Tis the season to get out and live

 It’s that time of the year. Some would say the most wonderful time of the year. It’s always debatable for me. And probably for everyone else, too. Thanksgiving was quiet this year, but in a good way. I made dinner for the kids and myself and we sat together and talked and laughed. Lots of hugs. Lots of love. Only a few tears in the morning after I read a text from someone missing Robby.

These past few months since Robby’s memorial have been very peaceful for me, but at the same time it’s like this fire has been lit inside of me. When Robby died, I decided to take a year to work on my mental health and try to help the kids' with theirs. It was the right thing to do but now I'm ready to make this new life on my own. It’s like I didn’t just turn a page in the book of my life but I ripped out all of the pages and started writing a whole new chapter where I get to live my best life. Going to movies, meeting up for dinners and drinks downtown, lots of great conversations, and best of all, lots of laughter. Like the kind of laughter where you wipe away tears and pray your bladder can behave. I’ve updated my passport and already have several trips planned this year--and only two of them involve the Foo Fighters, so far, lol. I’ve met new friends, put more energy into the friendships I already have, and even walked over to meet my new neighbor who is pretty awesome so far. I’m exercising, finally losing all that weight I gained when Robby started getting really sick all the time, taking better care of my skin, hair, and nails, and even buying new clothes for myself that don’t include sweatpants and t-shirts.

I guess the reason I’m writing about this is because I realized for the first time in a long time, I’m actually really happy with myself. No guilt (well maybe a little guilt), not so many worries about the little things, no waking up in a sweat at 4 a.m. trying to remember if I paid a bill or if I missed something important.  I stopped expecting to hear from people to check in on me and decided to put my energy into relationships that make me happy. And it’s not like one big thing happened to change me, it’s just that I decided if I’m going to be in the world, I better get cracking on having an awesome life that I can be proud of. The kind of life where I’m that crazy lady from Texas flying to a new city by myself so I can tailgate with people I’ve met in an online fan group before a Foo Fighters concert. The kind of life where a friend asks if I have tried the new bar downtown and I say, “No, I haven’t but let’s go after work and check it out.” The kind of life where a guy asks if he can buy me a drink and I say sure and not really care if it makes other people uncomfortable.  

I think sometimes it’s hard to let go of ‘what could have been’ and start making your life ‘what it could be.’ And I can make it sad and lonely, or I can get off the couch and make it awesome. Because no one else is going to do it for me. So, it seems, tis the season to take life by the horns and hold on for the next wild ride, gas pedal to the floor, hair flying back, eyes wide open, smiling. 

Goodbye, Brewster. Hello grief.

Our dog Brewster died this week. He was a rescue, so we guess he was about 14 or 15 years old. He was Jude’s birthday present when he turned 7 and they quickly became inseparable, best friends. I’ve never lost a dog before. He and Buddy are the first dogs I’ve ever had, and Brewster’s absence has been suffocating so far. He was always a shadow, following all of us around the house and checking in on each of us during the night while we slept. He would meet me at the front door with one of his stuffed animals in his mouth every day when I got home, a comforting gesture that has gotten me through this past year with Robby being gone.

Luckily Brewster was not sick long. It started that same morning he died—he was having a hard time standing up after sleeping so I assumed he was starting to get a little arthritis and once we got him some medicine he would be fine. I went to work and the kids checked in on him throughout the day and let me know he seemed OK, but just tired. When I got home that evening, he was laying by the front door, which was unusual for him. I said his name, he looked up and kind of gave me a smile and then that was it. His eyes glazed over and he never really woke up again. It’s like he was waiting for me to get home and say goodbye.

Veronica helped me track down the emergency vet and then Jude scooped him up and carried him to the car. We drove him over to the animal hospital, but he was pretty much gone by the time we got there. The doctor said his stomach was full of blood and he would most likely end up suffering like that all night until he passed on his own. Veronica made the decision to not watch, so Jude and I held each other and cried as we said goodbye to Brewster one last time, knowing he was already on his way to Robby.

I’m usually pretty good at allowing myself to be sad for a while and then shaking it off and moving forward, but I’m having a really hard time already. I kept thinking I needed to call Robby and tell him about Brewster. And then I’d catch myself and be like, WTF? I haven’t thought about calling Robby in a long time. I wake up in the morning and have to remind myself Brewster is not waiting on me to get up and take him outside. And now I’m back to having to remind myself that Robby isn’t here either.

The holidays are coming up and not having Robby here for the holidays is really hard. I feel like last year I was on autopilot so I could just keep moving through the motions, but this time around, I’m just having a really hard time and going through the motions is just not happening yet.

And I guess it’s because this is the first really bad family crisis we’ve had since Robby died and he’s not here to make things better. The kids have been great and have tried to help me, but I just feel like something is missing. And I finally realized this morning that the something that is missing is that big Robby hug that makes everything better, even when you’re still really sad. Not having him here to talk to is one of the hardest parts of every day. Having so much to tell him and just having to sit and talk to myself like a crazy person, hoping Robby can hear me. And sometimes I can hear him answer back and say, “Everything is going to be OK. You got this.” And I usually answer back, “I know. I just hate this so much.”

 

Stopping after 10 miles is a waste

Yesterday I spent 12 hours downtown experiencing one of my all-time favorite things about living in Savannah—the annual SCAD Savannah Film Festival. I’ve lived here for about 18 years now, but I never went to the festival until I was a student at SCAD and we had an assignment to do. And then once I started working at the newspaper and I got to actually be a part of the festival events, interview celebrities on the red carpet, and review movies, I was hooked. It’s still a little crazy to me that our little city offers such a wonderful experience for locals. I think some of my favorite memories of film fest involve my children. Growing up in Dublin, Texas, the idea of meeting celebrities and going to movie premiers was not something I was aware of even being a thing people did. One year, Robby and I took the kids out of school for the day—it was Halloween so the cosplay game that day was strong—to see Stan Lee at the Spiderman movie. At the end of the movie, they asked for questions for Stan Lee and Robby immediately started waving his extra-long arm in the air, and I leaned over and said, “What are you going to ask?” He excitedly said, “It’s not me, it’s not me. JUDE wants to ask a question!” I thought, Jude? Quiet, shy Jude? But the tears in Robby’s eyes let me know it was a true thing happening in real time. The usher brought over the microphone and 9-year-old Jude jumps to his feet and grabs the mic. He took a deep breath and said, “How long does it take for you to make a comic?” An audible “ahhhh” came from the audience and then Mr. Stan Lee, the creator of wonderful memories for comic book geeks around the globe, answered Jude’s question while Jude stood there proudly, hanging on every word and shaking his head--below is the interview and Jude is at 8:05 but the overall interview is pretty awesome for nostalgia sake. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lq-OVhr3w7A)

Another year we stood in line for more than an hour in the cold to see the premier of Big Hero 6 in 3D; we got special glasses and everything because several former SCAD students worked on the film.

When the kids were much older, we took them to see Logan, Wolverine’s final film, and Sir Patrick Stewart was there and he talked about Taco Bell and the time he and Hugh Jackman held hands and cried together as they watched Logan, knowing it was their last together.

As a teen, Roni seemed to have more interest to see certain movies. I’d take her out of school, we’d get lunch on Broughton Street and see some of her favorite actors. She even joined me on the red carpet one year and met John Boyega. The memories go on and on and I’m not writing all of this to brag, I’m writing this story because yesterday, while I sat alone on a bench in one of my favorite squares, drinking coffee in between films, my chest hurt with sadness thinking about all of these memories. 

At Robby’s memorial, one of his friends got up to speak and said he was so happy when Robby and I met because he always knew Robby was meant to be a dad and we gave him that chance. But, of course, that goes both ways--he also gave us the chance to have that geek dad who gets as excited about movies, books, and comics as the kids and I do. And even though he was the ultimate movie geek, he also missed those red carpet interviews with me because he was at home, being my husband, and taking care of the kids so I could work and have the time of my life—he never once complained.

One of the best things about sharing these kinds of experiences with Robby was he was usually the most excited out of all of us and it was hard to not share that excitement, even when you are a grumpy teen that wants to be upset about standing in a long line early in the morning to see a movie you could have watched on Netflix.

But then Robby starts talking to people that are wearing costumes for the movie and you all end up friends before the doors open. And then there’s also the time Robby and I showed up on a date night to see a movie that was getting all these great early reviews, but it ended up being so painfully boring. Robby kept looking over at me until I finally looked at him and whispered, “You wanna go grab a drink somewhere? This is terrible.” He did his ‘not so quiet’ laugh and covered his mouth quickly, grabbed my hand, and we walked across the street and had a drink and talked and laughed.

It was one of the best memories we had at film fest even though the movie was a total bomb for us. I guess these memories should make me happy, but they really don’t right now. Well, they make me happy at first, and then so sad my chest hurts. My body felt heavy while I sat in the square alone, drinking coffee, watching tourists gather around waiting for their ghost tour. I looked over at an empty bench and remembered Robby and me sitting there, shoulder to shoulder, eating Leopold’s ice cream, people watching, and laughing. Maybe one day I won’t feel like this. Maybe there is a chance that new experiences will make room for more happy memories, so these old ones don’t feel so tragic and lost. The way my body feels sometimes reminds me of how I feel during a really long workout and I reach the point where my body hurts, I’m tired, and my mind says it’s time to stop. Like when I decided to run my first half marathon. Luckily, I was smart enough to know that I couldn’t just throw on my New Balance running shoes and take off for the 13 miles; I had to work up to it. I had to start with a mile before I gradually increased my distance to 2 miles, then 3, and so on. It took a lot of time. Time to train my body, but most importantly, time to train my mind. And when I finally ran that half marathon, I was in pretty good running shape, but damn that race sucked. I got to mile 10 and wanted to stop. My body hurt. My feet were blistered. My legs were chafed and I just wanted to go home. I would do anything for it to be over and I promised myself I’d never run that far again. But somehow I made it to the finish line. I wanted to cry. I was so tired. But as I kept walking along, I got my breath back, I started to feel better. I was ready to go find my free beer that turned out to be a cheap Coors Light, but it tasted like the best beer I’d ever had. I sat on the grass with my friends and laughed and listened to music. Made new memories. Even decided that we would run it again next year. And when next year’s race came along, I felt like quitting at mile 10 again and wondered why I thought this was a good idea. But I made it. And I felt good for finishing once again. Yesterday while I sat in the square remembering all of those memories of film fests, holding hands, eating ice cream, and sneaking to-go cocktails into the Lucas Theatre to see Big Lebowski with Robby, I made the decision to move away from Savannah. I realized I couldn’t take the memories. I couldn’t take the loneliness. The heavy feeling in my chest and legs were too much.

I thought about other places I could go where I could start new memories that didn’t take the breath out of my lungs. Then I got up and started walking a few blocks down to my dinner date with a friend and I passed a guy dressed like a pirate with a fake bloody sword stuck in his chest carrying a beer and heading over to probably lead one of those ghost tours I just passed. A bar on wheels passed by with a group in a bridal party peddling their way around downtown, getting wasted, listening to bad rap music, and laughing their asses off. I passed a homeless man playing Moon River on his saxophone while an older couple danced together before dropping a $20 bill in his tip jar. Then it hit me. Sitting there on that bench in the square, feeling sorry for myself, was my mile 10. It’s that part of the day where I just don’t want to keep walking and smiling and cleaning and baking and washing clothes and turning off lights and being productive at work and driving home and eating dinner alone on the couch. I guess most days lately are my 10th mile. I guess I need to remember that. Because I have a lot more movies to watch, ice cream to eat, cocktails to sneak, and crazy characters to run into in this weird city. It’s a place that holds more memories for me than anywhere else in the world and stopping now would be a fucking waste. And besides, why would I want to live in a city where I can't stand on the stand on a sidewalk and share a beer with a freaking pirate giving ghost tours?

No one is gone when they were larger than life

 So last weekend we finally had Robby’s memorial to mark the year since he passed away. We met up at one of Robby’s favorite spots in town—super fun/tiki atmosphere, music playing, lots of cold Coronas. It was great to see family and old friends and to hear stories about Robby. Some were funny, some made me cry. But all were great. And I think the overall message from everyone was “he can’t just be gone.” I guess you can take that sentiment to mean several things—he can’t be gone spiritually, he can’t be gone from our memories, he can't be gone because traces of him will always be here with us. Traces like the 100 Hawaiian shirts and Star Wars T-shirts in boxes in my garage. I mean the guy was larger than life in so many ways, so he can't be gone, right? 

I didn’t get up to speak at the memorial, other than to welcome everyone. Roni got up and talked—which surprised me. She did great, too. She called out some of Robby’s friends so I know he would have been proud. Teachers that worked with Robby talked about the way he took time for his students, old friends told funny stories of their adventures in college, a few young men even got up and talked about how much Robby meant to them as a father figure. Robby’s sister finished it out with a really wonderful tribute to her brother, about how he always protected her. She, of course, totally nailed it.

I thought about getting up to tell a funny story about Robby, but I knew it would be a mistake and, on that day, I needed to keep it together for my kids. So, I’ll tell my Robby story now.

I don’t remember the year exactly, it must have been either 2013 or 2014, but we were married and had spent several holidays together, so we had our routines down. It was Thanksgiving and for the first time ever, the kids were going to spend the holiday with their bio-dad. I was devastated. I’d never spent a holiday away from them. They left Wednesday and weren’t coming back until Sunday.

Now, if you know Robby, you know how much he loves Thanksgiving. He starts meal planning once the leaves start to hit the ground in September. We usually start the day with these breakfast rounds I make and watch the parade. He usually brines the turkey in a cooler for a few days and he gets so excited stuffing that thing and getting it into the oven. As the smells start wafting into the living room while we watch the parade, he gets even more excited, usually tears up a bit, and thanks me to loving Thanksgiving as much as he does. True to Robby, we had a house full of guests expected that year because he invites everyone. We thought about canceling since the kids would be gone, but decided it would be even worse to be totally alone that day.

I really tried hard that morning to put on a brave face, but everything reminded me of the kids and I was just so sad. I watched the parade with tears in my eyes all morning and then finally got up off the couch to go to the kitchen to start getting things ready. Robby was in there in his Thanksgiving uniform he always wore—his Darth Vader apron and his giant, soft turkey hat. We were side by side at the counter cooking, he was chattering on about something. Then he says, “I need to go grab something and I’ll be right back.” I kind of nodded and just kept doing whatever it was I was doing—I think I was making the pies. A few minutes later he walks back in and stands next to me again and turns on the mixer to start mashing his sweet potatoes. I finally realize he is quiet—he hasn't said a word since he came back in the kitchen--which makes my Spidey senses kick in. I look over at him standing next to me and a flash of white catches my eye. I take a step back from the counter and realize he is completely naked except for his Darth Vader apron and that damn turkey hat. I stood there looking at him as he is acting like nothing in the world is different or wrong—he’s just mixing his potatoes. I immediately lay my head on the counter and start laughing so hard. He can’t see my face so he doesn’t know if I’m laughing or crying. “Kim?” he said in a concerned voice. “Kim? Please talk to me. Are you laughing or crying?” I finally catch my breath and stand up and look at him. I can’t quit laughing. He finally lets out one of his signature belly laughs and we stand there and laugh for at least two minutes, barely able to stand. Once I can talk, I said, “What in the world were you thinking?” He said, “I couldn’t stand to see you so sad. It was killing me. I knew I had to do something, and this was the only thing I could think of, and I knew that it would either work or I’d need to break out the whiskey until everyone shows up. Speaking of which, I’m going to go put on pants before David Westbrook and Steve Freenor see my white ass poking out of this apron and I never hear the end of that.”

We ended up having a pretty great Thanksgiving that day. I didn’t cry again for the rest of the day. Our house was filled with our friends and we spent the day laughing and sharing stories. Every time I looked  at Robby, he would smile real big and I we’d giggle a little at our secret. At the end of the day we were cleaning up from the big dinner and I stopped and hugged him and said, “Thank you so much for today. I honestly could not have made it through without you. I still can’t believe you did that but I’m so glad you did.” He held me a little longer and said, “Of course, darling. You’re my wife and I made a promise on our wedding day to make you and the kids happy, every day.”

That little stunt of his gave us a good chuckle every Thanksgiving. He would be standing in the kitchen cooking, and I’d say something like, “Mr. Richardson, it’s nice to see you wearing pants this year.” And he’d say something like, “Don’t start with me, Texas, cause you know I can drop these pants in a moments notice.”

And I guess that’s what it means when we say he can’t just be gone, because he’s not gone. We’ll always have those memories, always have those laughs, always have Robby.

September, next steps, and a whole lot of anger

 So, this is the fourth blog I’ve written in the past 24 hours. The others were rants--as well as something I’m glad I didn’t hit the ‘publish’ button and show the world. I guess it’s because it’s finally here. September. We are coming up on a year since Robby died. These past several days have been tougher than most because I can clearly remember where I was this time last year. Sitting on the couch with him watching TV. Spending Labor Day weekend grilling and hanging out on the back porch having cocktails, listening to music, laughing, making plans. He was starting to plan his recipes for Thanksgiving and getting excited about Halloween. Things were good, really good, for the first time in a while. We were getting along, the kids were doing well, he was feeling well. We were happy. Things seemed to be turning a corner. Who could have known it was all about to change in just three weeks.

I went to get my hair cut Thursday and my stylist (sounds weird calling her that because we’ve become really good friends over the years. She cuts all of our hair, including Robby’s, so she knows us all pretty well) asked me what was next for me. The way she said it so bluntly made me laugh a little. No one has really asked me that yet. I mean everyone kind of tap dances around it, but no one has really said it that way. It’s like, it’s been year, now what the hell is going on with you? But in a loving way. And in a way that takes inventory of all the baggage no one really addresses directly—like what it’s like to be a caregiver to someone you are married to and then to not have that weight holding you back. Yep, she went there. It’s hard to love someone who is not well but you are OK with it because you love them. It’s something my ‘stylist’ had experienced so she said she wanted to make sure I was ready to get the show on the road.

When you are a caregiver, it becomes OK to not plan things like overseas travel or cruises or long trips because that would mean you have to lug around an 80-pound dialysis machine through the airport—something I’ve done several times—because you love that person, and this is just the way your life is now. Your life becomes planning ahead every time you go out because the person you love can’t walk too far from the car to the front door of a restaurant, movie theater, museum, or school event. But it’s OK, that’s your new life. You know at any moment the bottom is going to fall out because they get sicker from time to time, and then they are grumpy and angry with the world because they are sick and tired of being sick and tired. You find yourself canceling things, putting off things, and not RSVP’ing to things.  The thought of it not being like that means that person is no longer with you and that’s the last thing you want.  You hope the good days last longer than the bad and that more good days are ahead; always putting things on hold until they feel better--holding out hope that a kidney transplant will add more good years to your happily ever after.

But it didn’t. So, now what’s next for me? Because apparently my friends are starting to wonder when I’m going to start getting out there and planning fun adventures. Living my best life, they would say. The kind of best life where you don’t put your plans on hold every time the bottom falls out.

I’ve been trying to create new memories that don’t have anything to do with Robby—going new places that don’t remind me of him—but it doesn’t always work that well because I get home and I’m reminded that he’s not here, I am, and I have to walk back through my front door and plan something else by myself. So, I have to remind myself of the things I wanted to do if there wasn’t a sickness holding us back. I need to picture myself doing them without Robby—that’s the hard part. Flying off on vacation seems great in my mind, but the reality is there is a part of me that will feel very alone when I realize it’s so much easier to run to my gate for a late flight when I’m not dragging an 80-pound dialysis machine behind me. I try not to let that feeling of releasing that weight make me feel guilty because I know Robby would want me to run to my next adventure, unburdened and unleashed. Moving forward, living my best life; not waiting for the bottom to fall out.

And that’s when I get mad. Sure, I know, anger is a part of grief. I didn’t think I needed to be reminded. But it seems I did need to be reminded because I’ve been so mad at so many people who quite frankly don’t deserve it. I’m mad that I’m lonely, so that anger turns to people that I think should be calling and checking on the kids and me. They should be calling, not me calling them. They should care it’s my birthday. They should care it’s Mother’s Day or Father’s Day. They should care it’s the first day of school and we have no Robby here. They should call me on Robby’s birthday to let me know we are loved and thought of everyday, but they don’t. And I realized when writing about it today, it’s over-the-top to be mad at them. Because the reality is, I’m just mad. They just happen to be who I am mad at today. And it’s also insulting to complain about it to the people who have been calling me and checking in. It reminds me of the time I went to a friend’s birthday party. The whole time she complained about our other friend who didn’t show up. She was so mad about it that it ruined the evening and I left wondering why I even showed up. Like what’s the point? I’m here—I care! But that was me writing those first three blogs—being mad at people who really don’t deserve it. I mean, we’re still in a pandemic. Like maybe people have real shit going on. And if they don’t, they just don’t get it, and that’s OK. I’ve been that person many times before.

I had breakfast with my friend yesterday—she and I went through our divorces about the same time--and she asked me if I felt like I did when I got divorced. I told her I see a lot of similarities in that I feel I’ve lost friends because some people just don’t know where I fit in their lives. The feeling of absolute shock is similar. The anger is very familiar. The initial sadness is similar, but that’s about it. I am in a different place in my life now. I have choices and opportunities I didn’t have before. I have a good career, I can take care of myself and the kids on my own, and for the most part, I’m happy. This loss has opened up new friendships and brought me closer to older friends that I now have a deeper connection with. And the people that have been here for me have really gone above and beyond to love me, help me, comfort me. I don’t feel as angry as I did when I got divorced. It’s not the same. But one thing is the same—I have to figure out the “what’s next for me?” part again. What’s next? We’ll see. I may not be going to the places I thought I would be this time last year, but I’m going places; on my own in some ways but also lifted by the people who love me. My steps are a little off balance, but always moving forward. September is not going to be the wall of grief for me. It’s going to be the start of a new path for me—one filled with new adventures, lighter luggage, and a better appreciation for the people who helped get me here.

Happy heavenly birthday, Robby!

 Today is Robby’s birthday. He would have been 53. It's weird to think he’ll always be 52 in my mind, never getting older. I guess he gets the last laugh once again because I always teased him about being older than me. He was about 7 years older, which doesn’t seem like a lot but can make for funny conversations. He would say something like, ‘I remember driving over to the movies to see Footloose and then driving around listening to the soundtrack for months.’ And I’d say something like, ‘I was 9.’ Then he was say, ‘We wore out that cassette tape on those drives.’ And I would say, ‘What’s a cassette tape?’ I would laugh and he would call me a smart ass. Now I get to be older by myself and he gets to be forever young.

For Robby’s birthday last year, we were in lockdown, so he was a little depressed. He always looked forward to his party. We would do a theme each year and I would make his cake—we did tiki Star Wars, Jaws, Indiana Jones, superheroes, pirates.  I can’t remember them all. Our friends would come over. We’d eat too much and drink too much and stay up late laughing. So, last year I set up a surprise for Robby to try to cheer him up. I had different sets of friend groups divided up into different Zoom happy hours. 

He didn’t know who I reached out to so it was a little surprise every hour as to who would show up. For some of those people, that was probably the last time they saw or spoke to Robby. He said it was one of his best birthdays ever. I think he stayed on Zoom until the early hours of the next day. I fell asleep on the couch listening to him tell stories with his friends and laugh. And once again, we ate too much and drank too much--and I wish we could do it all over again. Robby’s birthday is the last of the ‘firsts’ for this year. We’ve already done the first Halloween without him, the first Thanksgiving, the first Christmas, first wedding anniversary, first of our birthdays, first day of school, etc. Next month will be the first anniversary of his death. And then we’ll move on to other reminders that he’s gone.

I guess it would be easy to sit around and mope all day, but that’s not celebrating Robby. He loved a good party and he loved to laugh. He loved having a good time with his family, his friends, and even total strangers he just met at the store while he’s picking up a bottle of rum for his birthday party (true story). So I guess we’ll get our butts off our shoulders (one of his favorite sayings) and do something fun to celebrate Big Daddy today. And I hope you will, too. Celebrate life. Celebrate love. Celebrate geeky stuff. Celebrate each other. And do it all with a cold Corona, a shot of rum, some Buffett in the background, and Jaws on the TV. Love you all! Happy Birthday, Robby!

Finding the words for the final story

 I’ve been working on Robby’s obituary for his memorial next month. It’s actually kind of difficult to try to figure out what details are most important to note about someone’s life. I feel like I know so much about Robby, but I realize so much of his life happened before he met me 10 years ago. But then so much of his life was defined by those later years—being a husband, father, teacher; trying to survive his kidney disease. Some of the details of Robby’s earlier life I know from his stories but some I’ve discovered on my own through his papers and journals he kept.

I didn’t write an obit for Robby after he died. I didn’t want to advertise anything and have strangers calling or coming around trying to scam me. I also didn’t really feel like doing much more than I had to do already—go through probate, file paperwork, figure out how I’m supposed to keep going, working, paying bills. I think he’d be disappointed with me that I didn’t do one. He was never one to shy from the spotlight. I can hear him telling me to be sure I talk about his rugged good looks and charming personality. But the truth is, I’ll probably write more about his love of rare steak, wild women, comic books, and cold beer on the beach with friends.

And you really don’t have enough space in an obit to tell all of the great stories. Like the time Robby squeezed his car into a narrow spot at the Civic Center parking lot for my graduation ceremony so he could get my sister and the kids there on time—a trick he learned from driving hearses around town doing ghost tours. Or the time he drove the kids down to Jacksonville so they could see Indiana Jones in a movie theater. Or the time he talked one of my favorite authors who was in town to get in my minivan and go for drinks with us or getting Neil Gaiman to pose with a ‘Happy Birthday Mary’ sign so he could surprise her later. Or the smiles on the kids’ faces while he was driving them around in a golf cart on the beach, making their Halloween costumes, taking them camping, or renting out the fountain at Forsyth Park so we could get married.

Obits usually go something like this person was born in this place, lived in this place, worked at this place, was related these people, enjoyed this crap, died after these relatives, and outlived these relatives. Maybe they won some award or served on some board or charity. Everyone gets to know where you went to church, what school you finished, where you are buried, and where people can send the flowers. They don’t talk about how you snuck popcorn to your dogs when you watched a movie alone in the middle of the night or how you ate too many jalapeños in a contest in college to win free Subway sandwiches. Or how you went skinny dipping in your backyard pool and drank fireball shots in the middle of the day while your kids were away at summer camp. Or how you yelled out when Han Solo was killed and everyone in the theater looked at you. How you were still afraid of the dark, enjoyed grilling with a cold rum drink in your hand and Buffett on the radio, and loved to buy your wife flowers just because you wanted to surprise her for no reason.

And everyone has their own idea about the important parts of someone’s life—ten different people are going to write ten different obituaries. We all have different memories and stories. I almost feel like that’s what makes writing the obit so hard because someone will say, you forgot to add this, or you didn’t say anything about that. But a good friend recently told me, who cares what they say. Just do what makes you happy.

I can’t say writing an obit makes me happy, but it doesn’t make me sad. I actually giggle a little when I imagine Robby is trying to push me to make his obit a little salty, a little exaggerated, and a whole lot over-the-top Robby. And as Robby would always say when he made me laugh, “I’m really kind of a hero, if you think about it.” I guess anyone who can make me giggle these days really is a hero.

Long days, trying to be nice, and self-care Sundays

Today was self-careSunday. Got my nails done and a massage. Something I’ve been doing for several months now and something I never did before. Not sure why I never did anything like this before Robby died. He would get so frustrated with me sometimes when he was trying to get me to do something nice for myself. Or compliment me. Or brag on me or say something nice to me, like when he was proud of me. I would just get uncomfortable and say something like, “That’s sweet. Thanks.” But what I wanted to say was, “Please stop talking, you’re making me feel weird.” Sometimes he would go on and on until I would practically cover his mouth with my hand and say, “I get it. I get it. Please stop.”

I got a little better with self care during the pandemic. My employer started paying 100% for online therapy during the pandemic, so I cashed in. The reason? I was miserable. On top of being in lockdown and watching people get sick or die with Covid, Robby had decided—on his own and with no advice--the pandemic was a great time to go off his meds for depression. I didn’t know it until I mentioned he should speak to his doctor about increasing his dose because he was becoming unbearable to live with. He just looked at me and said, “Yeah, I quit taking that because I didn’t like the way it made me feel.”

My response probably could have gone better. I asked, “How long ago was that and does your doctor know?” He smiled and said, “Oh, around February and no.” We just stared at each other. Teeth clinched. Both knowing what the other was thinking and trying to get through this conversation without it turning into a full-blown argument. I wanted to cry. I was so tired of everything, and I was so worried one of us would get Covid that it hadn’t occurred to me that Robby was really depressed on top of everything. But at that moment it finally made sense.

Living with someone who is depressed is really hard—and I know that sounds simple but it’s not. And most people have experienced it or are experiencing it now and know what I mean.  There are days where you see them start to feel better and you feel a little lighter, like things will get better. Then there are days where you can’t breathe because their darkness is almost suffocating--and that’s where we were at that moment. I had started going back to therapy because I thought there was something wrong with me for not being able to get along with my husband. I felt sad all the time. I wasn’t happy, at all. And I was tired of feeling that way. I wasn’t being kind to him and I definitely wasn’t being kind to myself.

I told my new online therapist that I felt suffocated when I finished working for the day. I worked all day and never really had a moment to myself. And I couldn’t go anywhere because of the pandemic. She gave me tools to start finding some me time and to start practicing self care. Robby understood I needed some space and promised to leave me alone when I needed that time alone. I started going to my room and closing the door so I could read or watch a movie. I would go in the bathroom and do a mud mask thing or paint my nails or soak in the tub and listen to music. I started doing Zoom calls just for fun to play games with friends and family or maybe have a girls’ happy hour. I started feeling the clouds lift just a bit and I could breathe a little easier.

Around late July, Robby did finally get his meds worked out and we looked at doing marriage counseling again to get back on track. My therapist told me that was good idea and we decided to break for a while so I could focus on trying to repair my marriage with a different therapist. I am glad it all worked out and that Robby and I were able to repair our relationship and he was able to fix his relationship with the kids because it would have been a tragedy for him to die like that. He seemed to have left all of his relationships on a pretty high note. With the depression subsided, he had more energy to go see friends, follow through on promises and just be nice to everyone. Which was nice to watch, because Robby is a nice person. He does love his family and friends and that grouchy miserable man I had been living with was not him or who he wanted to be.

I talked to my therapist again in October and she asked how the marriage counseling went. I told her Robby died and she was shocked. She said, “Oh my god, what happened?” I said what I said to everyone, “I’m not sure. He just died. Probably his heart.”

I kept waiting for her to ask, “So what are you going to do now?” But she didn’t. We talked but I don’t remember a lot of it. I just remember talking about taking care of myself and how important that was. How I needed to not hide under the covers or quit going to work. I needed to find a way to put one foot in front of the other and do simple things like brush my hair and my teeth, eat a good dinner, get some sleep and spend time with other people. Those are hard to do when you don’t feel like it.

It’s hard to be good to yourself when you don’t feel you deserve it. The same way it’s hard to take a compliment or have people brag on you. It’s no wonder I used to drive Robby crazy. Watching someone not be their best self is heartbreaking because you love them and you think they are great. There is still a part of me that has a hard time making the nail appointment or spending money to get someone to rub my neck, but those things make me a nicer person to be around. I don’t want to suffocate anyone and most importantly, I don’t want anyone to feel it’s their job to cheer me up so I can keep moving, keep brushing my hair and keep wearing clean clothes.   

Years ago, I read a story in a self-help book that really resonated with me at the time. It was about a woman driving her car to get somewhere. She was stressed, depressed, and running late. Her car was filthy from a dust storm. It started to rain, but just a little. She put on her wipers and slowly turned the dirt on her windshield into mud. The more she ran her wipers, the worse it got until she couldn’t see the road. Frustrated, she pulled over where it was safe to try to figure out what to do. Frustrated, she sat for a while. Finally closing her eyes and taking deep breaths to calm herself. The rain finally picked up after a while and large drops of water began to clear the mess so she could get the mud off her windshield and see clearly again. She slowly put her car in drive and got back on the road, safely, slowly, and with a clearer path of where she was heading.

That’s what my self-care days do for me. It’s that chance to pull over, even when I don’t want to because I’m so busy or I don’t feel I deserve it. It’s that chance to just let the rain fall and clear away the dirt so I can see a little clearer and feel a little lighter. Sometimes you can’t get to where you want to be on your own terms. You have to let someone help—let the rain clean your car kind of thing. Let someone be nice to you. Let them do for you what you can’t--or let them do for you the things you don’t have to do alone. So, at the end of the day, you can do what you really need to do, which is to be nice to yourself and the people you love, and maybe even be nice to a total stranger because you don’t feel like you’re suffocating.  

Some doors open, some go round and round

 When I was going through my divorce, I would wake up in the morning and remind myself my marriage was over. He was gone. The life I thought I would have forever was no more. It would take a few minutes to adjust my thoughts and feelings and then I’d make myself get up and get the day started. I knew if I stayed in bed too long, I’d never get up. Never get out. I don’t remember how long that routine lasted but I can remember exactly how it felt. It took so much energy to think and smile and just be a person. My feet were heavy. My mind was dull. My smile was fake.

It’s been over nine months since Robby died, and I still find myself having to remember he’s gone. I wake up some mornings and it takes a second or so to say, oh, yeah, Robby’s dead. I see his picture in the kitchen when I’m getting something to drink and think, I should text him about dinner and then it sinks in that I can’t. Sometimes I try to stop everything and stay in that moment to feel that feeling I had just a second before I realized he’s gone, where I’m not sad or clouded. But I can’t make it happen no matter how still I am. And then it becomes hard to breathe. Hard to move. Hard to remember what day it is and what I am supposed to be doing.

My days are a mix of remembering, forgetting, ignoring, and trying to stay so busy I don’t have time to be sad or lonely. There are large parts of my days that I don’t remember very much because I’m so busy pushing everything down. I can’t focus. And then when I try to remember, I just remember one thing, I’m sad. Really sad. The kind of sad that sticks in your chest and makes you feel like something is squeezing your heart, slowly suffocating you but you don’t want to take a deep breath because you may start crying.

But I don’t want anyone to know. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to feel it. It scares me. I worry if I let myself feel it, when can I stop it? Will I be able to turn it off so I can work a full day without messing up? My job requires great attention to detail. I can get lost in those details for hours. That’s comforting. I can stay focused for hours so long as I am busy. I don’t want to lose that. I already feel like everyone is watching me, waiting for me to lose it. To not smile. To cry. To be sad. To screw up. To call in sick and stay gone a few days. I don’t want that to happen either. 

I was listening to a Foo Fighters song, ‘End Over End,’ the other day and I started thinking about the intro lyrics:

Burn all the candles out
Make a wish but not aloud
Relive the here and now
See you now and then
I'm a revolvin' door
I've seen it all before
I will begin again
But I can't start until I've seen the end

As I swirled the words around in my head, it made me realize I can’t wait until the end to start living again. I mean really living where I'm not holding back, holding everything in, and just floating through my day. I have no idea if that’s what the lyrics are about, but that’s what I started thinking about. I feel like right now I’m just reliving the same day over and over. Wake up, don’t be sad. Get up and get dressed. Go outside and smile. Talk to people and make them laugh. Eat healthy and try to exercise even though you don’t want to. Answer your phone and your texts. Don’t get mad when you are corrected. Tell people you’re OK just trying to stay busy. Hug your children and tell them you love them. Get overly upset about other people’s real problems and try to find a way to help them. Look through online dating ads and think you might be ready to try tomorrow. Clean the house and buy groceries. Make plans and keep them. Drink a glass of wine or two and watch TV alone. Try to pretend you care about other people’s seemingly trivial bullshit. Take a shower and put on your dead husband’s old T-shirt. Read your book or watch more TV. Wonder if you told your children goodnight and kissed them? Get so tired you finally fall asleep. Wake up and do it all over again. And again, and again, and again. Like the revolvin’ door. It’s exhausting and mind numbing, and I really need to find a way stop it. I just can't see a way out right now and if I'm honest, this is just easier for me right now.

What’s funny is I hate using a revolving door. I get anxious. Do you slow down for people to get in? Will they slow down for you? What if my bag gets stuck in that slender gap or what if I’m separated from my kids and I can’t get them to get out with me? I mean, why not just have a regular entryway? A door that makes it easy to go inside and outside. Why make it harder for people to get in and out of a building? It's because we get so used to thinking the revolving door is somehow faster or somehow easier, that we get in it and go around and get anxious and exhausted even though a perfectly normal door is usual nearby. But usually totally unnoticed. 

Sometimes I pass the normal door because I think it must be locked or not allowed because no one else is using it. Everyone is going around and around, going inside and outside, and never reaching for the handle of the easy door that’s right there. I mean, it’s right there. Easy to reach. Easy to open. Easy to close. But so hard to see.

My husband died, IRL.

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything personal. Like most things without a deadline, I planned to get around to it. I wrote my last blog at the end of September 2019 thinking the worst was behind me and that I needed to start dealing with the things that had been weighing me down. I had no idea that 2020 was around the corner and that life was about to get really f’d up for everyone.

Quite frankly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to start the blog back up right now, but when I saw my last post was dated September 29, 2019, I heard that deep Robby voice in my head say, “Well, darling, looks like you are writing a blog today.”

Frustrated, I knew I had to. The date? Exactly one year before my husband Robby died. If you had told me that day that I had one year left with my love, I’m not sure what I would have thought. Part of me would have believed it because his health had been up and down, but a much bigger part of me would not have been able to wrap my brain around what that would actually mean in real life—In Real Life.

In Real Life has been harder for me to imagine than the thought that someone will die someday. If you’re not familiar with IRL, you’ve probably seen it in a text or meme or somewhere in a digital space; it has its own meaning--to refer to social interaction in the physical world rather than video games or other online contexts. For example, some of you reading my blog have never met me IRL.

I think we all try to imagine what our life will be like if something happens and we find our reality is never quite what we imagined. Several years ago, I told my therapist I was tired of being Robby’s caretaker and that I didn’t want to do it for the rest of my life. I had never said that out loud to anyone. I was embarrassed I felt that way. I thought she would just nod and listen, but she cut me off and said I wouldn’t have to because he would die before me. Total sucker punch.  

After my therapy session, I tried to imagine what that day would be like—the day where it was just me and no Robby. I couldn’t really. It didn’t seem possible. I just imagined he would get healthier and we would grow old together.

Now that it is my real life, it’s hard for me to remember what I thought life would be without him during those few minutes where I would allow myself to even slightly believe there would somehow be a day where I was here and he wasn’t.

I thought I would be older. The house would be cleaner. Friends would be calling to check in on me and life would just be a little different. I couldn’t imagine how much my life would change on the inside but still look very similar on the outside—you know, IRL.

I didn’t picture myself reaching for my cell every time something happened only to remember he’s not there. I didn’t imagine the paperwork and sterile conversations involved with death. I didn’t think about our kids crying and crying and expecting me to make things OK. I didn’t realize that people in your life just disappear because they don’t know how to handle death and seeing your face makes them sad. I couldn’t imagine I would still talk about him like he’s here. I didn’t know I would be so angry, and I never imagined I would feel so alone.

Nighttime and weekends are terrible for most widows. At first, I didn’t know what to do with myself. Robby and I started our mornings together with coffee at the bar in the kitchen. We planned the day—who was picking up kids, getting dinner, etc. A quick kiss and then we were on our way to work separately. Once work was over for the day, we usually met back up in the same spot at the bar and enjoyed a cocktail and talked about our day, cooked dinner, ate at the table like a family, heard about the kids’ day, cleaned up, watched a little TV, got ready for bed, and went to sleep until the alarm clock told us it was time to do it all over again. Not much changed in our routines during COVID except we were at home together all the time, working from home, and not worrying about finding places to go on the weekend. Our Friday happy hour was at home, but the schedule was still pretty much the same. The stress was high and the uncertainty of life was there, but we kept each other occupied and tried to find our new normal.

It was easy to think those days were a little boring. And in IRL, they were. But in my mind now, they were pretty great. Pretty simple. Pretty easy.

So, now, I have to find the new reality of my days. It’s easy to sit and think about what you believe life will be like one day. Everyone is different. Some people like to paint a beautiful picture in their heads while others assume the worst is yet to come.

The last day Robby was alive was a pretty good day. We started with our coffee and simple chit chat. I went to the office, and he was still teaching virtually from home. Kids were home all day. I returned home to Robby sitting at the bar waiting for me with a glass of wine already poured. He was cooking pasta and had warmed up my homemade meatballs. I don’t remember what we talked about, but he was in a great mood and was talking, talking, talking, like he always did when he was happy. He finally got his hearing aids to work and could hear me clearly for the first time in a long time. He mentioned several times about how he felt good—his low blood pressure had evened out and he believed he was on the mend. He went on to bed around 7:30 like he always did so he could do his dialysis. I came to bed later that night around 9:30 and spilled my cup of water by the bed, making a loud noise and waking him up. He said, “Really?!” and for some reason it made me giggle which made him glare at me with his lips pulled tight—a look I knew well. I said I was sorry. I cleaned it up and went to bed beside him. We both drifted off quickly.

He must have passed not long after that because when I woke up around 11, he was gone. Just like that. Totally gone. No more weird recipe ideas he wanted to try out. No more jokes about how horrible his life had become with me and the kids. No more cocktail hour or morning coffee at the bar. No more crazy ideas about the latest comic book he wanted to write or how he was going to turn the backyard into a parrot-head paradise. No more family movie nights or hearing his latest tale of how the kids had said something funny in the car on the way home. No more deep-bellied laughs and no more Robby hugs.

I think one of the hardest parts about not having Robby IRL is the silence. He was so loud--All The Time--and sometimes we would fight because I would turn off everything in the house to get a little silence and he hated it. He wanted his music on and the TV on in the background. He wanted to talk all the time and he was always making jokes so he could hear you laugh and that would make him laugh—and that laugh is a laugh that you can’t replicate no matter how hard you try. I would get mad and say, “One day, I won’t be here because I’ll be living in a cave where it’s totally quiet and you’ll wonder whatever happened to your wife.” And he would say something funny like, “You know you could never live without your Big Daddy and you'd be back by dinner.” I never would have thought my pretend cave would end up being my own house, IRL.

Sometimes when I’m feeling lonely, I think about my therapist trying to prepare me for a life without this booming presence. It seemed silly and abstract at the time. What I thought it would be like and what happens IRL are not the same. Anyone who has lost somebody they love, knows that to be true. I’m not saying anything you don’t know. I’m saying something I didn’t know.

But when I think about how much I have overcome in my life, I know I can make peace with this new life and this new version of myself. I have no intentions of turning my back on life or holding myself back from what’s next.

It’s easy to daydream about what life should be or how you can make it better somehow but that doesn’t always line up with real life. Real life can be beautiful at times, even when you are just sitting with someone you love drinking a cup of coffee, knowing you only have three minutes until you have to go to work. Life can be tragic at times. Life will end at some point. Life will begin at another. And the reality is life will never just pause so you can catch your breath or re-do the last sentence you just said. You can’t rewind to the spot where you spilled a cup of water late at night, hearing someone’s voice for the last time, and have the chance to say, “I love you.” Life is uncontrollable. Life is constant. And living IRL is sometimes breathtaking and raw and painful, but it’s real, and we have to find a way to handle it somehow.