The Widower’s Rant: A Simple Kind of Life

…to have and to hold from this day forward, 

for better, for worse, 

for richer, for poorer, 

in sickness and health, 

until death do us part.

Nailed it! A perfect score! 

I’m not sure why our wedding vows popped into my head. What I do know is that the lovely state of mindfulness I was enjoying—being present in the moment and being far less distracted—has left me for a while. Perhaps it needed a vacation. Maybe the Norovirus-induced brown torrent swept it into the plumbing. I wish it would come back—the mindfulness, not the plague.

The prosecution submits the following evidence that the defendant’s mind is in other places but the present:

• A delivery was made to my home. I saw it on the camera. When I left my garage later in the day, something felt odd about the brakes on my car. When I came home later that night in the dark, my headlights came across a pile of torn, soiled cardboard and what looked like empty wine bottles strewn about. Did bears get into my recycle bin? Oh, that’s right, there was a delivery. How did it fall off the ledge by the garage and end up in the middle of my driveway? Ice floe? Wind? The security camera was unsparing in its blame. I backed over a case of wine. Testament to good targeting and the durability of the modern wine bottle, not a drop was lost. When I open the bottles with the pavement-scarred labels, I’ll be reminded of my folly.

• Early the next day, I repeated a familiar ritual and drove to the ski area early to get a good parking spot and first tracks. As I made the final turn to the access road to the parking lot, I suddenly remembered that the day before, I removed the ski gear and skis from my car so it would be light enough to drive over a case of wine. Back home I went, my early-morning advantage lost to not paying attention. Running on autopilot without a clear route. I mostly leave my skis on the car and boots/helmet in the back. If only this was the first time…

• After a few weeks of being able to read, I’ve lost it. I tried to read a few nights in a row. Music on, and a glass of wine nearby. Fire on. It’s as peaceful and comforting as old shoes or baggy sweatpants. But I keep turning pages and not remembering anything my eyes have dutifully scanned. When I find myself continually turning pages backward to remember the plot, I give up.

• This list could go on, but you get the idea.

I submit to the jury that grief-induced momentary amnesia is the culprit, and the defendant should be found not guilty by reason of understandable insanity. 

The lyrics to No Doubt’s “A Simple Kind of Life” are echoing in my skull. The point of her song is a much different circumstance. She’s longing for love and a life that conflicts with her responsibilities to her band and growing stardom. It has a catchy hook. Selected Lyrics:

And all I wanted was the simple things

A simple kind of life

And all I needed was a simple man

So I could be a wife

The longer that I wait the more selfish that I get

When all I ever wanted was the simple things

A simple kind of life

My life today is a series of selfish indulgences. After retrieving my stuff, I skied for an hour, leaving the mountain as cars full of families were just making their way into the parking lot to enjoy a day together on the slopes. I remember corralling our kid's ski gear and, along with Beth, getting everyone situated to have a ski day together. Now, I don’t have to worry if someone else forgot their gloves. It's a good thing, as I can barely organize my gear. I was about to make dinner when I decided at the last minute to first go for a short hike around the neighborhood. I didn’t have to ask or tell anyone, I simply left. 

I long for my simple kind of life, with well-rehearsed rhythms and routines. We get up in the morning, and our dogs greet each sunrise as if it were their first. Beth is off to work, and I am off upstairs to my work. She comes home to doggies, so happy to see her as if she’d been gone a lifetime. I start dinner prep; we enjoy dinner and Jeopardy. Then, the evening walk around our neighborhood before settling on the sofa for the latest series. 

It’s all I ever wanted. A simple kind of life. I was beyond content and grateful. We both were, and we were so fortunate to know it and to let the other know. We were mindful of how lucky we were.

In the 10 months and 2 weeks (still counting) since Beth dutifully fulfilled the last of our vows, I’m becoming increasingly selfish. Yes, it’s understandable and reasonably appropriate. But I didn’t want this merit badge, the indulgences, the freedom. I want a simple kind of life. 

When I ski, I feel closer to Beth. It’s our special place, and skiing together was our very favorite thing—from our first date to the last run together just a few short months before she died. At the top of each run, I’ve begun a routine where I look skyward, stretch out my arms, and click my poles. I’m saying thanks and being grateful for the moment. I’m thinking of and thanking Beth.

I’m thankful, and I’m grateful, for a moment I don’t want. I want a simple kind of life. I’d ski less, but I’d ski with her. I’d hike less, but I’d hike with her. I wouldn’t go on planes to faraway places as often, but I’d travel the world in luxury, sitting next to her on the couch. 

To have and to hold. To me, this means being a partner with and caring for someone and accepting being cared for. I still have the need to care for her, and I long for the feeling of being cared for. Instead, the energy is misdirected as I plot my next selfish indulgence. Until I realize my skis are still hanging on the wall instead of on my racks where they are supposed to be. Beth’s skis are supposed to be up there, too. The rack is lonely, with an empty spot for another pair of skis. 

I sold her new ski poles last week. I’ll be donating her boots and helmet next. Every time I touch them, I have to put them back. It hurts. Soon, all the physical evidence of her beloved sport and over 40 years of skiing together will be gone. Sure, I have the photos, and the memories are etched permanently in my mind’s eye. But I don’t want the space in the ski closet, the empty spot in the racks. I want my simple kind of life, with my ski-partner wife. 

I grieve for the loss of my simple kind of life. For the simplicity of having someone to have and to hold. To be had and held. The simplicity of the routines. The lovely boringness of it all. Boring and predictable sounds extravagantly luxurious. 

I still do prep with care. I make a delicious, nutritious meal. Then as I sit in my home among the pines, I look at the empty seat next to me, listen to the sounds that only an empty house can make, and I grieve. I pine for my simple kind of life. 

And I grieve for my children. And I grieve for our friends. Beth was a confidant to many, with a kind ear and a warm shoulder that’s irreplaceable for those so lucky to have her in their life. She was a source of joy and happiness to many, and to be with her was to know someone perfectly, mindfully content in her simple kind of life. It was infectious. Much like Norovirus, without the unpleasantness.

I reach for the skis still on the wall and for the scarred bottles of wine rolling down the driveway. As I gather them, my mission of perpetual indulgence resumes. But all I want is a simple kind of life.

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald