The Widower’s Rant: Sanctuary

In my last installment, I shared that my emotional reservoir was drained after an especially fun road trip. I strongly dislike how otherwise fun events have this unintended, unexpected, unpredictable result. As an introvert, I recognize my need for alone time to recharge. After meetings or events, just an hour or two back at the hotel was all I needed. But this is uncharted waters for me. There's no map or timetable. Water is the appropriate metaphor because so much of it keeps running down my face when I least expect it. Where do all those tears come from? How can there possibly be any more? Maybe there is a drought solution at hand, or rather, on our faces? But I digress. 

The road trip ended back in Geyserville. It was six weeks since I was last there. The first hours continue to be difficult as I wander in the empty home from room to room. I touch various things, thinking I should do something with them. Instead, my hand recoils as I say, “Owie Owie” aloud. My mood did not bounce back until almost three days later. A chat with the therapist and a conversation with a dear friend put me on the right track. That evening, I went with our concert buddy to see Green Day at Oracle Park. Although “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” was particularly poignant, the infectious crowd energy and thundering music were restorative. My energy levels came back to normal and I felt that all was right with the world.

Just in time for my semi-annual partner meeting in SF with my consulting group. These are the most amazing people on the planet, and I’m beyond lucky to call them Partners and Friends. Beth and I have been to Switzerland, DC, and Santa Fe with them, and she loved them too. This was my first in-person with many, and my “status update” was significantly more consequential than the last one. Bit of a Mic Drop. Anyone’s spouse of 37 years die recently? Didn’t think so. My Partners have all been beyond supportive of me over the past 25 weeks (still counting) and have helped me in dimensions I’ll never be able to adequately repay.

A fun dinner, then a day-long meeting followed by celebratory dinner. A joyful time. I thought my batteries were recharged, but the power monitor was faulty. I’ll be writing an angry letter to the manufacturer. On the drive back to my host's home, sitting in the dark back seat listening to legendary music, unexpected waves of grief suddenly tumbled me about. It was good that the car was dark and the music loud, as the front seat was none the wiser. Who wants to dampen the mood with waterworks? Not me. It didn’t make sense at all. I had fun. I had great conversations. I was happy to see everyone. It should have been as dry as the desert, but a sneaker wave took me under. Held me down. Wouldn’t let me breathe, try as I might to make it back to the surface.  

But no, that wasn’t enough. In bed, waves of grief became a tsunami. I railed against them. Hating feeling this way. Tired of being sad. Especially right after being happy. I felt broken. I wanted the sadness to end and wished against reality that there was no reason for it to start. 

It was exhausting. Debilitating. I’ve never felt so out of control of my emotions. I pride myself on being even-keeled and in control, which makes these episodes especially disquieting. You’d think they’d send a meeting invite first so I could see when they are coming on my calendar and prepare. Grief is not Rule 5 compliant (inside joke - Grief is an Asshole). Adding insult to injury, I woke hours early, my brain still trying to find its way back to a quiet shore. And then it was time for another meeting. Fortunately, it was just half a day. I welcome the chance to be involved in the work and enjoy time with my friends. I think it would be worse to have little else to focus on, and I’m fortunate to have the flexibility and support to dial it up and dial it down as needed. 

Water, in both its frozen and liquid states, has been a constant in our lives. It is always a place of joy and renewal. As I look through photos, the memories with backgrounds of ski runs, lakes, or oceans are our happiest times. Water, when it is not running down my face, is refreshing, healing, and restorative. 

Here we are in Key West at her dad’s place in 1988. Beth loved being on the water in any contraption or in no contraption at all. 

Taking our kids snorkeling, scuba-diving, a neighbor’s pool, and coming to the lake sustained our family. Water brought us together. 

Shortly after Beth died, I assumed I’d split my time between Tahoe and G’Ville. After a bit, I began to think maybe 75/25. Then, thinking more deeply about how I feel here by the lake versus in the G’Ville home, I realize it will be more like 98/2. To be near Curtis. To be next to our beloved spot in the mountain lake. To be outside under the pines. The gravity they exert is much stronger than the pull from G'Ville. So I packed most of my clothes and put them in a heap into the wagon. Not unlike a kid going away to college, I drove away from G’Ville. Completing the college analogy, I had an electric guitar and amp in the wagon. I imagine the residents of Incline Village will appreciate my rendition of Back in Black. Once I remember how to play all three chords. 

I looked in the rearview mirror and drove away from our Home. Eight of the very best years of our life together was in the Farmhouse. The Covid years when we grew even closer than we had imagined possible. The neighbors we adored. We loved that Home. Our lives were entrenched into the walls built in the 1880’s, and of the view of Geyser Peak and the Alexander Valley forged over 100 million years ago. I drove the back roads on Highway 128. Past places we rode our bikes together, over the Russian River where we floated with our UCLA buddies. The back roads to dinners with friends, winery events—twenty years of our life in Sonoma County. The water of this life drained down my cheeks as rows upon rows of vineyards stood silently while my wagon sped past.  

As Scooby’s tires consumed the miles, UC Davis appeared over my left shoulder. Here, we met, we dated, and we fell in love 41 years ago. Then, we began our life together. An unparalleled life, an incredible partnership. We built a family, a winery, a rich foundation of memories captured in neurons and recorded in boxes of photos. The late evening turned to night as I-80 climbed into the Sierras. And in the dark, as the silhouettes of the pine trees filled my windshield, I began to feel peace settle over me once again. My breathing slowed, my tears dried. The memories of ski trips and ski boats made me smile. In the dark, I could not see the lake. I felt it. I hoped it was still there. 

For good measure, Beth's ashes, safely and comfortably inside her omnipresent Lululemon backpack, came with me on this road trip. She rode in the front seat, like always. I did not fasten the seatbelt, though. In hindsight, Beth would have appreciated that. She buckled her seatbelt in the back of a taxi. Who does that? But unlike the James Bond movie, you can only die once. So, it seemed superfluous. I did have a fleeting thought that this would be an unfortunate time to have a bad car accident. In addition to most of my clothes, I brought all the loose photos we planned to organize and digitize. I couldn’t leave them behind, either. So it’s not like going to college at all. I moved. As one door closed in Geyserville, another one opened in Incline Village. 

When I woke under the trees, I felt the energy so badly missing the past few weeks. There was no hint of water on my face. Where was the water? Before coffee, I walked down to the lake, to make sure it was still there. It was.

After a couple of calls, I rode my bike along the lake, on our favorite bike path, down to Sand Harbor, and then back on the singletrack trail overlooking the lake. I wanted to make sure the lake was still there. It was. 

But it was not enough. I had to touch the lake, just to be certain. I rode down to the beach, and the warmth of the late summer sun embraced me. I put my toes into our lake. Our lake high in the Sierras was still there. It was clear and cool. Any other year, I would have retreated to my beach chair, content knowing that the water was too cold for reasonable adults to go swimming. Not anymore. I dove in and looked back at the towering pines, reaching for the deep blue sky. I took a deep, cleansing breath. From the cool water, I floated and felt Beth among the trees and the water and the alpine sky. She’s here. She’s also with me wherever I go. But there's less agita at the lake. Maybe we are both more at peace here.

Quasimodo exclaimed, “Sanctuary!” as he rescued Esmeralda into the safety of Notre Dame. 

This lake, this Home in the trees, has become my Sanctuary. I’m beyond fortunate and grateful to have been given sanctuary in my chapel in the forest near our beloved lake. We came here because of water. First, for the water on the ski slopes. Then, for the water in the lake. It’s still there. And so am I. 

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald