Reflections on The Big Week
Well, I made it. Or, to be more accurate, WE made it. Week two of my birthday month is done, which also means that the week which contained both my birthday and our 28th wedding anniversary is over with. Phew.
And you know what?
I’m still here.
Whether you read my stuff each day or just dip in and out occasionally, you probably know that I’ve been approaching this past week with some measure of trepidation and concern about what it would bring.
My parents have only been gone for two weeks or so at this point, and they weren’t initially sure it was the best time to choose to let me sink or swim.
But I’ve swum. Swam? Swimmed? Swammen?
I have continued to keep my head above water, in spite of all this week’s challenges.
But when I said WE made it, I meant that. Explicitly. We did this together. It’s never been just me on my own, and if it were, I think it would have been much more difficult.
When my students graduate, sometimes they thank me for getting them to that point, and every time I tell them that they did the hard work. It wasn’t something I did, it was something they made happen. Now that I’m on the other end of things, valuing the contributions of my friends to the occasional peace of mind I’ve got at this point of my life has become increasingly important to me. And so I thank them and thank them (to the point where someone told me I was no longer allowed to tell them ‘thank you’ for at least the rest of that day). Do I think they have carried me? Not really—but I do think that they have been incredibly valuable ingredients inside the stew of my survival. I also think I couldn’t have been as happy without those ingredients.
There’s some lovely metaphor about umami in here which I don’t have the energy to reach for, but I’ll let you conjure it up yourself.
I had a pretty great week, honestly. I went to two independent bookstores (in two different states), had an amazing home-cooked birthday meal, went to lunch with a friend, and had another lunch delivered by another friend. I think I got to hang out with ten or eleven folks this week, which is historic. I went to a Weird Al concert as well as an author event with Chuck Tingle, both of which were incredible. I spent two hours at a silent book club meeting (which I loved) and literally read around four hundred pages that day. I’m not kidding.
Yesterday, I went to an anniversary dinner by myself at our favorite restaurant. I also hung out in Kellie’s garden five different times during the day. It absolutely had its moments of unbearable sorrow. And yet. I’m still here.
I think part of the reason I’ve missed a couple days of writing here is probably because I’ve got so much to say and so many thoughts from this week that I don’t know where to start—I don’t want to leave anything out. That said, I realize that I’m setting myself an impossible task, so I’m just going to do my best to catch you up and move on from this point.
I read something today that I wanted to comment on—a widower said that he feels the only reason some of us choose not to open ourselves up to new romantic relationships after losing our spouse is that he believes we build the perfect idealized version of them upon their deaths, and so nobody could ever meet those standards again anyway. In Kellie’s case, I know that’s simply not true. She wasn’t the perfect person: it’s easy enough, even now, for me to identify all kinds of flaws in her. For one, she hated mushrooms (and you know how weird that is). For another, she never saw the attraction of Dashboard Confessional (even Screaming Infidelities). That’s pretty inexcusable, and really points to the kind of person Kellie was—someone who didn’t like sad emo boys as much as me.
Seriously, nobody’s perfect. And I’ve never felt like Kellie was. Truthfully, I don’t think you have to be a perfect person to be a perfect partner to someone, which is good because I suck in a multitude of ways. We fit together, that’s the important thing. So for me, I’m not trying to idealize her and then fear nobody will ever match up to her—I know that I couldn’t ever find someone who fits as well with me as Kellie. It’s okay for those who need to seek out another partner after a loss like this. I understand that loneliness and wish to recapture what we’ve had in the past. It’s just not for me, though.
You might think that nearly three months isn’t long enough for me to have made that decision, and that’s okay too. But I know myself, and know I’m not going to change my mind, so maybe you could try believing me?
I’ve spent the last few days thinking about something that’s really stuck with me. A friend commented that if we’re able to take Kellie out of the equation, accepting this massive loss on some level but not factoring that into the mix, it can be pretty great to live on your own. And I have to acknowledge that she was totally right. Two things are true:
I love being able to get up when I want, go to sleep when I want, turn on music I want to hear, and eat food that I feel like eating when I feel like eating it.
I feel deeply, tragically guilty to admit that to myself, much less anyone else.
I miss Kellie every day, and I suspect I always will. Every part of my life isn’t entirely sad, though, and at this point I experience more joy and peace in my day-to-day existence than sorrow. I have somehow stumbled through what I bet is the worst part of this new state of being without giving up on happiness and without becoming numb to the good things that I can still experience, even in Kellie’s absence.
I know that this will be a lifelong process for me, and I know that transitions take years if not decades to experience. I also know, as I was reminded of by my parents last night, that I have already been trying to work on myself for decades, and so maybe that introspection and slowly developing concept of self-worth and identity are paying off for me now.
Regardless, I’m still grateful to have made it through this week with a full heart, a renewed sense of joy, and my eyes not as sore as I had expected. Though they’re still pretty sore.
Thanks for reading,
Matt