The Widower’s Rant: Milestones

17 weeks. 119 Days. Still Counting. I’m starting my fifth month. Or, four months down and a lifetime to go. Did you know when you do something with reps, like pushups, it’s easier to count down than count up to the target? Try it. But I digress. While in many ways it is becoming “easier,” I’m also finding myself more often unexpectedly sad at seemingly random times. Odd. Maybe you just get used to the sadness of grief reminding you when you least expect it. Oh, you again. Hello. Please don’t visit long this time. I have things to do.

I went to the Tahoe Fund Gala event in Lake Tahoe. This was the first big milestone of doing something hard, something purely on my own, something that I’d frankly rather not do. Beth was better at entering a crowded room and finding people to talk with. And then including me in the conversation. I’d rather have a cavity filled. But, as part of Don 2.0, I signed a 3-year commitment - and went to the gala. As the valet took my car, I walked into the event, alone. Everyone else comes in 2’s, 4’s, even 6’s. Even numbers rule the world. But, deep breath, grab a glass of wine, and meet a nice couple to chat with. Finding a place to sit and people to talk with was about as awkward as I’ve felt since I was a sophomore in a new, cliquey high school knowing nobody. It was awful. But I made the small talk. As I stood up to leave, a woman grabbed my hand and said, “It’s wonderful you putting yourself out there so soon.” I didn’t know to laugh or cry, so I mumbled thanks and drove back to my empty home in the woods by our beloved lake.

Grief tour 2024 went to the East Coast this past week. I went to visit The Commodore in coastal New Jersey. Bob has been more influential in my adult life than my father. He’s why I’m entrepreneurial, learned to write letters to CEOs (Thanks Verizon!), and more importantly, how to pay it forward. He sponsored ski trips and holidays when we were young and could not afford them. Now, I’ve done it for my adult children and their partners. All because of The Commodore. Bob is a throwback to another era. He calls himself “Attila the Hun” in regard to his blunt and outspoken points of view. Of which he generously shares. I mentioned that I have many close buddies that are women. He laughed and said he didn’t think he had one female friend. He also has no idea where the towels are in his house. Like I said, from another era. 

This visit is tinged with sadness and full of reflection. His wife is out of town, opening our evenings to long conversations around the kitchen table. We’ve never done that before, and it was great. A drive down to Wildwood Crest of his childhood and Cape May of Beth’s. To show me where he’d like his ashes scattered. With Beth’s mixed in so that they can take the last bike ride together. That was his idea and request, and I brought her with me.

Ashes to Ashes. I’m of the firm mind of the separation of Body and Spirit. When she died on our couch that cold April morning, what was left was the vessel. The hydrocarbons, the stardust that formed the brown eyes and perfect smile I long to see. Yet, I held her hand for 30 hours in the hospital and sometimes talk to the container of ashes resting temporarily in her favorite Lululemon backpack every now and then. So a small portion of her ashes, carefully placed into a ziplock bag and then inside a small Tupperware container with Pooh Bear and Piglet on the pink lid (she loved Winnie-the-Pooh), rode safely in the overhead compartment nestled next to my shoes and toiletries. Her spirit travels inside of me, around me, without the need for Tupperware or roll-aboard luggage. 

Beth fell asleep on every airplane on every one of our trips. If you made airplane noises, she’d yawn. I have more photos than I should of her sitting in an airplane seat, head up, mouth open, blissfully sleeping. Beth and I are the perfect size for traveling on airplanes. Every seat is a first-class seat. I’d rather have her next to me than the rather large man who is spilling over his armrest into me. I can’t be any more squished than I am right now. 

I told my father-in-law how his daughter died. How the week before she died was picture-perfect, and we had no reason to expect she’d drop dead. This is not a fun conversation but an essential one. I told my father-in-law how I did my level best to make Beth happy and do my part to give us a life full of adventures. I told my father-in-law how much he influenced my life and thanked him for his part in creating the love of my life. Which was another conversation about just how little he did until his kids were old enough to do what interested him. Ski trips, holidays in the Seychelles or Tahiti - absolutely. Sand castles or Parent-teacher day meetings? Not a chance. 

Beth must have inherited her love of bikes from her dad. We rode down to the Dunkin every morning for a donut and coffee. Watched F1 together - what a great race! What a great time with the Commodore. Then off to see old friends for deep conversations, walks on the beach, jumping in the waves, more bike rides. All in all, a restorative week and one full of milestones, big and small. 

As I began my homeward journey, I was upgraded at the last moment. Only one seat was available, and a couple did not want to be split up. Beth and I faced the same decision multiple times, and we always chose to stay together in the second first-class cabin. The symmetry of this good fortune was a fitting coda to this week of milestones. Perhaps my luck is turning.

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald