The Widower’s Rant: As Good as It Gets?

By every and any definition, Beth and I have enjoyed charmed lives. Like any journey, there were the hills and valleys a young couple building a family must navigate. But we did it together. Over the last decades, we’ve been on a steady trajectory of increasing contentment. We are beyond blessed and did not take it for granted—we took time to be mindfully grateful for our good fortune in life.

When Beth was first diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma years ago, once we were over the initial shock, we felt fortunate to catch it early in the “dormant” form. Beth called it her “sleeping dragon.” She was under the care of the leading researchers and clinicians in the field. We were otherwise healthy, had robust healthcare insurance, she had an exceptionally supportive employer, and we had the collective flexibility to pay attention to it. The biggest impact, other than the sword of Damocles waiting for the next cycle of lab results, was that we focused even more intently on our mantra of time being precious, going on holidays with our kids, and having fun. And we had a lot of fun. Beth’s instinct to say “yes” before she heard the question took on more urgency. 

Our upward trajectory continued to soar through last year, culminating with purchasing our home in Tahoe. We’ve dreamt about this for 40+ years, and finally, the dream came true. A few weeks after we closed, Beth and I went for a magical, wonderful first time in our Tahoe Home. She had not started the downward spiral from the yet unknown October ER adventure, but in the back of my mind, I knew that her cardiac stamina was waning. The warning signs were there. During the weekend, I paused and contemplated what Jack Nicholson’s character said in the eponymous movie, “What if this is as good as it gets?” 

Was this the peak of our life together? 

In most dimensions, it was the peak. Shortly after, she could no longer push aside being in active denial, and we went to the ER and started the diagnostic journey. The Tahoe house had a significant flood, rendering it almost unlivable. Then, the uncertainty, the worry, a cardiac biopsy, a minor stroke, too much waiting, and finally starting Chemo. Then, without warning, our journey hurtled around a blind corner and over a cliff I did not see. There's interesting symmetry to this blind corner. Our first solo date to go skiing in Tahoe almost ended early when a delivery truck cut a blind corner and clipped the front of my car. In an uncharacteristic moment of spontaneity, I said, "Well, the car is ripped up but mechanically fine. We are right here, so let's go skiing." Beth later told me I had sealed the deal right then. And that was the date that never ended. But I digress.

The downward slope of our life became my solo free fall without a parachute. It’s like the dream when you are falling forever, waiting for the bottom to come, but it never does. Maybe I’m not falling anymore. Maybe I’m floating. It’s dark out, so it’s hard to know. I’m bald, so I can’t feel the wind through my hair to know for sure. This story would suck if it ended there. Nobody would option the movie rights. But my life didn’t end there. I’m moving forward. Not always up, not always down. Mostly up, but definitely forward. 

Of the various changes I am wrestling with—other than the apparent hole in my life—this one occupies more brain cycles than most: The uncertainty of not knowing what will happen in the next chapters of my life story. While nobody truly knows the future (see prima facie evidence above in Exhibit A), Beth and I had reasonable expectations of how the next phase of our life would likely play out. Regardless of any unpredicted twists and turns, I knew that I’d navigate it with her. I had unwavering confidence that it would work out as long as Beth was by my side.

If last Summer was the peak of my life with Beth, what’s next for me? Was that as good as it gets?

While hiking the other day, my mind wandered back to this question. It frequently does. I’ve always enjoyed the quiet confidence that things will work out one way or another. They did before, so they should again. But nothing is the same. I've never walked this trail alone. This uncertainty has been very unsettling for me. My mind races around, wondering what next month, next year, the next decade might be like. I know, play a small violin. I’m enjoying my day-to-day life in Tahoe tremendously. I have travel plans coming together to visit with friends and be with my kids. These are good things, and I’m grateful. But I’d like to know the road forward. Still looking for the map. It’s in a drawer here somewhere, I think. 

I have the temerity to wonder if another peak so high, so incredible, is possible. There must be a new mountain to summit. I’m apprehensive because I might fall down. Beth would have no doubt disapproved of finding me sitting in a dark room, pining for a life together that no longer exists. She pushed me out the door over and over to enjoy life while she was struggling with hers. The single best way I can honor Beth for the life she gave us is to enjoy the life I have, the life I deserve. 

I have no illusion that I can recreate my life from the before times. That’s not the mountain I’m looking for. There will never be another Beth. She was a mold-breaker. Could a different journey be the same or even better in different dimensions? I hope so. I think so.

At my core, I’m an impatient man. When I see where I want to be or what I want to have happen, I can’t wait for it. Like Veruca Salt, I want it now. I do anything to accelerate the steps needed to reach the outcome sooner. When I was a child, Christmas Eve day was excruciating. Presents waiting to rip open. I remember actively finding friends to play with so the time would pass faster so I wouldn't sit in my house alone, looking at the tree. Looking at the clock.

I’ve never developed a “beginner mind,” which explains why I don’t have mastery in any of my myriad interests. I rarely put in the time to develop the core skills; I just jump in, expecting to be great—or at least above average—at it immediately. Unfortunately, it works out just often enough that I keep up the bad habit. By necessity, I’m now learning patience, or at least attempting to be patient while a new future is fermenting. It’s hard not to rush it. I want the build-up to be over so I can enjoy the next act. 

While out looking for new mountains to climb, I believe I’m becoming a better version of myself. I’ve changed so much since April. I know an unknowable pain. I’ve discovered reservoirs of resilience. My empathy for others has grown. I’m sharing grief and a deeply personal journey openly. I’ve learned that I can feel bottomless sadness and despair one moment and joy the next. My gratitude quotient has grown exponentially. I play more often and more easily. I’m working on answering, “Would you like to…” by saying, “Yes.” 

I’m growing in ways I didn't think possible in my sixth decade. It makes me sad that Beth didn’t get to enjoy this better man that I’m becoming. It’s not right that it took her dying for me to evolve so quickly. So her death will not go unmarked by me. Living an exceptional life on a new journey is the best way I can mark the peak we summited together. 

This evolving guy deserves to be happy. So I seek happiness without a map, without a rule book. One step at a time. One day after the next. It’s going to be an interesting climb to this next peak, wherever it is, whatever the new flora and fauna. It will have a different terrain than the last one. Some of the surroundings, like family and friends, remain familiar. I’ll gaze back frequently at the peak Beth and I enjoyed together. That mountain will never go away.

Then, I look forward. Because my eyes, and the view from my eyes, will never be the same. 

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald