Day Eight

Everyone (including me) knows how much I suck at this.

Hey, turnips & rutabagas!

Last night was slightly less challenging than I’ve gotten accustomed to, which is a real blessing. I attribute that to two things:

1. There were at least four people who made it a point to reach out to me in the 10pm-2am Worst Time Slot of Matt’s Day. One of them, in particular, went deep with me about some of the trauma response I’ve been dealing with, and discussing that in the middle of the night (surprisingly) helped me a great deal.

2. I’m just so exhausted that I don’t see any way I could be alert enough to be as upset as ‘usual’.

I ended up having multiple really cathartic conversations with several folks, and that had a very positive effect, in addition to all the uncontrollable tears. Maybe those helped too, a little bit?

Anyway, here’s the last photo she and I took together. She would have hated me posting it. Both of us have our eyes closed, the dogs are looking opposite directions, nothing is framed right, the light is too bright. But I’m always going to cherish this picture, since it’s the last one we ever took. I wish I knew it was going to be the the last time we took a selfie together, out of hundreds and hundreds during our lifetime together.

After my tearful conversations last night, I then put together a piece of furniture Kellie had bought for the hall a few minutes ago but that I hadn’t had the time to assemble yet. It turned out that as usual, Kellie’s taste was impeccable, and that it’s exactly what I needed at that spot of the house. If you’ve been here this week and had Coco attempt to eat your shoes (or succeed), then you’ll be glad to know we now have someplace to put them that she can’t overcome. Yet.

I got a ‘good’ rating for my sleep score, and slept six hours and nineteen minutes, which is more than an hour longer than my average has been this week.

I also DoorDashed Taco Bell at around 1am, which was not a great dining experience but at least part of my order didn’t have a funny taste, so that’s something. If you’re wondering, the good part was my nacho fries (which always come through).

I have experienced more kindness and love this week than I can believe. It’s really been incredible, and I will never be able to repay any of you for everything you’ve done. Please know that.

I spent some time last night with a long-time friend who had a similar loss several years ago, and comparing notes was healthy for me, I think. She agrees on the late-night malaise, so that’s something that seems to be a constant across more folks than only me.

My dad and sister continue to valiantly soldier on through some of my clutter. I don’t think I could have figured out how to make my livable space more livable without them here. I can never thank them enough for dropping everything to spend this time caring for me in real life, not just sending thoughts and prayers (though I’ll gladly accept thoughts and prayers too). I feel wholly inadequate to the task of making them feel appreciated, because I’m the worst possible host right now. Under better circumstances, I like to think I would be way friendlier to them and everyone else. I don’t know whether circumstances will get better for me. I wish that wasn’t true.

As one example, just having my pantry clean and organized is going to help me immeasurably once I feel able to start cooking for myself, whenever that might be. I’ve been considering my options, and either I have to start cutting all my cooking portions in half OR—and hear me out—just eat twice what I used to eat. I could also just stop cooking entirely. Or I guess I could cook for other people, at least like one other person at a time (no dinner parties, please). So six months from now, if you want me to cook you something, check in and see. Who knows, maybe I’ll feel like it.

I’m trying to read without much success, which is distressing to me because that’s been my most valuable source of joy since kindergarten. I’m going to keep trying. It’s a time when I just zone out and can’t even get through a page. At least it is right now.

The biggest source of challenge for me right now is the fact that my wife has been dead for one week and one day, and yet the world is still turning on its axis. I miss her all the time and there’s absolutely nothing I can do to change that. You’ve probably heard the W.H. Auden poem that feeling always brings to mind, but in case you haven’t:

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

So that’s a cheerful little ditty.

Here’s the last photo we ever took of us kissing (again, out of many over the years). We had just gotten back home from the hospital in January, and thought everything was going to be okay. I’m always going to spend far too long looking at this photo and wishing I had made the most of every single minute with her over the next two months.

The second-hardest thing that I’m dealing with right now is the fact that there’s no way to make a lot of choices regarding my own level of vulnerability. When I lose my composure, as happens relatively often, I don’t get to choose who is in the room with me at the moment. People are going to reach out and offer support and ask what they can do, even if I want them to go away. And at the very same time, I do not want them to go away, because I do not want to be alone. That’s new.

I think that I’m dealing with this loss well in very small segments: for an hour here, and an hour there, I feel like myself. And then I remember. Then I don’t know how to cope at all. Lots of slices of both types of moment make up a whole day, and now, a whole week.

Not counting me, Kellie had two best friends in her entire life. One of them came over tonight and spent many hours with me, just being here, living in the moment and reflecting on the whole shebang. I feel so grateful to have had this time with her. And I’ve probably mentioned this before, but it is such a gift to me when someone wants to hear what’s rattling around inside my head in this moment of disquiet. I know I don’t have to feel indebted to everyone, but I do. Continually. I can never thank any of you enough, and I have grown to believe that I’ll spend the rest of my life thanking anyone who has sacrificed in order to care for me in this season. And it won’t be enough.

Pretty much all the time, in addition to my sadness I feel a great deal of regret, guilt and shame about not caring for other people enough across these last eight days. Caring for everyone is what I do, both personally and professionally. I hope I’m pretty good at it. But I’m not good at it right now. I want to reach out and encourage my students that are set to graduate a week from tonight, and let them know how incredibly proud of them I am. I want to tell my clients that I’m so sorry to have prioritized my own grief over the very real challenges that they trust me to work through with them. I want to tell my family that I want them to save their money and their time and go back to all the super meaningful and important things they were doing before they dropped everything to come and help me like this. I want to call Kellie’s clients, one by one, and tell them that she would never want to have caused them this sorrow and this pain, and that I can fix it.

But I don’t do those things because I’m too tired, or I’m too closed-off emotionally, or I really shouldn’t (in the case of Kellie’s clients). I also don’t do those things because as much as I wish I were better about helping everyone else and me at the same time, I am not handling this the way I want to. My friends and family aren’t the enemy, even if they won’t stop reminding me to drink water and won’t stop helping me even if I want them to. My clients aren’t holding a grudge, even though part of their healing process is on pause right now. Kellie’s clients want to care for her memory in any way they can. So if I have wronged you, or hurt your feelings, or acted less like myself than I should have, I regret it. I’m sorry for that and I’m sorry that this is so hard for me. I want to be making choices that honor Kellie’s memory, but I’m so tired and so stressed and so continually triggered all over the place. I told someone today that I’m not mad at them, I’m mad at the Grim Reaper. That was a real feeling, not a joke.

I DO appreciate every single person who has expressed care for me or love for Kellie. I have never done this before, and I’m sure I’m making mistakes all over the place.

Please don’t give up on me.

I’ll leave you with a happy photo. This was one of our traditional New Year’s Eve shots that we tried to do each year. It’s far from perfect, and I could pick its composition apart in all kinds of ways—but it was a moment of true joy for all four of us. I know it was, I still remember that night. It was truly special. I’m glad we had that night.

Tonight has been a rough one. I’ve sat in my despair for the past two hours. That hasn’t helped, but I’m having a difficult time shaking it. I’m gonna go and wash some dishes or something, I think.

Talk to you soon, whether I want to or not.

Matt