the auditorium, pulling the romance out of the moment quite a bit.  But I never forgot the night.  I guess she didn’t either, because in years since, her family and friends all recount that night as one she told them about.

Now, I see the whole picture.  Andrea was a flaming burst of energy in those days.  Where I was this sort of gangly, geeky, quiet and calm kid, she was was antimatter released!  She partied hard, drank heavily, but that wasn’t a bad thing.  She made me happier, boosted my confidence and just enveloped me with emotion.  I don’t think I ever saw her in those days without a brilliant smile, her eyes just sparkling.  It was such a counter opposite to how things deteriorated in the last few years.  Not between us, but for her.  The flame wasn’t as bright.  I had seen it coming back, but now it’s extinguished.

The lyric is a strong metaphor.  We spent nearly every possible waking hour together.  As Neal’s lyric says, we were “wandering the face of the earth, wondering what our dreams might be worth…”  Andrea blew through life like she was immortal.  Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead, the hell with the consequences, we will do this and come through on the other side.

I won’t say Andrea was like Jimi or Janice.  She wasn’t doomed to die, because we had plans.  We were going to take a little of that lightning back out of the bottle again.  We had never thought this could happen.  It wasn’t on the horizon.  We were getting older, ignoring the lessons of our misspent years, when we thought we were going to live forever.

It’s the one lesson I hope my kids don’t ever learn.

I don’t want them to know that we’re only immortal for a limited time.

The Soundtrack to the Colour of the World

Most days I stumble along, keeping my mouth and nose just above the surface.  Now, that’s not to say I don’t occasionally swallow some water.  If the surface is calm, I can keep my nose and lips above the water, watching the surface tension hold the flood that could pour into me and drown me in a sea of difficulties.

Not that a wake doesn’t push through and rise the level above my head.

I get that I’m over-doing the drowning analogy here, but it’s apt.  Believe me.  The biggest wave to hit is almost always the kids’ school.  The number of half-days, holidays, breaks, long weekends, in-service programs and faculty retreats is so high I can’t seem to keep up.  This week is the perfect example.

Tuesday the boys remind me that there’s no school on Friday.  None.  No extended day program, nothing.  Don’t get me wrong, the reason is very noble, it’s a good cause.  They help what is called a “mustard seed school”.  Basically it’s a way for our parish and school to give help, supplies and anything else to kids and schools who don’t have the resources.  Every year we all pitch in, buy backpacks, get extra school supplies and help the students less-fortunate than ourselves.  It’s very noble.

But as this event swishes through my week, the wake it leaves behind is killing me.  I no longer have that partner.  The ability for one of us to shift our schedule, or take half the day, what have you, is gone.  On top of that, the last few half-days and days off I had to take off.  We’re in October, the push to November ratings, and I’m already 2 sick days and 5 vacation days in the hole.  I’m only 4 months into this new job, I can’t afford to make them angry or miss more work.

I get that we have that Catholic missionary charity mandate, but this is starting to wear on me.  I can’t stay home, I can’t get daycare because I can’t afford it and my oldest has school all day.

I find myself, again, begging my sister-in-law to take the kids.  This isn’t a criticism of her, she’s amazing, wonderful, helps whenever I need it, and is constantly telling me to let her know if I need anything.  But I hate having to ask.  She’s got her own 3 kids.  She has my in-laws living with her. (An issue for another entire post I won’t subject you to today) Sam is a little freaked out by one of their dogs.  Don’t get me wrong, I take her up on it, I have to, but it kills me to ask and put my burdens on someone else.

This is where missing Andrea approaches the practicality of every day life.  If you have your spouse you can plan, bargain, schedule, even argue, but at least you get the solution and can make something happen.  There are days that I wonder how many more times I can beg for help?  When does taking people up on their polite offers of help turn into burdening them with your difficulties?  What happens when Abbi leaves for college?  She’s only here another 2 years and Hannah won’t be old enough to drive!

Andrea was always a great problem solver.  It was a boon and a burden, though.  There were times we absolutely needed it.  There were also times that her drive to solve what she saw as a problem created bigger problems.  Andrea was brilliant, even though she was told she wasn’t.  She wanted to change careers but I don’t think she ever forgave me for the fact that she did it.  I wanted her to stay in journalism, but it didn’t make enough money, fast enough, for her tastes, so she went to pharmacy school.  The thing is, everybody told her she couldn’t do it!  I knew she could.  I didn’t think we could pull it off, but I knew she was smart enough.  Much like my brother Mike, she took the prerequisites she needed and tested out of others in record time.  She got into Creighton’s PharmD program.  She was, in the end, a Doctor of Pharmacy.  She knew more than I ever did, was able to use the logic and even got an award for her help in researching new treatments for alzheimers – a drug I see marketed today and know she played a role in it.

But to pay for those initial two years of undergrad extras I had to supplement our income.  I worked as many hours at the small-market television station that employed me as I could.  I delivered newspapers at 2-5am.  (Not kidding.  Really did it) and gigged with my band as much as I possibly could.  Andrea hated me playing with a band.  It was the one thing we had the hardest time reaching a middle ground.  I couldn’t get her to understand, nor did she want to, I don’t think.

Those gigs, that music, actually fed us in those years.  We had groceries some weeks from the 4-hour gigs at the BBQ joint or the 415 Club.  Music is a huge part of my life.  It’s here in this blog, and there’s a lot of musical references in everything I do.  If you told me I could pick losing a leg or losing an arm, I’d pick the leg so I could still play guitar.  It took the revelation that Andrea had a condition known as Synesthesia – seeing sounds and objects as colors – for us to meet halfway.  We both came to the realization that we had similar syndromes – hers with colors, mine with sound.  There isn’t a time in the day where some tune or musical note isn’t running through what’s happening in front of me.  For her she saw varying colors with the way people talked.  As a result, if something was wrong with me, she could tell, even if I tried to shield her from it, because the tone of my voice visually betrayed me to her brain.

So early in our marriage she would jealously feel that when she arrived in a bar where I was playing I should have focused my attention on HER, not my playing.  In the last half or so, she realized that to pull me out of that world – much like removing the color from hers – would drive me mad.

I sincerely believe it’s what made her so wonderful.  She was fanciful.  She was fun.  She had a beauty that sparkled in her eyes when she smiled.  That twinkle, some of the color, started to disappear when she became clinically depressed.  You could see it dull when she fell into that darkness.  What irritates the hole in my soul is that I saw that spark returning bit by bit, and she was laughing, sparkling more in the months before she died.  The woman who got angry and finally went back to school, damn the consequences, damn the cost (which was the downside to her pharmaceutical decision) she would prove them all wrong!

Yet some in her sphere of influence (I won’t say here) wouldn’t even ask her questions about the prescriptions they were given when she got her DOCTORATE.  She just wasn’t “smart enough”.  In a room full of people – the people most important to her – some of those closest to her would ask people with no medical background about the medications they were taking, right in front of Andrea, ignoring that she had taken 4 years of pharmacology.  How many years do you live with that kind of subtle psychological nose tweaking before you give in to the insanity?  Before you lose the colour of the world?

So she embraced those charitable events and had a strong faith.  But where that improved our lives when we were together it is such a big stress now.  I get that they have to help others, it’s a Catholic thing, faith, love and charity wrapped in one giant guilt burrito.  But I’m one burrito away from falling under the surface.  I miss the practicality of having that cohort to bounce ideas and solutions off.  But more I miss the comradery.  It isn’t that I miss her every day.  I can’t picture any portion of my day that isn’t missing her presence.

But when the practical daily routine is so out of whack it’s an obvious, immediate, machete instead of a scalpel kind of reminder of what’s missing in our lives.

I often use the phrase that everything’s a song to a musician.  It’s still true.  But we look for things we wanted to do but couldn’t because Andrea wasn’t able or didn’t want to . . . because without her here, we have a soundtrack to our lives, but we’re missing some of the colours of the world.

The sparkle in her eyes said it all

Bad Moon Rising

There she is, that damn lady in the moon!

Bad Moon Rising” by Creedence Clearwater Revival”

It all started with the covers on the bed.  Well, maybe it ended there, because it started with the moon coming over the foothills on my way home.  That’s probably most accurate.

Normally I get in around 8:30am to work and leave around 5:30.  Technically I am 9-6, but my boss said he doesn’t care what hours I work as long as I get the job done.  Between a discussion of several stories and the inevitable hour-long negotiation to try and get a photographer to shoot a sweeps piece I had reached a level of stress I hadn’t felt in awhile, and I still had the entire evening to deal with.

You have to think of my day as a kind of sandwich.  It starts, usually really early (for me) around 5:30 or 6am getting myself dressed, fighting with Hannah and the boys to try and get some semblance of their rooms picked up (usually with my miserable failure) and then heading down after showering to make them breakfast and readying them for school.  Then I drop them at school, talking with Abbi to make sure she’s got a handle on her day, then head straight to work so I can make it by 8:30-ish so I can get home and put dinner on the table at a reasonable hour.

But today went long.  Getting a photographer isn’t an easy prospect. Nine guys off, God help us if someone calls in sick, and if I have to travel very far (I do) then I’m taking a shooter for a full day.  This on top of trying to work a bunch of stories so we have some semblance of a sweeps calendar.  I don’t manage this anymore, but I still have to produce.  I’m it, for now.  So leaving around 6:15 or so puts me square in the nasty time of traffic and idiocy that is Highway 50 East.

And then I saw it.  The Bad Moon Rising . . . a full moon.  I’ve read all those studies, even listened to the unwanted lectures and unsolicited parenting articles that claim sugar doesn’t cause kids to get hyper (They haven’t met MY kids, then) and that the moon has no impact on people or children.

Bullshit.

Sorry for the profane language, but it’s the best descriptor, believe me.  I drove toward home, watching the full moon, that bad moon rising, beautiful, an amber color, with the craters forming an image like the left profile of a woman, staring at me with her one eye, smiling hideously, knowing full well that there’s loads of fun waiting for me at home, I just had to get there.  The traffic was nasty.  The drivers on the road was angry.  The syrupy color of the moon draining as it rose higher and higher, almost directly above my house.  It turned from its ruddy color to a brightness I can only describe as God’s flashlight.

I walked in the door and it was quiet.  Too quiet.

Abbi, God bless her, was crumbling cake into a bowl.  She’d found a recipe for “cake pops” and was determined to make them.  Her cake of choice a red velvet, the food dye everywhere, on the counter, staining her hands, in the sink.  I had grabbed a couple frozen pizzas, so I didn’t need the counter space, but it was an interesting project to start the night before she had to take her PSAT’s.  Oh, yeah, did I mention she had to take that tomorrow morning?  Guess she’s not too worried.

But the moon has a way of acting on the kids.  I know I sound like my mother again, but they went screwball, Mad Mad World, bat – s#*t crazy.  Hannah beating on the boys.  Noah trying to shove Sam’s face into a cereal bowl.  Sam screaming at Hannah because she skipped 3 frames past the commercial of some awful anime cartoon they were watching.

And then Noah told me what a girl in his class told him.  Now, bear in mind, I know Noah’s a handful.  He can have his issues, but he’s a good kid.  He’s very loving.  He’s hurt easy, but acts out when he is.  But this was over the top.  The girl looks him in the eye, sideways glancing at Sam (I added this for effect, probably didn’t happen, but Sam heard it so it makes me feel better to vilify the kid) she states “my life is better than yours because I have both my parents and your Mom’s dead!”

Now, Noah is usually reactionary.  He doesn’t instigate much, but he reacts rather angrily.  This just hurt him.  His eyes were teared up and he was hurt.  I told him, if her life was that much better, she wouldn’t have had to tell him it was.  She obviously is jealous of him for some reason.  I don’t know why, maybe her Dad doesn’t hug her as much as I hug my kids, I don’t care.  It was hurtful.

It also set the tone for the evening.  It’s why he went off the deep end, hit his brother, poked at his sister, and then that horribly cackling woman in the moon sent them over the edge.

So I got them going for bed.

But here’s where the bed covers come in.

Noah wasn’t happy his bed was messed up.  Bear in mind, of course, that they’re supposed to make their own beds every morning.  I’m not like a drill sergeant, by the way, I don’t flip a quarter to make sure it bounces off the covers or measure the corners to make sure they’re neatly hospital style.  But I make my bed every morning, they can too!

I read every night to them, so this night we were reading a book by my friend (read acquaintance) James Rollins: Jake Ransom and the Howling Sphinx.  Noah was upset his bed was messed up.  I told him he should have made it this morning and to put the covers back on himself.  His response was to rip off the bedspread and throw it on the floor.  I kept reading.  He ripped off the sheet, threw it on the other side of the floor.  I told him it would get chilly tonight, so if he’s cold, he’ll have to get up and pick up the covers.  I wasn’t going to fix them unless he apologized and asked nicely.

I looked and the moon, that woman’s crazy eye staring at me from the mid-point above the horizon.  The damn woman was pulling on their strings!

So, here’s where it really gets crazy.  I finished the chapter, said prayers, hugged Sam and told him good night.  Noah buried his head in the pillow.  He hugged me but wouldn’t talk.  I just looked at him and said “I love you.  Are you seriously going to go to bed and not say anything?”

I won’t put any of the kids to bed without saying I love them.  I told Andrea every night before they kicked me out of the hospital, and I said it every night when she was alive.  I’ll be damned if it’s not the last thing each kid hears before they fall asleep.  I ask the same of them.  They don’t have to like me very much, and on Bad Moon nights they don’t, but I hope they love me.

Sam was beside himself.  He wanted Noah to have covers.  He’s the protective son, the guardian of their safety and the carrier of the banner for our solidarity.  He wanted me to fix Noah’s covers.  I wouldn’t.  I told them both if he came and asked me nicely I’d do it.  Otherwise, he knows how to make his bed.  If he’s cold, he’ll get the covers himself.

I tucked in Hannah, scolded her for how bad her room was – so bad I can’t walk in without tripping over some little thing – and gave her a hug, told her good night and I loved her.

Then I went downstairs.  I watch so little television I’m still watching season premiers of shows from September and turned on an episode of some crime procedural while I got the materials for tomorrow’s lunches.

I heard the shuffling feet before I saw the little blonde head peek around the corner.  His eyes were wet, not tearing, but near there.

“Daddy, will you please come fix my bed for me.  I can’t do it right.”

It’s really all I wanted.  Yes, it was a battle of wills, but I won’t abide being rude or impolite.  He thought he was showing me, but he really was the one who got the lesson.

On the way up the stairs, as I turned at the landing to go up the second set of steps I heard it, quiet as it was:

“I love you, Daddy.”

Take that, you ruddy colored bitch.

Hippy Golf is a Powerfully Dangerous Thing

It actually started a few weeks back when my oldest daughter caught a bug of some sort.  She was sincerely sick, and being 16 I let her stay home to rest on her own.  It’s not my preference, but what am I to do?

It’s all a case of household economics.  I mentioned before that I left my job.  The reality is, the job I left, on paper, showed me working for the company for more than a decade.  It wasn’t just that I loved the people I worked with, particularly early on when I worked in Texas for them.  But I was embedded, long-term, with a deep relationship with the legal department, who had helped bolster my knowledge of writing a script without getting sued.  I had finally reached the point where I would get 3 weeks vacation, although every vacation request I put in was returned with a fair amount of guilt for being out of the office for more than 24 hours.  Never mind that the boss left town for a week to interview for another job once.  The biggest thing was that sick time.  I can get over everything else.  I certainly feel it was morally reprehensible to force me our just a couple weeks after I placed my wife’s body in the ground.  But the time off, the personal days, holidays, all of it were things I needed as a single Dad.

So with a new job, no sick time, no vacation time (I’m in the hole, actually) Abbi stayed home.  I excused her absences, calling the school.  Didn’t matter.  Miss 2 days, a whopping 80 points from PE, and you have to make up 8 days.  Why?  How the f*%k should I know?!  It makes little sense.  Do parents out there actually excuse their kids because they just don’t WANT to go to PE class?  What the hell kind of parenting is that?  Even when Andrea was around I wouldn’t have done that!

So make up the hours, she did.  But then, so did I.  First was that lovely 5k my body is still thanking me for.  Now, Frolf.  That’s right, in a move that could only be in California, the makeup hours for PE couldn’t be at the driving range a mere 5 minutes from our house.  Oh, no, we have to play frisbee golf.  Not just frisbee golf, either, but frolf in a place populated by the strangest group of shirtless thugs in tribal tattoos and facial hair “teeing off” behind groups of hippy’s that look like a gaggle of clones from the Mystery Machine, if they all dressed like Shaggy and smelled like Scooby and Scrappy.  This “sport” (and I use THAT term very loosely) was played in a park (again, loose definition) whose fairway was so uneven and neglected that you could see the water channels in the hardened mud that was more populated with burrs than anything green.  Into this wonderful world walked myself and the 4 kids.

All through the process, I kept thinking how Andrea would never have gone for this.  Beyond the anger with having to make up 8 classes for the 2 Abbi missed, to subject us to the most insane of activities in a group of questionable characters would have pushed her catatonic.  Never mind that toward the end her knees were in such horrible shape that walking up and down dusty hills with no cushioning in her knees would have tortured her.

This is not painting a poor picture of Andrea.  The men in front of us used the f-word about twice per phrase.  Not that I am easily offended, but I have a pair of 8-year-olds here with me.  Hannah is one of the kindest and most innocent 12-year-olds I have ever known.  To expose them to this was beyond silly.  But we needed the extra 10 points from this to go with the 20 (that’s right, only 20 points for running a freaking 5k to help prevent SEX TRAFFICKING!) from the race she was going to hopefully make up the points she missed.

We had a lot of fun, though.  Once we’d left the thugs and hippy’s ahead and behind us, it was the 5 of us.  Alone in the woods.  It’s an apt metaphor, I suppose.  We are very much alone in the woods right now.

I realize it’s been half a year.  Sometimes, I think people are obsessed with making sure that you know you’re going to be OK.  They want to make sure that you know you’re going to heal and then move on, start dating, even fall in love again.  Why?  Because our society and Hollywood have told us we have to.  That’s my conclusion.  Tom Hanks loses his wife in “Sleepless in Seattle” (Andrea’s favorite Rom-Com, by the way) and they all tell him that.  I like his angry rant, by the way.  “Love yourself, love another, hug yourself, hug your therapist, or work…work will help.  Work will get you through!” (copyright Nora Ephron and her distributors. This is quoted but not a direct quotation, by the way)  When they tell him he’ll date again he says “yeah, it’ll be simple, I’ll just grow another heart.”  No offense, everyone, but I’m still at that point.  Love again?  Move on?  Please. The funny thing is, even after all that, even after all the arguing and fighting, Tom Hanks meets someone else and falls in love.  That easily.  What you never hear about is how “Annie” reacted to having to help parent a kid that she didn’t start raising.  Happily ever after?  Perhaps, but we will never know.  What, did she move in with him?  Did she drop her best friend Rosie O’Donnell?  What about work?  Magic didn’t get Annie a job at the Seattle Post Intelligencer instead of the New York Times, I don’t believe!  Yeah, it’s THAT easy.

Then there’s the reality of our own, singular, now set in our ways single-parent personalities.  I got lucky, folks.  Let’s talk for a minute about how I met Andrea.  We worked together.  I was this lanky (Yeah, I’m a fat-ass now, get over it) geeky kid with a bad pre-Bieber haircut and zero self-confidence.  She was drop-dead gorgeous.  She’d just gotten back from visiting family in Arizona, tanned, sun-bleached blonde hair, with a white blouse, blue jeans with holes in the knees that revealed just a little of the tanned skin beneath.  She wore her sunglasses on the top of her head, and being from the West Coast, the staff jokingly called her “Hollywood” when she wore them up there, forgetting Northern and Southern CA are as different as France and England.

But she found me.  Not the lanky kid who thought he was the next Stevie Ray Vaughan.  She found ME.  Do you know why I’m where I am today?  Because of her.  I didn’t have the confidence to handle things the way they are.  Sure, we fought, we butted heads, she was frustrated that I loved being a musician so much and I was frustrated that she was so worried about our financial status all the time.  But I loved her.  From the moment we started talking to each other.  So after 18 years married and 20 together, how do you shove that aside and make room for someone else?  Plus, to be practical, talk about logistics.  I have 4 kids.  4.  How do you broach that subject with someone?  “Hi, you’re cute, want to meet my four kids?”

No, not now.  Maybe not ever.  I can’t say.  Love is schizophrenic, my friends.  It’s powerful and it’s dangerous.  It can create monuments and it can tear apart societies.  It can force a man to write an entire album about his best friend’s wife!  It hurts so much to know she’s gone, and I want to keep the pain right now.  Every synapse that heals feels like it’s taking a small bit of her memory away from me.  I want to feel better but I want to revel in it.  How do you meet someone or move on when you enjoy the depression and pain?  I’m not an LSD tablet in my Bryllcream away from being Syd Barrett, but there are days that the look in my eyes is like two black holes in the sky, and sadly I like it that way.

So when people tell me I’m doing awesome and that Andrea would be proud, I still can’t bring myself to believe it, even if it might be true.  I can see how this really was a partnership and the hole ripped open when she took a piece of me with her is still pretty raw.  Andrea might have found a way around the running and frolfing, but I never got a chance to ask her about these things while she was here.  Now, she’s gone.

Every day I get an email, a tweet, a text, something from a friend or relative that says Andrea’s helping them.  She’s everywhere.  Everywhere but with the people who need her the most.  I’m glad she’s so tirelessly helping everyone else with their problems, but I’d love to, just once, get a clear indication of what the hell I’m supposed to do from her divine intervention.

Where everyone sees signs of Andrea helping them I see laundry and desserts needing to be made…and Mr. T playing frolf with Shaggy, Scooby and Scrappy.

Yoinks!

Autumn Leaves, UFO’s and Pancakes

Aliens on Vacation

Fall is school, and therefore school projects.  The kids had already read their books and picked out the projects for the “visual book report” they were to do.  Most kids pick a hangar and draw some pictures.  Mine . . . well, they had to get creative.  One son picked a book called “Noah Barleywater Runs Away”, (http://www.johnboyne.com/ is the author’s website) focused on apple trees and a mystery in the woods.  So obviously we had to make a tree and post the note cards on apple branches attached to the turning leaves.

The other: “Aliens on Vacation”. (http://www.cletebarrettsmith.com/ for that author) Naturally, we had to make a UFO.

I both adore and despise the store Michaels.  I adore the fact that I can get most the art materials I need.  I loathe the fact that I HAVE to go there and pay through the nose for something that I could make on my own if I’d thought of it a week before the due date instead of the day before, like we inevitably were.

So we used a tree branch, fake leaves and fake apples for one; Silver Krylon, upside down Lazy Susan platters and glow bracelets for another.

This well before I had to put together the next day’s stuff.  Weekends were always made for us to put the breakfasts and dinners together for the week.

Why?  I HATE mornings.  Can’t wake up, never could.  But my mom always made us breakfast.  Even if it was Cream of Wheat she was up and made it, so I do it too.  6am, or earlier, I’m up.  My method to ease the pain is advanced cooking.  This week’s breakfasts?  Pancakes.  I was up until Midnight, cooking, cooling and sealing in Ziplocks, but we had buttermilk pancakes warmed in the toaster for days!

The apple tree project reminded me of Andrea.  She always had amazing ideas.  I had to implement them a lot of the time, but that’s what a good partnership is.

Fall is our time of year.  A good friend told me not long ago that this was our season, we really pulled out the stops in the Fall.  Our house was always decorated, the smell of pumpkin spices and ruddy colored candles and decorations filling the houses where we lived.

That wasn’t what I loved.  I always loved it for selfish reasons.  The season always brought about a crisp bite to the air that cleaned out the pollen and haze of summer and made the colors bright.  That, and we got to bundle up and be close.

Andrea was gorgeous.  There’s no disputing that, and I should have been thanking my stars that she put up with someone like me.  In the fall she always was just so wonderful.  Early on she’d have some sort of t-shirt with a pair of soft overalls, or a big brown sweater that you swore looked like corduroy but was really soft as silk.

And it was the time of year to just be close.  There was something irresistible about reaching out and just holding her: the contact; the feel of her cheek or the tickle of her hair on my nose.  This was the time of year I wanted nothing more than to grab her and just never let go.

Now, overalls are coming back, but not like I remember Andrea wearing.  There’s something very alone about being in the cool morning air in the house and knowing you’re waking up to that same chill to see the vacancy on the pillow next to you.

That, and her birthday was the day before Halloween.

I always messed up her birthday.  I can’t think of more than a handful that went well.  My job, you see, is in television news, and the biggest, most important ratings period every year is November.  The start of that ratings calendar was almost always the Thursday before her birthday.  We’d done this for years, but she never could forgive the industry’s pull that kept me at work until the evening hours.  We got in so many arguments, and I saw so much horrible disappointment in her face every year.

I’d kill to try and fix those.  It seemed such a big deal then.  Now, I live with disappointing her knowing I couldn’t get it right.  You can tell me all you want how much she knew I loved her, I live with this pattern of dysfunction forever now, with no way to make it up.

She brightened up the house.  I loved having her there to whisk through, pushing the boundaries of what we had to decorate any hovel in which we lived.  Now we’ve reached our first Fall in our new life.  We will celebrate the seasons, but without her it won’t burn quite so brightly.

Noah Barleywater Project

And so it begins . . .

This is the inaugural post of my new journey.  The idea came from a saying I put on the wall with some photos of my kids.

“Home.  Where our story begins.”  That statement couldn’t be more true in our situation.

The best way to describe our lives now IS the beginning of a new story.  Like every good book, every tale that holds your interest, there is this sort of ambiguous beginning.  You meet the characters at some point in their lives, but inevitably you end up with glimpses into the backstory that got the protagonists where they are.

So let me catch you up, if you’re just clicking here.

On March 26th, 2011, my wife passed away.  To say it was unexpected falls entirely short of the mark, but no phrase would actually hit the bullseye.  Complications from pneumonia were the official cause, though there were other factors I won’t detail in this post that contributed to her passing.

What makes this such a tragic and life-changing event, beyond the horrific loss of my love, partner and best friend, is the string of events that swirled around the weeks of her passing.  She died on our 18th anniversary, at 8:30am.  Within a few weeks, we had to leave our home.  The combination of losing 1 income and an unforgiving bank forced us to look for a place to lease within just a few weeks of her passing.  Two weeks after returning to work, my boss informed me she was demoting me and cutting my salary by 1/3.  She said I should thank her, it would give me more time to deal with my kids and less stress.  Nevermind that living in California with the lost of tens of thousands of dollars in salary made it impossible for me to live.

So how is this a beginning, when it looks like the end?!  Well, that is the beginning of the story, and the point of this first post.

I found a house to lease, from a property management company who went to bat for me with a home owner who took a risk on someone who lost half their income and had questionable credit.

I got a better job.  Not just better, they created a position for me, in an economy when new jobs are hard to find.  And the new job is with people who appreciate my input, want my opinions, value my work and understand that I am now a single father of 4 children and they have to come first.

From this point on you will get an indication, hopefully from daily posts, of my new family’s struggle to walk this new road.  It’s not a simple story.  It’s not an easy one.  You may feel at times like you’ve walked into a bad episode of “Lost” with flashbacks, emotion, and horrific pain.  Still, I hope it doesn’t turn you off.

This isn’t an attempt to tell people how to survive loss, nor is it a guidebook on how to be a parent.  Like others before me, I’m making this up as I go along.  By the same token, I’ll accept comments, but please understand this is an outlet for me.  I’m not asking for advice, just typing my thoughts and probably venting a lot of frustration.

So look forward to observations, frustrations, probably a lot of music, pictures and whatever else comes into the blender that our lives were thrust into.

Our Story Begins…

Family Photo
A precursor to my family