The Widower’s Rant: A rant into the universe

Sigh. Do that again. Deep Sigh. Today is 14 weeks since Beth died. Yes, I’m counting. There are handy websites that help you with the math. While I’m complimented on my resilience and my limited social media posts, which show a happy, active, and even joyful Widower (love that term), it’s not all wine and roses. Well, the lovely bottle of Cru Beaujolais I enjoyed with a tasty dinner of fresh King Salmon from the farmer’s market begs to differ. It’s not all roses, then. I do not like roses. My parents had a rose garden, and the thorns hurt me. But I digress.

The source of today's lament is Beth’s 62nd birthday on 7/20. A week from Saturday. I had this handled. I was going to be back east with The Commodore, in foreign surroundings (seriously, have you heard how he eats?). But for typically crazy reasons (his, his wife’s, not mine), the trip was pushed out a week. What do I do? It hit me today that I ought to do something other than let another day, another day alone, pass. Yup, alone. That’s the operative word. I’m so lucky in so many dimensions. But at the end of whatever day, no matter how much fun, or busy, or productive (Productive. My father’s favorite word. The stupid Puritan work ethic transcends generations and distance), when everyone else goes back to their usual routine, I’m alone. And it sucks. I know my mission is to learn to be happy alone. I’m trying hard. And am I beyond grateful that I have all the trappings that should make that easier. I’m semi-retired. Own two homes in very nice places to live. I have resources that 98% (there’s another website that will confirm this math) of others can’t access. But it does not change how it feels for me. I’m sitting here alone, unable to tell the person integral to 2/3 of my life how my day went. Yeah, yeah, I can “talk to Beth” and tell her what’s going on. But trust me. Not the same. I’m an only child. I can talk to myself all I want and I’m good at it. My internal dialogue? Out loud. Drove Beth crazy.

So I read the /Widowers SubReddit. Now that’s a depressing place. Makes me feel much better about where I am so early in the journey. Anyway, the advice offered ranged from “I sat against his headstone and wrote a letter to him” (Fuck No) to “I stayed in bed all day and sobbed” (again, Fuck, No). Someone mentioned they spent the day doing the things their spouse enjoyed doing (Fuck, Yes!). That’s the ticket. I’ll take the dogs, go back to Geyserville. Hang out, take them for a walk. Go on a bike ride. Go on a hike. Eat soft-serve ice cream. Oh, Beth loved having people over in our backyard. I know, I can invite a few neighbors over. Just Champagne, Pizza, and Ice Cream (with impossibly small spoons). I can pull that off. She’d love that. Problem solved.

Then, I checked in with Curtis. Goodness, how he has matured over the past few years. We could not be more proud of him. Buying our house in Incline Village triggered (oh, bad term from someone from Texas, let’s say encouraged) him to move to Carson City. I see him twice a week or more when I’m here. The dogs love it at his home. Their new normal without the nice lady who took them for walks. More digression. Grief brain does not do a good job of staying on point. Anyway, after chatting with him, he offered up, “You figure out where you want to be, and I’ll figure out where I’ll be.” He pointed out that I’ve not been good with group events, so everyone would understand if I avoided Geyserville. And I also recognize that it’s his loss too. How do you comfort your adult children on the untimely loss of their mother? A mother, who, if a voting system were in place (not the electoral college, for example), would easily rank in the highest echelon of mothers? I understand that in the ranking system of grief, mine is somewhat in a different tier than our kids, but you can’t stop caring for your children and their emotional well-being.

So here I am. I thought I had this solved. But like much of the unchartered terrain I navigated over the past 14 weeks (yes, still counting), I’m lost. I miss her so very much. When I say those words, I melt into a puddle. I don’t want to celebrate her birthday - unless she is here to enjoy the ice cream with impossibly small spoons - I want to make, somehow, the loss disappear like the horizon on the Incline Flume bike trail as I teeter far too close to oblivion.

I want off this ride. Who do I see about a refund? Is there a manager on duty? I will be writing a sternly-worded letter to the CEO of Fucked-Up Life Plans, Inc. It worked when Verizon tried to charge me for canceling my mobile phone plan after Beth, the account “owner,” died. Surely, it will work now. Does anyone have the email address? Please.

Geyserville is so empty. It’s hard to say there. I walk from room to room, unsure what to do. Tahoe is all shiny and new. Fewer memories in this home and more places to ride my new eStead on the edge of disaster. To walk among the towering pines with a view of our beloved Lake Tahoe. Have I told you our first solo date was skiing here 40 years ago? But Incline in my early days here is very, very alone. I am working on meeting people here. Stepping outside of my comfort zone. I signed up to be part of a worthwhile organization (i.e. wrote checks) and will go to a socially awkward dinner in a couple of weeks. Thanks to my “generous” (my scale, not theirs) donation, I was also invited to a cocktail reception in August. I googled the address. Mistake. A $40M lakefront property. Want to feel like you have a small dick? Move to Incline. And his is an 82 year old dick. How could I be jealous of that? Oh yeah, modern medicine zealously defended by staunch supporters of taking away women's rights makes his 20-year older physiology age-irrelevant. Rupert Murdoch, at 93, married for the fitfh time. Wealth is indeed a time machine. My problems are indeed small. Like my financial dick in this zip code. More digression.

I went for my after-dinner walk in the neighborhood. Tahoe is so healthy. And as I trudged, I sobbed openly, head in hands, grabbing my shoulders as if they were another set of arms giving me a badly needed hug. Being. Alone. Sucks. But, halfway through the walk, the emotions ebb. Or I’m scared of bears lurking in the shadows. I imagine I smell like fresh King Salmon. Crap! I don’t want to be a bear sandwich. Or maybe I do. I was reading a book by Mary Roach, and the last bookmarked chapter in my room was about an unfortunate hiker killed by a bear. When my kids sort through the house, they will see the library book, Fuzz, read about being eaten by a bear, and laugh out loud. That would be an excellent way to end my story. Seriously, if you can’t laugh at the irony, I’ve lost my ability to entertain.

So I look at our beautiful lake, the towering pines, and the purity and timeliness of nature. These trees have seen millions before me, and with luck (anyone see today's fire report?), millions after me that have or will suffer losses no less painful to them. I’m alone, yet not alone. That’s supposed to bring me some comfort. When it does, I’ll let you know. Grief is intensely personal, all-encompassing, isolating, raw, foreign. 0 out of 5 stars. Do not recommend.

To pizza, or not to pizza, that is the question. Unanswered tonight. Thanks for letting me vent. Knowing that you are thinking about me brings strength and comfort.

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald