The Widower’s Rant: Kintsugi

Nov 27, 2024

4 min read

kintsugi n. /kintˈsu:ɡi/ 1. The Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum, emphasizing rather than concealing the cracks and imperfections. 2. The eighth studio album by indie rock band Death Cab for Cutie. Etymology: Japanese 金継ぎ, from kin (gold) + tsugi (joinery, repair).

Grief Tour 2024 took me back to Santa Barbara this past weekend for a quick visit with L/D. Timing worked out for a rare weekend off for Lauren, so it was great to simply hang out and share the time together. A sunny day to enjoy time outside and a rainy day to cozy up inside was perfect.

Seeing our kids progress forward since April sustains me. Curtis has been skiing multiple times. Lauren has a new job and new opportunities. She picked the wine from the list for dinner. At moments, I naturally pause and think, “Gosh, I wish Beth could see this. She’d be so proud.” I imagine that’s how my Dad felt when he visited us after my Mom died. I also wanted her to see her grandchildren hit milestones, see our homes, and hear about our trips and adventures. I have two amazing photos of my mom skiing in Japan in 1957 on the wall of our Tahoe home. I say good morning to her photo a lot and smile back at the images, knowing that my life has come full circle—her love of being outside and finding new adventures is my daily routine. So much of me is my mother.

As I reflect, I think she does get to see her grandchildren become adults, and her son live the life of adventure she thought that she would have. Not in the mystical, ghost in the sky kind of way. She’s a big part of me. My adventures are hers. Likewise, Beth is in our kids. Their new adventures are hers. She’s still very much part of the journey. I’m sure she is enjoying it.

The last month or so has been really nice. I love being up at the lake and watching the season change from fall to winter. I’m happy with my life at the lake. My new routines. Building new routines in a new home is easy—there’s nothing to miss, nothing to change. I’m so fortunate to have the opportunity to take on this unwanted reset in new surroundings. And I have moments where I frankly feel guilty for being that happy. Survivor’s guilt, I suppose. The thought that just popped into your head was, “Beth would have wanted you to be happy.” I realize that. But emerging from the miasma of sadness, from wracking bouts of grief, to feel this contentment, and indeed, happiness still seems oddly out of place. But welcome.

One of the common causes of canine cancer-related death is osteosarcoma. It’s often discovered when a long bone breaks and the vet takes an X-ray, revealing the disease. The gold standard for therapy is to amputate the affected limb. Dogs not only tolerate this procedure well, but they thrive. They don’t (as far as we know) wallow in sadness, longing for their former life with all four legs. They wake up from the procedure and seem to think, “Huh, only three legs now. Okay, I can still fetch the ball and get belly rubs, let’s go! Squirrel!” We have a lot to learn from dogs. I’m not saying that I’m doing well because I no longer miss my better half, my perfect partner. I’ll miss Beth forever. I miss my before life and I’d give anything to have it back the way it was. But that’s wishing for the impossible. And I’ve come to find peace with that. Now, when I have the fleeting thought, “I’d like my old life back, to have Beth by my side,” I’m not as quickly reduced to a puddle. I take a deep breath, sigh, and go on with my day. Squirrel!

The constant over the last seven and a half months (still counting) has been change, some large, some small. The net result is I’m different. And in many ways, better. It’s quite possible that my trend toward general happiness has accelerated because my life is so very different from before. Different routines. Different focus on play, on travel, on seeing friends. It’s frankly very selfish. As an only child, I’m well-rehearsed in being selfish. I’m made of the same parts, but now in a slightly different order. The cracks are filling with a new light.

Friday was a beautiful sunny day in a beautiful corner of the world. I went for a long walk—more than 8 miles—to clear my head, to be outside, to be in motion. I walked down to the seaside motel that provided the beach cruiser bikes we rode every time we came to Santa Barbara.

I walked along the bike path by the beach and the ocean. Beth loved riding on that bike path. I walked past the palm trees under a cloud-free blue sky.

Then, I came to the spot where the bike path ended, and every time before, we turned around. This time, I kept walking forward—to a new adventure—to a place I’ve never been before. And I smiled.