Grateful, gratefuller, gratefullest

It’s Friday, and the scary momentous week is drawing to a close (just one day to go now, but it’s the biggie). I’m making it pretty well so far, and I’m grateful for that.

What am I grateful for? I guess for whatever combination of factors is making me able to weather this particular storm without any more than superficial damage to my sails. To God? Certainly. To my brain and heart? For sure. To my family, and my friends? Without a doubt. All of these things, and more, make up the resiliency factors I’m working with. I’m far from deserving a “best grieving spouse ever” medal. I know I’m making all kinds of mistakes across all kinds of domains in my life. But I’m managing.

Everyone always knew that the week with both my birthday and our anniversary in it was going to be a challenge, and it has been. And yet I continue to somehow move forward. Not because I’m some paragon of loss and grief, but because…of whatever those factors are which continue to fuel and feed me.

I got the chance to spend more than two hours with an old friend this afternoon, which was really special. She asked some questions about how things are going that I haven’t talked about with many folks, and was also able to give me some insights into her own grief journey. Both of those were incredibly valuable to me.

Once again, as another day comes to a close I’m left with an overwhelming sense of gratitude for all those people in my life who continue to walk pieces of my path alongside me. These conversations have been some of the gifts which have sustained me the most. And I can’t usually predict which of these conversations is going to have the big profound life nuggets in them for me, but they still pop up out of nowhere, like prizes in a crackerjack box, surprising in their simplicity and incredibly meaningful when they do arrive.

We talked for a while about this Substack, and about what writing has meant for me now in this season of my life as well as in other times and places. I think I’m getting better at trying to articulate what grieving visibly and publicly is doing for me (for which I’m grateful). I like to think I would be having many of these same revelations if it was all just happening inside my head instead of being visible to anyone who wants to follow along. At the same time, I know that the connections I’m able to make between my experience and those of my friends and family are shaping the things I’m able to think about in a very real way. So no, I’m not any more an island unto myself than anyone else, as much as I’d sometimes prefer to be.

I need the interplay between my thoughts and feelings and your thoughts and feelings in order to keep growing and to keep figuring out what each day looks like or what I’d like it to look like.

So listen, I’m now able to say this plainly:

This is not my ideal version of life. I would never have chosen this. My ideal life would have Kellie in it, no matter what. So this is not my best life.

But what I can do—what I am trying to do—what is giving me a lot of the meaning that is currently available to me—is live the best version of life that I can in the here and now, given the fact that I’m in this place I have not chosen.

I can be happy despite existing in a sometimes desperately-unhappy reality. And I am.

Thank you for giving me the chance to think through the pieces of joy and sorrow that are currently floating around my brain, on a more-or-less daily basis. Thank you for continuing to tell me some of the ways my writing has made you think or feel. Even though the ways it affects other people is secondary to me, it matters to me to hear that it is landing for folks.

I’m really excited for my writer’s retreat next weekend. I’m going into that with zero preparation or forethought—I’ll be writing for three days straight, but I have no idea yet what I’ll be writing about. There are a bunch of projects that could suck me in, but my only plan is to remain open to what the universe nudges me toward writing and see what happens. Stay tuned.

Tomorrow is our 28th wedding anniversary, and I’ve been thinking a lot about that as the day approaches.

Many of you know that we had a big vow renewal ceremony for our 20th wedding anniversary (eight years ago tomorrow). We spent more money on this than for our original wedding, and invited more people as well. We wanted to have an event which was more suited to us as grown-ups instead of what two teenagers would have planned (and could have afforded). It was a really meaningful time for us and we were so glad to have been able to make it happen. We’ve told each other for the past eight years that we’re never getting married again, though, because two big ceremonies were enough for a lifetime. That guarantee still stands, in case you’re wondering.

When I was spending some time in Kellie’s garden this evening, I found myself thinking about what I might have done differently if I knew, eight years ago, that I just had eight more years with her. I also thought about what Kellie might have done differently if she knew she only had eight more years to live.

I’m really not sure that either of us would have changed a whole lot, though. We’ve had our challenges, but these last eight years (and especially the six years since the beginning of the pandemic) have been some of our best ones. We bought our house immediately after that vow renewal, and have been so happy here. We’ve both gotten to work from home for the last six years, and that has let us spend so much more time together than we used to, including time spent with the dogs. I can point to a decision here or there that I could have made differently, or she may have made differently, but for the most part I think that these eight years have been a massive gift. We were happier together than we ever have been. We were more in-tune with each other’s thoughts and feelings. We got along better and understood each other more than ever in our lives. A lot of that is probably due to us aging and becoming adults (and thus having our brains actually fully developed).

I don’t look back at these last eight years (or the twenty that preceded them) with a profound sense of regret. I really don’t. Even though everyone likes to say that hindsight is 20/20, I can only identify a very small handful of different life choices I would have liked us to make. Just as my overall feeling is one of gratitude again this evening, when I think about my time with Kellie it’s with a heart full to bursting with joy and love and yes, again, gratitude. I am so grateful to God for giving me these years with her, even though it feels hideously unfair for them to be cut short so abruptly and so quickly. I am so grateful to the universe for putting us in the right places and right times to be able to give and receive the love with each other and those others in our life who are now able to sustain and nurture and support me when I need it more than I could ever have imagined.

When you think about me tomorrow (if you do), please think about how much I’ve been given. Please think about how fortunate Kellie and I have been. And please think about how she has left behind her a legacy of good from a lifetime of kindness and compassion, that has changed for the better everyone who knew her, including me.

I plan to celebrate us tomorrow, not mourn her. I’m hopeful that will be enough to keep me going until the next day, and the next, and the next. Etcetera.

This photo is incredibly special—it’s one of the pics from the first time we met in-person, back in June of 1996, in that coffee shop in Columbus. We didn’t know we’d get thirty years together—we didn’t even know we’d get thirty days together! But we knew we had found something special. And we hoped it was forever. I’m still holding out hope for that.

Hugs to you all, and a toast to us.

Love ya,

Matt