It’s Wednesday, and that means this afternoon marks three weeks in this new phase of my life. Three weeks with everything profoundly shattered, with fresh starts and new beginnings in almost every conceivable way (though almost all of them are unwanted and unpleasant). If I could change every one of these things back to normal, I’d do it, no matter what it cost.

This new life isn’t all bad, like I’ve already previously established. Regardless, it’s not worth it. And there’s no mystical ‘reason’ that makes this all worthwhile. There never will be. But that doesn’t mean Kellie wouldn’t want me—doesn’t want me—to be happy regardless of my circumstances. I know she does. That’s what makes it harder, honestly. She was always willing and eager to sacrifice her own happiness for mine, and for anyone’s who she loved.

It’s a really shitty place for me to be, even in the midst of joy and happiness and love and the outpouring of kindness that has come our way across these last three weeks. I appreciate everyone who has been willing to sit in that discomfort with me.

I love this photo—it’s one of many I’ve taken of Kellie in the middle of a lecture, passionately explaining something she cared about so much to a group of her students. It’ll always be an incredibly special memory.

I’ve mentioned to lots of you individually that the algorithm serves me near-constant widower content now (thanks, big tech). And that a fair amount of it revolves around how difficult it is for folks who are members of this worst club in the world. One commonality that many of them share is that friends and family have distanced themselves and that the widower in question is alone, bereft, and has nobody to turn to for connection and support. That has NOT been my experience, not in the slightest, and I cannot thank all of you enough for not leaving me alone.

I slept well last night, surprisingly well. That’s a blessing, since I get so tired now as it is. I’d probably be pretty droopy all the time if I weren’t getting a full night’s sleep in addition to everything else.

I finished the last of Kellie’s counseling notes today. If you’ve ever done therapy yourself, you know about the burden of clinical documentation. Many of us struggle with getting our notes done, so many of us that there are infinite memes about the challenge they pose. Kellie did not enjoy the documentation part of this profession, and she ultimately won—she didn’t have to finish them all. I did them for her, based on the informal notes she left behind. Now comes the fun of having to individually bill each one (so I can accurately document the fact that she did the sessions, I’m just billing for them).

But the bigger thing for me today has been the unfolding and continuing realization that Kellie will never use her clinical skills again. She’ll never do another counseling session, never salve another wounded heart or walk with anyone on their journey again. That’s a huge loss for the world. I cried more than once today about it, and I’m sure it won’t be the last time that happens.

This is one of many, many pictures I’ve taken of Kellie where we were just sitting somewhere random and I became overwhelmed by her beauty. I can’t look at it without smiling, so I’m sharing it with you.

I saw my therapist today, and during that session I actually had an epiphany that I wanted to talk a bit about. How often does that happen in a therapy session, right? Not as often as we’d like, I guarantee you.

I don’t know whether I’ve talked about this to many people yet, but I bought a great little device a month or two ago—it’s called a Trimui Brick Hammer, and it’s capable of playing all kinds of retro games. Kellie and I have been loving playing back through the first few Mario games, and I probably have a few dozen games on mine. Something I started doing after Kellie died was playing one game of Tetris per night before trying to read a book, once I’m in bed for the evening. I am usually able to clear about 100 rows, give or take, before I lose the game. Once or twice I do considerably better (I topped 200 rows once last week, surprisingly). If you’re wondering, I play the version of Tetris from the Game Boy Color, since some people consider it to be the definitive version of Tetris. Anyway.

Here’s one of the thousands of wedding pictures we took. We both worked for Ritz Camera at the time, so free developing and loans of high-end camera equipment were part of the employee perks. I love this shot.

So I’ve gotten into the habit of doing this each night. I haven’t missed a single night. And at some point, probably a day or two after she died, that was when I started having a conversation with Kellie about my day as I played Tetris. It’s become a habit, like I said. That takes anywhere from fifteen minutes to a half hour, and I talk through the worst of my feelings and frustrations and talk with her about how much I miss her.

So as I was seeing my therapist and telling her this afternoon about this habit I’ve fallen randomly into, I remembered something pretty cool. I had completely forgotten this, but I actually read more than one article about a really interesting phenomenon a few years ago: In the trauma literature, there appears to be some evidence that specifically playing Tetris while processing through traumatic events decreases the risks of first responders developing PTSD, in addition to decreasing the long-term effects of secondary trauma experienced by those first responders. I had honestly not retained that information in any conscious way, but I have spent three weeks doing an actual trauma intervention on myself without realizing it. And I think that’s pretty amazing. My unconscious mind is brilliant, I guess. So I’m going to keep playing Tetris every night while I work through my messy brain with Kellie, and maybe it’ll help. Maybe it HAS helped? I’ll never know, but I’m going to keep trying. I think that’s pretty incredible. Maybe you do too?

Letters From Kellie’s Friends, Part 2 (No, I Didn’t Write This)

Dear Kellie,

Today is Wednesday. Probably no one’s favorite day of the week. But now - it’s definitely my least favorite. I’m usually pretty good at compartmentalizing (it’s kind of a job requirement). But I can’t compartmentalize the loss of you. Every Wednesday my body makes me feel what my brain tries to distract me from.

I was so nervous when we first met - I’m not great with strangers or small talk. Our husbands met first and thought we’d all get along. They were right. There was no small talk and we didn’t feel like strangers. After overstaying our welcome at lunch, we followed it up with more talking over coffee, and (by accident) going to the same grocery store right after.

We connected in a way that I knew would be permanent. I was so lonely at that point - a transplant who felt unmoored in this community. Friendship with you & Matt (and Sage & Ivy) was an anchor as I built a home here.

When I think of you, I think of real conversations, boisterous laughter, artful sassiness, depthless compassion, steadfast advocacy - always more, in the best way possible.

You probably never knew how often I think of you. Every time I drive past your street or walk my dogs in that direction. Whenever I use the many perfectly selected gifts you gave us over the years - cookbooks, art, things for the dogs.

I wish more of my thoughts of you made it into text messages or phone calls. I wish stupid things like COVID and our brain chemistry wouldn’t have stopped us from spending more time together.

I believe that you knew how much you matter to me, because I know how much I mattered to you. I’m glad we always told each other that we loved each other when we had the chance.

Weirdly enough, we talked about what would happen if I died suddenly. Because we trusted you & Matt to make sure our dogs were taken care of if we couldn’t. We never talked about what would happen if you died suddenly. We’re all doing our best to take care of Matt, Ivy, & Coco now.

I hope some part of you is aware of how this community is showing up for them. It is really beautiful and a testament to how much love you inspired in all of us. I feel less isolated in the wake of it. It’s not bittersweet - it’s still too bitter - but I don’t have a better word yet.

The way you loved your people (dog people included) fiercely, the way you cared for your clients, the way you impacted your students, and all the little things no one knows about because you’d never brag about any of it. That isn’t just your legacy. It is Matt’s inheritance and all of our hope.

I love you.

I miss you.

Give Sage a snuggle for me.

Love,

Anonymous

I’ll leave you with that perfectly-written letter. Thank you so much, friend, for sending it my way—all of our way. It is being shared in the spirit it was written: a spirit of love, of sorrow, and of that feeling you’re contemplating that that none of us have a better word for yet.

Love you.

I took a few minutes at 4:15 today to pet Coco and let Kellie know just how much she’s missed. We’ve all made it through three weeks, now.

Keep on keeping on.

XOXO,

Matt

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