The Widower’s Rant: The Sound of Silence

I love music. I have no natural musical talent and remain in awe of those who do. I never could remember notes and interpret the mathematical precision that underpins scales, but I enjoy music. I have played a little guitar off and on. I plink out a few chords, happy to recognize something familiar but nothing more. Fun Fact: When I was 18, I was the repair department for Red’s Guitar Warehouse in Mountain View. I made a couple of electric guitars, so somehow, that and my bottomless (not necessarily justified) self-confidence, and there I was, re-fretting a Martin D-45. I miss the arrogance of youth. But I digress.

My appreciation for most music runs as broad as all my other interests. A mile wide and an inch deep. I don’t know any specific genre well; I like them all. Okay, I’m not a huge country fan, but in the right circumstances, I’ll tap my foot to that, too. My first concert of note was Queen in Oakland, 1980. The year Freddy Mercury first appeared with his mustache. I was not one of the people who threw a disposable razor on the stage. I was too naive to know this was not a commentary on personal grooming. The internet is amazing: you can find the concert to stream and facts about that tour online. As I read the setlist I was transported back to the summer before I started college. Fixing guitars during the day, transfixed on Sir Brian May, Ph.D. that night. I love smoldering jazz vocals, and especially the blues, though current circumstances notwithstanding, I have little to be blue about. Hard rock, soft rock, yacht rock, I like it all.

Beth loved music as well. In particular, singer-songwriters. James Taylor, Carly Simon, Carole King, Sarah McLachlan. In college, she started listening to this up-and-coming pop talent, Madonna. Has anyone heard how she ended up? We are of the MTV generation when they played music videos. Dire Straits Money for Nothing. Blondie. The Police. Eurythmics. Cyndi Lauper. Thriller. And so on. When we were first dating and took a trip to San Francisco, I wanted to show how cultured I was and took her to see the SF Symphony. To which Beth promptly fell asleep. She said it was warm and the music was nice. Hard to argue. This was repeated years later when we took Lamaze classes because that’s what every parent in the early 90’s did. When they played soft, relaxing music and told the women to breathe deeply, Beth promptly fell asleep. Every time. We were the first couple to be flunked out of Lamaze class because the mother-to-be was too relaxed.

We took our kids to a great children’s music program, Family Music Mornings, at what is now called the Pacific Symphony. Beth stayed awake. A year or so later, we were at a show, and the opening strains of Bach or Beethoven began. Five-year-old Lauren loudly exclaimed for all to hear, “I, I, I know this song.” The proud parents began to beam, our child-rearing prowess about to be demonstrated for all. “It’s, it’s, it’s the Angry Beavers!” Okay. So Classical music—not a strong attribute of the Plumley household.

Despite my interest in music, I have well-documented, self-diagnosed Lyric Deficit Disorder (LDD). You may be familiar with the famous Gary Larson cartoon of what dogs hear:

Yup, that’s what the vast majority of music sounds like to me. I hear the hook and a lot of nice sounds. I usually get part of the chorus because they repeat it enough. Perhaps this is why I like Death Cab for Cutie so much. Ben Gibbard enunciates the lyrics so well that I can understand them. Thanks, Ben.

The poetry of musical lyrics might be lost on me. But the emotive component, how it moves me and can make me happy, sad, reflective, anxious, relaxed, and energetic, is what I appreciate the most. I particularly love the idea of live music. People all come together to one spot, and three or so musicians can fill a venue with pulsing rhythms familiar to all. It must be a rush to be on stage in a huge arena and hear everyone sing your lyrics back to you. Except from me. I’m singing, “She had electric boobs, her mom has two…”

Beth did not have this problem. She remembered the lyrics to every TV show opening, commercial jingles, and anything she listened to. She could play piano by ear, took lessons, and reveled in playing Vince Guaraldi’s Linus and Lucy. I can picture her dancing anytime she hears those opening notes, arms by her side, skipping up and down, and head bouncing left and right, just like in the Peanuts cartoons. I’m playing it loud right now and crying a river. I must stop typing because I can’t see the screen, and I’m afraid my contacts might wash out.

Okay, I'm back. In the Turtlerock house we had a perfect spot for a Baby Grand Piano that she so loved playing.

We liked watching The Grammys as it's a live music show, a chance to find new bands we might like. Over the past few years, we started to go to more concerts. Our next-door neighbor, KB, who was far more experienced at live music, became a loyal concert buddy. We went to see some great shows: The Foo Fighters, Silversun Pickups, Peter Frampton, Pat Benatar, Tears for Fears, and last October, U2 at the Sphere. Two of our favorite recent memories are Death Cab and then Garbage/Noel Gallagher/Metric at the Santa Barbara Bowl with Lauren and David.

It's an amazing venue. Highly recommended.

The U2 concert weekend in Vegas was the beginning of the end. We went hiking in Red Rocks, and Beth could barely make a steep incline. I marched off ahead, proud of my fitness, unaware of the drama behind me, leaving KB to worry about Beth’s inability to catch her breath. The next week, we went to the hospital and began our Cardiac Amyloidosis journey. Hint: It didn’t end well.

U2 was such a great concert in a one-of-a-kind venue that the following week (from the hospital, I might add), I booked a trip to go with our kids. They had to see this. That’s our family MO: charge ahead as if only good things will happen. Naturally, how things worked out, her first week of Chemo neatly coincided with the concert. We were in a no-win situation. If I didn’t go, and there were no problems, she’d feel forever guilty. If I went and there were problems, I’d never forgive myself. Beth pushed me out the door, almost literally. Her dear friend, the DJ, came and stayed with her for two nights, which reassured me. It was an unforgettable trip with our kids, so mission accomplished. Beth hid from me that she was not doing as well as she professed. That’s Beth. Go out and play. Don’t sit here and feel sorry for me.

Just before Chemo started, I bought tickets for us to go to the Aussie Pink Floyd Experience at our local venue. I regret not seeing Pink Floyd live (along with Fleetwood Mac), so this was a reasonable substitute. The show was last week, some four months after Beth died. KB and I went, and it was great. Well, listening to “Wish You Were Here” and gripping the empty chair beside me broke me badly, but the overall experience, the cathartic release of being in an audience of live music, was lifting. Plus, a giant pink kangaroo named Skippy. What’s not to enjoy?

Tonight, I went, alone, to see a local Rock-Blues band, at the local Incline pub. Aside from a few discrete teary moments— this was exactly what Beth and I dreamed we would do living in Incline—it was lovely. I sat under the pines and the stars, beer in hand, tapping my toes, looking at everyone enjoying the music. My attention drifted towards the omnipresent group of females dancing in front of the stage. Suddenly, a huge pang of deep regret swept over me. Beth loved to dance. I was afraid to. This only child was certain that everyone in the room was staring at me, laughing at my feeble attempt to dance, my utter lack of rhythm and grace. I might be half-Japanese, but I have two white feet. Why was I such a party pooper when it came to dancing? I dug my heels in hard on this one. Beth came to accept how little I liked to dance. I guess the balance sheet was stronger in other areas. Still, I'm a putz.

Maybe it started in middle school and those first awkward dances. I was the shortest boy in school, so there were only two girls I could dance with - at least the slow dance. Oh my, the awkward middle school slow dance. The death circle. Holding tight, moving in a circle, lights low, hands shakily placed around her waist, a slight tremble of fear. The fear of rejection if you asked someone to dance and they said no. Groups of boys and groups of girls standing together for protection on the open prairie, warily looking at the other team. It must have been great fun for the chaperones to watch. In college, I thought that dances were a form of an ancient mating ritual—hoping that mating might occur without procreation. Yet I also remember, in the converted dining room in our fraternity house, those few songs that were a group dance, not about the pairs. When we sang the lyrics aloud to one another, just having fun together, a group of friends sharing a common experience. This was a life lesson in college I flunked.

In preparation for our wedding, the idea of the traditional first dance terrified me. Everyone in the room would certainly be looking at us this time. It was impossible to miss Beth the Bride in her white gown and “The Hat.” The 80s. What a decade for fashion. Since neither of us had the first clue about how to actually dance, we dutifully signed up for dance lessons. That didn’t end well. Three lessons in, and we had a mutual agreement that we sucked. Between zero rhythm, my inability to count and look at my feet simultaneously, and much clomping on Beth’s toes, we decided that trying to dance like we knew what we were doing was starting married life under false pretenses. I think we did a version of the middle school dance with one hand removed from her waist to hold her hand in the air. Oh, our "first dance" song? From my very favorite movie from the 80’s, I think I still have the VHS tape, “Take My Breath Away” by Berlin from Top Gun. She loved me enough to let that be our first dance song. That must have seemed like a win to her compared to my first suggestion, “Danger Zone,” complete with jet engine noise. You have to admit, that would have been more memorable.

Once happily married, I could exhale as the whole objective of dancing was complete. I never got the memo that dancing was supposed to be fun, a release, a way to express joy like the Linus and Lucy Peanuts Dance. Arms to your side, head bobbing to and fro to the rhythm. The very few times we went to an event, and it would be impolite not to dance, I could not have felt more awkward or self-conscious. We are not talking about doing the tango either, just wriggle about on the dance floor was all that was required of me. “Dance like no one is looking,” they say. I was convinced everyone was looking, so the best defense was never leaving your chair. Much safer there. Beth, I am so sorry. You rarely asked me for anything. That I could not do this little thing for you is a crime. Guilty as charged. The sentence is life imprisonment with a hole in your heart.

Tonight, I would have given anything to take you by your hand, under the towering pines and twinkling stars, down to the worn patch of ground in front of the band. I wouldn’t have cared if anyone was looking. But if they were so lucky as to catch a glimpse, they would have seen the happiest man in the universe dancing with the girl he loved. I am so very sorry. I really messed this one up.

The silence in our empty house is overwhelming, especially with the doggies happily over in Curtis’ home. Nothing sounds like Home than the doggies snoring by or in your bed. So I've taken to reflexively playing music every waking moment and beyond. I set the sleep timer on the evening music simply to dampen the sound of my thoughts echoing in my skull. When I listen to the playlists I made to mirror our concert setlists, as I scroll through the photos of the bands we saw, as I mumble the few lyrics I understand, I’m forever connected to a place in time in the universe with Beth by my side. Swaying to the rhythm, failing to keep time with the beat.

Of the sounds of our Home that I miss the most is listening to Beth talk with her doggies. The care and tenderness in her voice. The certainty they understood her. The boundless love she had for those lucky dogs. ”Who is ready for super supper!” “Time for walkies!” “Time for bedtime snacks, who wants bedtime schnackers?” Hearing, “Now why am I in here?” as Beth stands in the closet. Or years ago, from our nursery with the Boyington sheep wallpaper, in her rocking chair, singing to our babies, “Little bunnies and lambs, are in for the day…”

Instead, I have silence.

The sounds of silence have replaced the vitality of our Home, so full of love, so enveloped by happiness. Silence has never sounded emptier. Music helps. I’ll be out to a lot more live music. And one day when someone asks me to dance, I know the answer. If I’m going to grow, to learn anything from this pain is to say yes, and to dance like no one is looking.

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald