Two years, just like that

I never know how to start these blog posts sometimes. In my mind, I jokingly hear something, like, ‘Hi, my name is Kim and I’m a hot mess.’ I guess I’m not alone with feeling like that. Everybody’s got stuff in their lives that they are dealing with. And it doesn’t always show. And we tend to keep that to ourselves because it can seem like it may be embarrassing to think you’re a hot mess.

But most likely, you’re not really a hot mess, you just have life going on. You’re just a normal person with normal problems. The kind of problems that for some reason we’ve been made to believe are better to keep private so people don’t judge you. So, we’re always fine. Great! Perfect. Nothing to see here. Mind your business.

Tonight marks two years since Robby passed away. Some people tell me it gets easier as time goes on and some say the second year is the hardest. I don’t know, honestly. I think every day is what it is. That’s the thing about grief. You never know when it will hit you. It could be a moment at work when someone asks how your day is going, and when you go to say, “Great,” you end up in tears and you don’t know why because you’ve gotten so comfortable saying everything is fine, you push those hard feelings out of your mind.

Rather than focus on the things that Robby has missed the past two years, I try to focus on how far I’ve come. I have an awesome job, super amazing friends, and a loving supportive family. For the first time in my life, I own a home in my name, I bought a car by myself, and I have slowly created enough financial stability to build for the future.

As for the ‘break-up’ I wrote about last blog? Turns out, it was a ‘wake-up’ and not a ‘break-up.’  The wake-up? For me, I realized I was sabotaging the chance to have an amazing relationship with an amazing man. It’s hard for someone to love you when you are holding back and not allowing them to love you the way you want to be loved. And I'm grateful for the wake-up, because there's a lot of love there and it's pretty awesome.

Someone pointed out to me that you have to be vulnerable or else you’ll never have a really deep and connected relationship with anyone. Yuck, who wants to be vulnerable? But vulnerable is good. Cutting to the chase is good. Even bad is good because you never know what’s possible if you aren’t honest. It’s what moves you forward. Even when it hurts, and you never want to feel sad again.

And moving forward is the best choice when you’re still alive. Robby’s death made me realize how short life can be. And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life spinning my wheels because I’m scared of being hurt or worried about what people think about me.

Robby would be proud of me. I know that because we talked a lot about what would happen when he died. He was always very clear that he didn’t want me to withdraw from the world and be sad. He told me he wanted me to find love again because I deserved to be loved and I was too young to live alone, closed off from the outside world that I love so much. He said, “Just promise me that when you do fall in love again, it’s with a man that realizes how amazing you are and loves to laugh and enjoy life as much as you do.” And that’s a promise I plan to keep.

And while I try to focus on how far I’ve come, my real focus is my kids. They haven’t weathered the loss of Robby the same as me. They had a different relationship with him. He was their dad. And he was a great dad. Great dads are missed—like a lot. Like every single damn day. When a parent dies, there is always that spot missing in your life because you want to tell them you made a new friend, you graduated, you started college, you fell in love, you got dumped, you got a new cat, you drove to Atlanta by yourself, you discovered a new comic book, you need advice, you need to talk about life, you need a big hug.

I don’t know how today will go with the kids. I’ve done a few pulse checks to see how they are feeling, and I get the same response--them nodding their heads, eyes watering up, telling me they are OK. They’re fine. Great. Perfect. Nothing to see here. Mind your business. I wonder where they get that from?

I’m sure we’ll have some people reach out and say they are thinking about us today. We always do. And it’s nice to be remembered. It really is.

So, what I’ll ask for this year, don’t worry about me. I’m good. I’ll always be a little sad, but I knew this was coming at some point and have made my peace. I spent that first year after Robby’s death working on myself and getting to a place where I felt like myself again. Like I was ready to take on the world, by myself. Unstoppable. And I kept hearing that voice telling me I needed to get out and live my best life. And I am.

But the kids aren’t in that same place. I honestly don’t know if they ever will be. So, send them your love. Find a way to let them know you haven’t forgotten about their dad or them.

I know we all get busy with life, and it can be awkward to reach out sometimes. I’m not mad about it. But, vulnerable is good. Cutting to the chase is good. Even bad is good, right? Because it’s OK to be scared and sad and not know what you are doing. There isn’t a rulebook for life. All any of us can do is try.

And while even bad can be good, trying is better than nothing. Nothing isn’t going to move you forward. Everyone else will find a way to move on without you when you do nothing. Because life moves on even when you don’t want to--even when it hurts, and you never want to feel sad again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Noise In My Head

 A friend asked me the other day why I wasn’t blogging much these days. Truth is, I got busy, and then I just didn’t really feel like it. Made me realize I need to get back to it. Mostly because writing helps me process my feelings and the noise in my head. And right now, there’s a lot of both.

So, the busy part? My son Jude graduated from high school at the end of May. I kind of got obsessed with that. Like soccer-mom obsessed. After being on lockdown and then quarantine, virtual school, and then his dad dying, I wanted to make sure his senior year was as close to perfect as possible. I spent prom, his last music performances, the last week of his senior year, and all of the graduation events in tears. All I could see when I looked at him was that little boy that used to jump up and wrap his little arms around my neck and give the biggest kisses.

I even took him on a trip to Boston after graduation to go to the Boston Calling music festival. For a kid that’s never been to a concert, he finally got the full music festival experience. We had the best time ever. We staked out our places out front for both nights of Nine Inch Nails. Run the Jewels. Weezer. Cheap Trick. But stayed in the back for Metallica after Jude got a bad ear infection that I stuffed with an ear plug and later won the award for ‘worst mom ever’ from his doctor. But totally worth it.

We walked all over Boston and ate something amazing at almost every stop. Took the subway everywhere. And talked a lot. Which isn’t always easy with Jude. He reminds me so much of me it hurts sometimes because I know how he’s feeling. Likes to be quiet in his thoughts. Easy going. But when something excites him, he can go on and on and that’s when I stop and enjoy a chance to talk. The rest of the time, we just moved around in silence, enjoying the time together, but respecting each other’s space and not asking questions. I hope we can always do that.

Then I took a trip to Manchester, England, all by myself. I planned the trip after I decided on the spur of the moment to buy Foo Fighters tickets for Old Trafford. I had always wanted to go to a big rock concert at one of those giant stadiums in England and just decided, what the hell? I hit the ‘buy’ button and the concert later sold out in less than five minutes. Obviously, that was canceled, but my family got me tickets to see Red Hot Chili Peppers in Manchester, so I stuck with my plan and boarded the plane in June and set off on my own with a hotel reservation, backpack, passport, and no idea what I was going to do aside from the concert. I hit the concert the first day there and it was just like I imagined it would be.

I spent the rest of the week wandering around the city, eating my weight in pies and cakes, checking out museums, shopping, and people watching. I made a promise to nap every day and stuck to that. It was probably the most self-indulgent thing I’ve ever allowed myself to do and worth every penny. I highly recommend solo vacations if you are brave enough. And if you aren’t, just invite me.

The rest of the summer was spent navigating Veronica’s depression, work problems, and hoping I had enough money saved to pay for Jude’s college. I finally bought the house from Robby and became a solo house owner for the first time in my life. Bought a car that I love to drive. Spent a lot of time with my besties doing cocktail nights and long brunches, and got some good time in with my family.

And then, this week, I ended a relationship with a man I was very much in love with. And that’s the ‘I really didn’t feel like it’ part of not writing much. Because I knew the end was coming, but I just didn’t know how it would end. I kept waiting for him to end things because I knew something was off, but that never happened, and things would be great. He would assure me things were fine and to just enjoy what we had, and I’d ignore that tiny voice in my head saying something was wrong and chalk it up to hormones or being tired. I kept thinking he would get to where I was, but then I finally got the confirmation I needed to know, and he wasn’t. So, I angrily walked away. And that was it. Just like that. Heartbroken.

Break-ups are always hard no matter how old you are, but luckily they get easier with me as I get older and hopefully wiser. I know it hurts a lot at first but if I keep focused on myself and stay busy, then in a few weeks, I’ll be back to my new routines without that feeling that something is missing. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again so the people in the back can hear, it makes no sense to survive traumatic experiences and not learn from them so you can do better as life moves on—and therapy helps, a lot. Because life does move on. Even when you don’t want it to. And you never know what great adventure will happen next so it’s worth it to stick with life and keep moving forward, even when you don’t want to.

It's better to board that plane to a place you’ve never been, all by yourself, than sit at home and wait for life to happen or change. It’s hard. But worth it. I haven’t given up on love or finding someone I can happily spend the rest of my life with, but I’m not going to settle for half-way. It’s all or nothing for me. And to some, that may seem like I want too much. But we all deserve happiness. Even me. Even you. Why waste any more time on crumbs when you can sit at a café by the water in Manchester all by yourself and eat the biggest slice of Victoria sponge cake while reading a great book and listening to the entire Foo Fighter’s Sonic Highways album while people-watching? Yes, I know, oddly specific.

But that can be that moment where you realize life is too short to settle for crumbs. To settle for ‘I do love you and I’m sure I’ll get all-the-way in love with you one day.’ And if I’m honest about the recent breakup, I don’t hate him. I am angry at him, but I feel like people come into your life to get you to that next step and that’s what he did for me. I wish it could have turned into what I thought it could be because we had more in common than anyone I’ve ever dated, but it didn’t, and I’m actually fine with that. You can’t make someone love you. I learned that a long time ago, the hard way.

With the gentle pushing hands of my family and friends, I somehow keep moving forward to this life I know I was meant to live. I don’t know when I’ll get there, but for now, I’ll turn up the music Jude and I shared together, savor the times Veronica feels like spending with me, let my friends and family love on me, and keep taking crazy adventures by myself.

Because the music isn’t over until it’s over and I’m still out front, singing at the top of my lungs, to my favorite bands, with the people I love the most, right by my side. Even with that guy that is somehow no longer on this planet but finds time every day to shout out to me when I least expect it, “Hey, Texas, you’ve got this.”

Yes, I'm OK

Yesterday was a tough one. I woke up to a few texts asking me if I was OK and I had no idea why. I was immediately worried something bad happened to someone in my family or a best friend. Or something. Something bad. I scrolled down until I found a longer text that said Taylor Hawkins, drummer of the Foo Fighters, had died. I got online and found the article and was stunned. As I read the article, I knew that most likely meant no more Foo Fighters. No more concerts, no more new albums. The last time I saw them live would most likely always be the last time I saw them live. 

I’ve written about my love of the Foo Fighters several times in this blog. It’s usually the same theme. A lyric hits me a certain way. A song inspires me somehow. Dave Grohl does something awesome.

I find peace in their music. I find hope in their music. I find myself in their music. I’ve made connections with other fans that love their music the way I do, and for music lovers, those are the kind of connections you can’t always have with people in your regular day-to-day life. 

Music is personal. Why you love something may not be obvious or shared by other people. And it’s fine. If you like it, then like it. If you love it, then love it. And I do love the Foo Fighters. 

I was a little late to the game on their music and didn’t discover it until I just happen to be going through a very difficult time in my life. Maybe that's why I love them so much. Their music became that soundtrack for what I would call my daily therapy. I was in a bad marriage. My ex was in Iraq. I was home alone with two small children and my only release each day was my daily runs. I didn’t exercise to lose weight or stay in shape. I exercised because I had to for my own sanity. I would turn on my music and just start running until I didn’t feel so sad anymore. 

I first listened to their music after I found a Foo Fighters CD at the library while I was there for story hour with the kids. I thought, I’ve heard good things and should probably give this thing a listen. It was There is Nothing Left to Lose. I was hooked and over time, I went on to get the rest of their music. 

Every day I’d shuffle through my Foos playlist, run my heart out, and then be ready to take on the day. Their music got me through all the tough times in my life from then on. A horrible divorce, Roni’s surgeries, grad school, stressful jobs, being flat broke, the death of my second husband. Really any bad day. I’d put in my earbuds, turn up the volume and just let the music wash away the bad until it didn’t hurt so much. And when those songs come on during a good day, it’s just as good. Even when the kids were little, they knew the rule of the car was no one talks when the Foo Fighters are playing. The kids still walk into the kitchen when I’m cooking and the music is up and they can instantly sing just about every line to whatever Foo Fighters' song is playing and they probably have no idea why they know it. 

After Robby died, I decided I would start a special savings account just for concert tickets and traveling around to see the Foo Fighters and meet up with other fans. I have two upcoming trips to do just that and now I have no idea what will happen except I won’t see them. And let’s be honest, in the big picture of life, that’s not so bad. I’ll miss a concert, but there are kids and a wife and family members and a really close band that lost their everything the day Taylor Hawkins died. 

And that’s the thing with death that sucks so much. It’s final. No second chances. No more having someone walk through the door to say hello. No more smiles. No more hugs. 

But the thing about life is there are second chances, new memories, new opportunities, big hugs, and hopefully something to smile about. Something to hold on to—even if it’s just for a minute before it’s also gone. 

So, am I OK? Of course. This isn’t my tragedy. Nothing will ever replace my love of the Foo Fighters for getting me through the toughest times of my life. But that’s just how life works. It goes on even when you don’t want to. Because life doesn’t stop until it does, and until then, I’ll keep moving forward, soundtrack on full blast, trying to live my best life with the people I love.

Maybe I'm the asshole

 I love a good lazy Sunday. Catching up on housework for a bit and then spending the rest of the day relaxing or eating brunch with friends. Doing a little day drinking.  Practicing self-care-Sunday. Taking a nap. It’s usually on days like this when I get to see how much we’ve put off during the week. 

For example, we have a fun game in our house that we like to play where we see how many times we can open the lid of the trashcan in the kitchen and smash down the garbage as far as it will go in an effort to hopefully repeat that same maneuver enough times during the week that you only have to take out the trash twice—once a week if you push down hard enough. I mean, like get your back into it. Jude is really good at this game. It could possibly be the only exercise he gets each week. He’s even perfected his move by using a clean paper plate to cover the top of the trash so his hands stay clean. We have a lot of fun games like this—like cover up the clean clothes on your bed with your bedspread so you don’t have to fold them, or hide dirty dishes in your room so you don’t have to load the dishwasher, or move the table in the kitchen over so it covers the spot where you dripped your chocolate milk and didn’t feel like cleaning it up right then because you’re playing video games. But then on Sunday, all of these games have to come to an end and actual cleaning has to take place so you can do it all over again during the week.

Speaking of coming to terms with your Dumpster-fire life on a Sunday, it seems my last blog post about depression stirred some feelings for people. I was surprised by the number of people that reached out to me via social media, messenger, or text and told me what they were going through with their children or themselves or a family member. It’s been eye-opening for me because writing about what it’s like to live with someone with severe depression helped me realize why so people have sort of disappeared from my life after Robby died. For a long time, I was really mad at some people because I felt like they turned their backs on the kids and me. I thought after Robby died, I’d have people over here checking on us and making sure I was invited to their parties and events. But then I’d see crap on social media about how they were out living life and seeing other friends or whatever and I’d say something to Veronica about it. Usually, it was after a glass of wine and it would go something like, “Fuck those people.” I know that’s not very nice, but it’s the truth. And she’d tell me I was over-reacting and that she didn’t feel that way. She’d say, “They are probably still sad about Robby, and they don’t know how to be around us. It’s hard to be around people when you are sad. I know. And I’m not mad and you shouldn’t be either.”

Well, damn. She’s a smart girl. And I’d like to take a little credit for all the thousands of dollars I have spent on her therapy except when she ‘reads me,’ she’s usually 100% correct. And it’s humbling.

After she calmed me down, I’d feel a little bad for feeling that way. A little bad, lol. I’m still angry sometimes and I never know what will bring it on. And some of you are probably reading this and wondering if I ever said, “fuck you” about you. Honestly, there is no telling. That's how emotions work. Sometimes they make no sense to anyone except you. 

It’s kind of funny what we think about but especially what we think others think about us. And like my mama used to tell me, they probably aren’t thinking about you as much as you think about them because they are thinking about themselves and trying to survive like the rest of us. 

Why do we waste so much energy creating these scenarios in our heads where we wonder who is mad at us? Who is talking about us? And it’s a vicious cycle with depression because you’re too depressed or you have too much anxiety to see people or reach out to them, but then you feel guilty and like the worst friend in the world and that makes the distance even greater because you don't even know where to start once that fog lifts a little. But we never tell people that. We never say, “I’m a fucked up mess right now so please listen to the music while I try to get my shit together.” We put on a smile, post our obnoxious things on social media, and just hope everyone thinks we are fine. We’re fine, right?

I never really put a lot of thought into why people were keeping their distance from me. That’s a lie. I put so much time into it. Like a stupid amount of time and I can tell you, I was wrong every time I tried to guess why I wasn’t hearing from someone. And now I know the answer was there all along, and I didn’t listen to it because I think I’m smarter than my daughter. I think I have the world figured out and it’s my job to teach her how things work. But she gets it. She knows why people keep their distance. Why they sit in their homes and close the shades and never pick up the phone to check in but spend a crazy amount of time on social media posting memes and being funny. Now I can see that behind that Wordle post for the day, is most likely a very depressed person, barely capable of being able to get out of bed in the morning. They have the energy to hit 'like' on your post about finding the best grilled cheese sandwich in town, but they can’t find a way to ask you how you are doing, let alone put their arms around you and hold you while you cry a little. They can’t say they love you, but they can post a photo of their dog on the couch wearing glasses and get all those laughing face emojis to feel somewhat normal for the day. They can wave and smile when they drive past but they can’t stop the car and roll down the window to have an actual conversation. They’ll turn down your offer to meet for dinner because they say they are tired, but what you don’t know is they are tired because they haven’t slept for three entire days because their anxiety is off the charts and every time their head hits the pillow, a million thoughts come in and keep them awake all night. 

And I guess it’s none of my business what you are going through and what it does to your relationships. Your day is bad enough without knowing that I’m at home saying “fuck those people” to my daughter. But being honest about her depression helped me see that something she said one night during one of my wine-infused pity parties was pretty spot on—maybe you're the one with the problem? Maybe I am. Damn you, overpriced therapist. 

Maybe my friends that I have felt abandoned by are just trying to survive through the week and rather than take the time to address what’s going on, I’m taking that clean paper plate and smashing down on their problems in an effort to keep my hands clean and avoid the hard conversation. I keep smashing it down but at some point, the trash gets to the top and you have to address it or lose those relationships. Because if I wanted to know, I guess I could always ask. I mean, that’s what I would tell my children and my friends to do. Just ask them. Pretty simple. Maybe I am the asshole. Maybe not. (I totally am, BTW). 

But who really cares who is right and who is wrong in this situation? We are all just trying to survive in our way. We all need love and I’m sorry if I was an asshole to you. If it makes you feel better, sometimes I’m an asshole to myself and I should probably give myself more hugs and forgiveness on a lazy Sunday as part of my new self-care routine. And you should do the same. Starting now. 

Broken hearts, smashed glass, and dealing with depression

 Alright, another week down and things seem to be going pretty well right now. Or course I know I shouldn’t say stuff like that out loud because that’s when things start not going so well. Like the other day, I was getting a suitcase out of the attic for Veronica so she could go away for the weekend with her new boyfriend. Yeah, I know. I’m not sure how I feel about that either, but she is 21 now and she really needs to get out of the house more, so if grabbing a suitcase out of the attic helps, I’ll happily do it.

She followed me to the garage to retrieve the suitcase and I looked over at her and said, “This is going to be a great trip, sweetie.” Then of course, when I pulled the rope to open the attic hatch, I noticed a box of Christmas ornaments had somehow fallen and wedged itself in between the slats of the wooden collapsible ladder that I have to pull down and unfold to access the attic. Veronica was standing beside me and noticed it as well. She handed me a nearby mop and as I tried to hold the box still with the mop handle, while unfolding the ladder, the top of the box opened up and the ornaments rained down on my head. I closed my eyes and ducked my head and listened to the sound of glass breaking all around us. And when I looked back up, I opened my eyes just in time to have the ladder swing out and smack me in the face. And I thought, yep, that’s so on brand for my life right now.  

Veronica just stood there with her mouth open and then finally asked, “Mom, are you OK?” I kind of laughed and said, “Yeah. Just get the suitcase and let’s get out of here.” We left the pile of broken ornaments on the garage floor and walked back inside the house. I quickly decided I’d deal with it later. I didn’t even want to start looking at what was ruined and what survived. Veronica told me to just leave the broken stuff for her and she’d fix it when she got back from her trip. If you know Veronica, aka The Duchess, you know an offer like that is pretty rare most days. But I could tell she meant every word.

I guess out of the three of us, she’s taken Robby’s death the hardest. If I’m being honest, she wasn’t exactly doing well before he died. She had dropped out of college near the end of 2019 and was later hospitalized for her depression. Rather than sitting in class and walking around a college campus like most people her age, she spent her days at a mandatory outpatient program to try to get a handle on her depression. She then started volunteering her time at a local wildlife rehab facility and seemed to finally find her place in the world taking care of animals that were in worse shape than her and things seemed to be getting better for her. Then Robby died. And I felt like we were right back where we started. Staying in bed all day in a dark room. Isolating herself from everyone. Lots of crying. Lots of anger. But I guess the silver lining of experiencing how death affects a family, she no longer wanted to kill herself and put her brother and me through that trauma. She didn’t invent grief or depression, so I know she’s not alone in how she deals with things, but it’s hard to watch. It’s especially hard for a mom to watch. And trying to help is overwhelming. Everyone is quick to offer suggestions and advice--and most of it sucks. You can’t kick out your adult daughter when she’s down no matter what Dr. Phil says about tough love.

Robby had become her dad. She even asked him to adopt her so she could have his last name. They had a close relationship that could be very complicated at times since they were both the most stubborn and outspoken people I’ve ever met, but they loved each other very much. He was a good dad to her, and she was his little girl. He took her to her first father-daughter dance, sold Girl Scout cookies at her booths, and protected her at high school every day. And to make the loss of her dad even worse, a lot of Veronica’s depression stems from the bad relationship she had with her bio dad—the same guy that turned his back on her many years ago. Sometimes she’ll say something about how she’s lost two dads. I’m not really sure how anyone is supposed to cope with being dealt that hand in life.

Every once in a while, I’ll have someone reach out and ask how the kids are doing. With Veronica, my answer is usually one of two responses: This is a good week or this is a not so good week. I try to be honest about it even on the days when I don’t feel like talking about it because I’ve realized how many other people are struggling with their own kids her age or even struggling themselves as adults. It’s comforting to know you aren’t alone. The amount of depression and anxiety among young people is staggering and sometimes as adults we don’t get it. And if you don’t have sympathy for it, you may just blame phones or bad parenting or social media or a lack of exercise or some kind of crap like that.

And as a mom, you can be a super-mom and give your kids all the love you have to give along with boundaries, a good therapist, and the occasional surprise of Kispy Kreme on a rainy Sunday, and they still turn out not OK. And for some moms, that’s just not acceptable and they feel like complete failures. I know I have. It’s like this idea that if you work hard, good things will happen for you. But the truth is, you can do everything you think is right and give your children all the love and time and money you have to give and still fall short. They’re still depressed. They have no interest in working or going to college. They don’t take care of themselves the way they should. They are angry at you and blame you for their problems. And sometimes they hug you and say they love you and they don’t know what is wrong with them. They would rather sit at their computer talking to people they’ve never met than sit at the dinner table with you and make small talk. But it’s not personal even when it’s coming from the people you love the most in this world.

And you know what? It’s OK. Sometimes you can do everything you think is right and you still end up with chaos. Just like how you can take a box and pack away your precious Christmas ornaments and put them up in a safe spot. But that box can somehow get bumped when your back is turned and find its way to an open hole in the ceiling of your garage and rain down on your head and break all around you—and when you think the worst is over, a ladder pops out and smacks you in the face to remind you, but wait, there’s more. And sometimes you don’t have the strength to deal with the mess and you have to walk away and close the door until you are ready to sift through the pieces and figure out what is still OK, what can be glued back together, and what just needs to be let go of because you’re going to spend too much time trying to fix something you can’t fix right now, or maybe ever.

I’m hopeful Veronica will keep moving in the right direction so she can live a life that is full of happiness and fun memories. I’ll continue to do everything I can to help make that happen. But for now, she’s gotta figure this stuff out and keep working on it. I can’t fill that void she feels right now, and I don’t know if that void will ever be filled, but all I can do is love her. That’s all any of us can do. Love these kids and the other people in our lives that are suffering with all our heart and hope that one day is better than the last and the next is something they look forward to, and maybe one day, they’ll love themselves as much as we do.

Dating apps, quicksand, and merry-go-rounds

I’ve been meaning to write a new blog post for a while, but to be honest I didn’t really have anything that I thought was worth talking about. Life is just clicking along. Same stuff. Different days. I stay busy working, taking care of my kids, and going out with friends, and now that I’ve added in dating for the past several months, my dance card stays pretty full, as they say. And if you’re wondering, dating still sucks as bad as it did when you were doing it. And if you are still in the dating scene, then you know. You get a bunch of texts from a person and then nothing, ever again. Poof. They just disappear even after they’ve sent you ‘good morning, beautiful’ texts for the past 6 days in a row. And you don’t know their last name, so it’s not like you can check to see if something bad happened to them. You just have to imagine things like, they must have fallen into quicksand on their way to the coffee shop. Or my favorite, you start texting someone back and forth for a while and then make the crazy suggestion to have an actual phone call or meet for a drink, and then the quicksand must have made its way to them because it’s total radio silence and you have to eventually go back to the app and see who the next possible date/quicksand victim will be. Sometimes it works out. You meet a nice person. You have dinner and a few laughs, and they somehow are able to avoid the quicksand that is apparently taking over Savannah-area coffee shops.

I’ve made a few new friends. We enjoy each other’s company, but we also know the relationships aren’t going anywhere serious—because we’ve had that conversation already. I’m not ready for that and most of them aren’t either. I would like to eventually meet someone I can travel with and go to concerts with or just meet up to check out a new restaurant, but right now, I like my space. It's just fun, quicksand tragedies aside.

I guess what makes the difference between being able to make life fun is being able to get to a place where you are not consumed with loneliness. Something I wasn’t sure was going to happen for me. I think it’s obvious I was consumed with loneliness, but maybe I did a good job hiding it. I spent most of the first year after Robby died hating to come home except to see the kids and hug them. If it wasn’t for the kids, I probably would have gotten rid of the house and found a place that reminded me of absolutely nothing. It suffocated me. And sitting on the couch alone was the worst part of it. I did it every night and I hated it. I would just sit and watch TV and feel so lonely. I would watch my phone and see if anyone was going to check on me and the kids, and when they didn’t, I would try to come up with excuses to call people just so I had someone to talk to.

I had my monthly tele-therapy session the other day and I said something out loud for the first time. It was a little shocking because I had not realized what had changed in my life these past five months until the words came out of my mouth. My therapist said, it sounds like you’re doing really well right now. And I said, yeah, I’m just in a good place where I’m happy to be alone at home. She gasped and said, what did you just say? You’re happy to be alone? And I started laughing. I said, yeah, I really look forward to getting home after work and being able to be alone on the couch and watch TV by myself. I actually get a little annoyed when people are calling to check in on me—especially when it was the season finale of Dexter!

It doesn’t mean I don’t ever feel a little lonely. I just don’t have that heavy weight in my chest all the time, wondering if I’ll spend the rest of my life sitting on the couch alone. I think one of the hardest things about losing someone is you feel like everyone else’s lives just keep going while your world just stopped, and you worry it will be that way forever.

I picture it like one of those old metal merry-go-rounds at the city park--the kind responsible for multiple bruises in grade school and causing second degree burns in the summer. Any way, you are standing there on the ground while all of your friends are going round and round on the merry-go-round. They are laughing. You’re yelling to them to stop or slow down so you can jump on, but they just keep spinning and laughing. Your feelings get hurt because you think they don’t care, but really they are just having fun and don’t realize how you feel standing there alone. Then you finally get the nerve to start running alongside the merry-go-round until you finally reach out your hand and grab the metal bar and jump on with everyone else. It takes a minute to get your feet under you and steady yourself enough so you can look around and feel the wind in your hair. And then you smile and take a deep breath because you made it and it wasn’t as hard as you thought it would be. And it doesn’t seem like a big deal to anyone else. They are still laughing and spinning.

There are still days where I wish I could take a small timeout in life and disappear into that quicksand that seems to be devouring the men I meet on dating apps, but those days don’t happen as much. Luckily there are more days where I just fall into my couch at night, turn off my phone, and sit alone in the dark listening to my record player. And it’s not because I’m depressed this time. It’s because I’m finally finding that peacefulness that comes when you decide to stop standing in the grass and you make the decision to run alongside that merry-go-round until you can grab hold of that metal bar, jump up, hang on tight, and feel the wind in your hair.

 

 

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!