The Widower’s Rant: Magic Carpet

We’ve gone halfway around the sun. Six months. 26 Weeks. 182 Days have elapsed since we all lost Beth. As upset as I am for my loss, I'm also sad for yours. Beth was a bright light in many lives, and it's still unreal to me to wake up and realize she's not here.

It’s both easy and painful to mark the time since she passed. Websites provide the calculation. Humans are engaged by time-based milestones—birthdays, anniversaries, and other annual celebrations. They represent accomplishments, joyful events, or reflection. Reflection is the mood I am in today.

Grief Tour 2024 resumed this week, heading to Maine to visit with great friends, K&M. Two years ago, we gathered at their home in coastal Maine to celebrate our 60th birthdays. It was a wonderful time. When I looked at the photos on the flight as I wrote this draft, I sensed that the pain of loss subsided into a smile more quickly today than months ago. We had hikes with amazing views and oysters with Champagne; we cooked together and enjoyed flowing conversation and wine. It will also be fun this year despite the apparent hole in the room. K had known Beth since high school. They were Sorority Sisters at Davis. K was instrumental in Beth and I starting our relationship. I briefly “tutored” Beth for her physics for non-science majors class, but that might have been a setup. Beth could ace any test.

After Beth graduated from Davis to start her career in Newport Beach and I stayed for another year, K and I hung out and became even better friends. I remember installing a cassette tape deck in her car. The 80’s. Columbia House. MTV. Mix tapes. But I digress. After K and M married, we quickly fell into a rhythm and loved to adventure together. We had the sort of friendship that years might pass between seeing one another, but after 5 minutes, it was as if we were next-door neighbors dropping in. Beth and I looked forward to traveling together once we all retired. We even discussed the potential to move closer to wherever they might end up—those sorts of friends.

Atypically, Beth was not the first of her High School friend group to exit early. After T died, K and Beth lamented, “We were all supposed to grow old together.” And now there’s one less. The best-laid plans and dreams of old friends, dying young.

When I travel, I notice couples more now. Especially those that appear to be older than me. They are enjoying their stereotypical golden years, seeing the world and seeing friends, together. I’m an experienced traveler, and much of my 3 million miles are from business travel. Those miles fueled amazing family holidays, creating our most precious, durable memories. Our walls and picture frames mark these adventures. After the kids grew up, those miles enabled Beth and I to go places, do things, and see friends. All of my leisure travel has been with Beth by my side, sleeping on planes and challenging Newtonian Physics in rental cars. She was my steadfast companion, eager to say “yes” regardless of the question. When we took the adult kids and partners on trips, we’d usually take a few days to adventure on our own. On our own as a couple.

One of the most memorable things Beth said to me was about our travels. I mentioned how fun it was to travel with her, and in return, she said that I was her Magic Carpet. She said, “We have a conversation about a place we might want to go, and then a few months later, I have seats on an airplane, places to go, stay, and eat, amazing things to see. You are my Magic Carpet.” I was never happier. 

Having experienced both a wedding and the death of my partner, death feels like a much more significant life change. It's definitely more abrupt. A wedding is full of optimism for a promising future, of a life to start enjoying together. The traditional honeymoon marks the first step of a couple embarking on their new journey. To grow old together. After the death of my travel partner, there are no new places to go, no more adventures to take, no more sights to see together. It feels like the closing of a hardback book cover—suddenly slammed shut in my face.

Like so many of the changes over the past 26 weeks (still counting), leisure travel alone is very different. I'm not quite used to it. I keep looking over my shoulder to make sure she is behind me as I split the crowd in DFW on the way to our gate. It takes about as much time to plan and plot. Yet the absence of someone alongside me to share experiences with is not worth the empty seat in the row. Flights are all completely full anyway, and so far, my seatmates have rebuffed my putting my head on their shoulder.

My itinerary alone was never contemplated. However, no amount of planning and plotting could have prepared me. As the name fits, I looked at the Lonely Planet website, and no such destination is listed in their guides. Navigating the grief journey is a bit like backpacking through Europe. The death certificate is your Eurail pass, and it never expires. The route unfolds before you, and each stop might lead to a different station. But there’s no map, no guide. Where is Rick Steves when you need him?

Looking forward, for six hours, six months, six years, or even six decades (I am in good health, but seriously, no), Beth will always travel with me. In my heart. I want to think that I’m still her magic carpet ride. There are places to go, adventures to take, sights to see. It's the same book, but a new chapter opens. 

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald