The Widower’s Rant: No Lifeguard On Duty

Sep 19, 2024

7 min read

Grief Tour 2024 resumed with a road trip last week down to SoCal to visit friends and family. I originally planned to leave on Wednesday. But a fire between Reno and Carson City (wind moving it away from Tahoe) began to preoccupy my mind Sunday afternoon when it started to run uphill against the wind toward the lake. Logically, I knew the danger of it reaching the lake was near nil. Since Beth and I have evacuated three times from Geyserville, fire-watching is more than a passing interest. I found myself doomscrolling the various websites, apps (I highly recommend Watch Duty), and social media. Obsessing over 12-hour-old thermal imaging satellite data and re-measuring the distance to my house and how many ridges it would need to cross. This was unhealthy. If an evacuation warning were issued, I’d feel silly sitting in a multi-hour traffic jam to exit the basin when I had no particular reason to stay. So, I left a couple of days early, and I’m glad I did. This was a clear nod to my mental health, to look out for myself. A change of scenery was in order.

It was a glorious drive down 395 by Mono Lake, June Lake, the Minarets, and Mt. Whitney. I love road trips. Beth and I particularly enjoyed our road trips. We took them frequently. I drove, and she did her best to stay awake. When we were younger, Beth sometimes got bored, and to make sure I stayed awake, she would question a fundamental rule of physics or science to get me riled up. I’d exclaim, “The conservation of mass is a real thing!” she’d counter, “It is, until someone discovers something different, and we have a new fact.” Or I’d review, in detail, my most significant invention, Spaghetti in a Bag. I envisioned it would have a long noodle wrapped on a spool, some sort of exothermic warming pouch that would douse warm sauce on the noodle as you slurped it out of the bag while driving on a road trip. I was also thinking of a repair mechanism if the noodle broke because that would be a disaster. Perhaps a little mechanical elf who would sew the ends back together. I called him Al. Al Dente (I’ll be here all year; make sure you tip your server). Later, we began listening to podcasts that involved less questioning of science or inventing ill-fated portable food dispensing equipment.

As the drive continued past Mammoth, beautiful memories began to flood back. When we lived in Irvine and before our kids were born, we took many drives up to Mammoth to go skiing. The days of 207 cm skis and longer lift lines. I’ve been skiing long enough to transition from leashes to ski brakes. One memory sticks out. My father-in-law purchased one of the first consumer video cameras. It took a full-size VHS tape and looked like the cameras you see with a news crew. Even though it was quite expensive for the day, he asked me to put it in a backpack and take it skiing to film everyone. I thought it would be fun to show him what it looked like to go really fast. So I went into a tuck with the camera on my shoulder, recording like Warren Miller Junior. In hindsight, the problem with the big heavy camera on my shoulder was I wasn’t tucking. I was squatting. So when I took a corner, most of my weight was on my tails. Watching the video, all you hear is wind noise as I bombed down the hill. Then the view suddenly swings right, then left as my skis lose their edges, and I careen off the trail down into a gully. Yes, another gully. We are more than casual acquaintances, Mr. Gully and me. You can hear me laughing at the absurdity as the camera records the beginning of a tumble: white-blue-white-blue-white-blue. Then the lens is obscured, it’s still, and quiet. A gloved finger cleans off the lens, and my laughter dies down. Durable camera. Good times.

Leaving early gave me an extra day with a dear friend. Then I had a relaxing couple of days with C/E, before a reunion with my UCLA buddies. The seven of us met 30 years ago and formed our Orange County study group, E-Ticket. If you used a Disney E-Ticket, you are officially old. Since our two-year intensive bonding crucible, we have remained close friends, which expanded to incorporate our spouses. Our children were toddlers and kindergartners when we began the Anderson School. Now, some of the children have toddlers and kindergartners of their own. Six years ago, we were all together in Geyserville for our inaugural pizza party in our backyard—one of our very happiest times here. Dinner was followed by a Bruin game the next day. The following day, I saw my fraternity roommate and his family. Beth went to high school with his spouse. It was a trip to refresh deep ties with lifetime friends.

After a week, I was emotionally spent. The concentrated normal, being around happy people who know me as a couple, not as a Widower, was oddly depleting. Graciously accepting heartfelt sympathy, the hugs that are tighter and linger longer. Putting on a brave face. Don’t get me wrong, I loved seeing everyone and had a great time. I’d do it again without hesitation. But with each day, I could feel my emotional reservior empty. Drip by drip. Smile by smile. A few times, I peeled away to catch a deep breath. Long walks on the beach.

Beth loved the beach. As a child, she summered in Cape May, New Jersey, before moving to Corona del Mar. There, she frequently rode her bike to the beach. She loved being in the sunshine with her toes in the sand. And she came to love lake beaches even more. As I walked along the beach and let the waves wash over my feet, I thought about the last 23 weeks (still counting). I’ve touched two oceans and an alpine lake. It’s an interesting bit of continuity. In the off-season, the lifeguard towers are empty. They stand like silent sentinels over a quiet coastline. The sign reads, “No Lifeguard On Duty.” Beth was my lifeguard. She knew when I was weary or needed to rest and nudged me to take better care of myself.

Parents are our first lifeguards. The first infant that either of us touched was our son. As a new father, holding my baby wrapped like a burrito, I was struck by the fragility of life. I remember checking on him in his crib, watching him, making sure he was breathing. Then, every day after, you keep watching to ensure they are safe from harm. When the kids were toddlers, they played in the lagoon in Woodbridge. The lagoon had sand and was adjacent to the very artificial lake. There was a “beach club.” Every hour, the lifeguards blew their whistle and announced, “Adult Swim!” This meant that kids were not allowed in the lagoon for 10 minutes. They, and the coterie of anxious parents, had a brief respite from making sure no one was drowning. Even lifeguards need a break from lifeguarding.

When I planned the trip, I thought a night alone to relax and recharge might help. So I did. And it helped a bit. After a respite near the beach in Ventura, I stayed with my daughter and her partner (L/D) in Santa Barbara. Our family sport is eating, and since both L/D are restaurant professionals, we trained hard. There’s nothing better than enjoying time with your adult children. My lifeguarding duties here are mostly done. There’s no need for a regular Adult Swim. On the contrary, it seems I need more lifeguarding now—someone to tell me when it’s time to get out of the water.

My fingertips look like prunes. I stayed in the water too long. From when I said goodnight to L, through my drive back up to G’Ville, I’ve been an emotional wreck. I miss Beth so much. And when I say it aloud, it breaks me. Driving up the Peninsula, I realized I had not visited the cemetery where my mother and father are interred since we put them into the niche in the wall of the mausoleum almost two years ago. My father was obsessed with his niche and picking the ideal bronze box to put his and my mother’s ashes into. He sent dozens of emails with photos of the niche, his instructions, triple-checking that the box would fit in the niche, and so on. I managed to get lost among the different mausoleums and hundreds of boxes of bones and ashes. I sheepishly walked up to the office, explaining that I lost my parents, figuratively this time. But I digress.

I began to talk to the box in the niche in the cold mausoleum. Hi, mom and dad. Comfortable? Settling in? I looked at my mother’s name engraved on the bronze box. The dates of her life. From when she was under the care of her parental lifeguards in Japan to when my father became hers. My mom will be 95 in a few weeks. Suddenly, I wailed, “Mom. I lost my Beth. I know you loved her very much, and she loved you too.”

“Your grandchildren lost their mommy.”

So much losing, so little finding. At least I was in a highly appropriate venue to be sobbing.

The rest of the drive to G’Ville was a rolling disaster. Wave after wave washed over me. The undertow pinned me on the sand. I was drowning. My emotional tank drained onto my cheeks. As 280 (the prettiest freeway anywhere) wound north, Scooby the Audi emptied her tank in solidarity. Driving from Santa Barbara along 101 to 280 was one of our favorites. I glanced often at the empty seat next to me, pleading for my lifeguard to take another road trip with me. Please. Just one more.

If Beth was in the seat next to me, I believe she would tell me it was time for Adult Swim. Time to get out of the water and wriggle my toes in the warm sand.