Widow Speak

Time is a weird thing. I often find myself wishing that I’d taken more time to record every little detail, every minute of every day that we had together, that the kids and I spend together now. It’d be so much easier to remember if I had reams and reams of papers and stacks of disks and pictures and videos that remembered it all…

…but instead, there are glimpses here and there, and even then I’m not quite sure when/if I remember it right. It creates a sense of loss that is a dull ache somewhere under my ribs, as if there’s a pocket there filled with regret.

April 10th would have been our 16 year anniversary. March 14th would have been his 37th birthday. These dates were at the forefront of my memory right up until the day in question – then I completely forgot. Then I remembered and felt bad. Then I got angry, because no one else remembered either, though mostly I was angry at myself – because who forgets that? How is it I could stare at the date and wonder why it was important to me? Then kick myself because it IS important, but for some reason I was hiding it from myself, just as I had been hiding from everyone else.

You can’t see me if I cover my eyes, after all.

The simple fact is – I miss him, and it hurts. I “forget” because it’s easier than remembering that I’m alone, raising his kids, his AMAZING kids, who he’d be so proud of. It’s easier than remembering how long it’s been, and how much I’m still hiding from the rest of the world.

I “forget” the little things, because remembering hurts too damn bad.

Happy Anniversary, Kevin.
I haven’t forgotten… anything.

There are MANY MANY funny stories involving Kevin – 15 years of marriage to an Irish guy will do that. This one won me a contest, and publication in our small town – the reward? Reading it out loud. Mom rescued me and read it for me, that night as I get a massive case of stage fright and nerves. But to counter the earlier entry – here’s one that makes everyone smile – especially me…

A walk on the wild side
(c) Lessa, in her own name, just like everything on this blog.
June 3, 2006

I married an Irish man. Not just Irish, but only 3rd generation American-Irish. Rumor has it that they had to come to the land of the free to stay free – something about a bridge, a bomb, and an English Lord. All attempts to confirm are impossible, of course, due to the very nature of Irish storytelling. For many people this explains everything about my husband in a nutshell. Life with Kevin was always an adventure, one always told in stories that began with those seven fateful words: So, my buddies and I were drinking…

This story is no different.

First, I must explain some things about our neighbor across the road. Chris was old – older then God, old. As he neared up on the grand age of 90 or so, he decided that he would fence in part of his yard next to his extensively fenced in garden, and raise baby geese. He could been seen out there daily, pampering the ever noisier goslings, giving them the best of feed and fattening them up for his pre-determined slaughtering day. Unfortunately, when the time came to actually slaughter, pluck, clean and freeze them, Old Chris found himself far too attached to the stinking, dirty, noisy birds, and thus didn’t have the heart to harm his feathered friends.

Sal, Chris’s son who is only slightly younger then God, indulged his aging dad, and they kept the stupid geese. The geese soon found ways to get out of their pen and wander the neighborhood, chasing the cats, and being chased by the dogs. They were even known to run off the occasional moose with their honking in the wee hours of the morning – or so it was told, when we neighbors would complain of the noise. But Chris loved them, and thus we didn’t complain too much. That’s what neighbors are for, right?

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..sometimes, I wish I didn’t have the tendency to want to shelter the broken, to put them back together, to be the strength when they can’t be strong for themselves. Sometimes, I wish I could give in and yell and scream and declare all things in life unfair and that I don’t DESERVE this, so on and so forth. But it’s not me. I’ve always been the strong one, the one anyone can turn to and know that there’s a steadfast belief in their innate goodness and ability to deal. Sometimes, it’s just too much – today was one of those days.

Life with someone in constant pain is not easy. In a lot of ways, it’s harder for the caretakers, the wives and the loved ones, then it is on the person in pain. We’re he ones that deal with the mood swings, the drastic measures taken to get relief, the blowups, the tears, the manic episodes when they feel good, countered by the deep downswing when they can’t take another minute of the pain. It’s exhausting, and incredibly painful to watch someone you care about wrestle with… well, life.

But we do it. I did it for over 10 years – in truth, almost our entire 15 years together as Kevin was suffering a knee injury when we got together, and it was two years of reconstructive surgery and physical therapy until it was fixed. Then just 2 years after that, the arm injury and he beginning of a 10 year long battle with pain.

One of the things Kevin was most worried about was addiction. It ran in his family, and he was determined never to become an addict, yet with the amount of medication he had to take just to get through the day was more then a normal everyday person would use, and they’d be labeled ‘addict’ in a heartbeat. I watched him wrestle with the decisions to take more meds, to change his meds, to take any at all, to give up or to work over and over again. Did I mention I HATE it when I can’t fix something?

It did teach me something though. I can’t fix everything. And sometimes? Sometimes you have to step back, and let go. As much support as I gave Kevin, as much as I tried to help him and weathered the storm, in the end he was the master of his own self, and each decision was his own. Through it all I learned a very important lesson – the only reactions I can control, the only person I have ultimate control over, is my own, and my self.

I can’t stop someone from making a mistake, though I can listen. And when it gets to be too much, when I can no longer keep my mouth shut, when I can’t say anything without growling… I’ve learned to step back, back off, and shut down.

I’ve learned when to be D. U. N. Done.

I watched people tell him, and tell me, that he couldn’t be in that kind of pain, that it was a desperate cry for attention. I watched people say that they had pain worse, that they would react better, that they would DO better – meaning they thought themselves to BE better. I watched the passive aggressive little jabs and pokes and slices of sharp words meant to cut and cut deeply, as they tried to make him feel less then capable of taking care of his family, because of his injury. It’s only an arm, after all. It couldn’t be THAT bad – while the doctors looked at him in shock and asked why in the world he was still trying to work instead of staying home…

And even now, I react poorly to passive aggressive tugs at my sanity. I react poorly to someone popping pills because they’re upset, and using excuses as to why, and trying to get my sympathy because woe, woe is them in the same kind of cry for attention that people accused Kevin of. I physically recoil when people tell me what they do or do not deserve. I react extremely poorly to people who don’t. get. help. I react way bad to people poking at me, slicing with words that cut, clutching and clinging on as if I’m supposed to save them too, just because I talked to them, just because I listened, just because they won’t take responsibility for themselves.

I am not your savior.

Don’t you think that if I could have saved ANYone – it would have been the other half of my soul?

Some people, once a loved one has died think it’s just too hard to talk about them, too emotionally raw. I can see where they come to that conclusion, but I never once thought about NOT talking about Kevin. We spent 15 years together, and with three kids who were feeling his loss as keenly as I was, I knew it was important to talk about Daddy and all he meant – and still means – to them.

There’s times though, that I wish they’d give it a break. Even now, 3 years later, where it isn’t quite as raw, quite as new, but instead is a comfortable and well-known ache, it gives me pause when I hear “daddy would have…” or “once time, daddy did…” or “remember?” Because I do remember… everything. What he said, what he did, what they remember, what they think of.

Being the holidays, his name has come up a LOT from my youngest – in everything from Christmas memories, to “Whenever I get sick I think of daddy because I was sick when he died.” [To be honest, i don't remember that she was sick when he died, but then again, I don't remember much of anything of that first 48 hours, either.] Sometimes it’s hard to answer, even if your not really obligated too, even if it’s the pup who’s just talking to hear herself talk. I don’t want to stilt the conversation though, so I do my best to at least nod, to at least say “I know” – especially now, during the holidays.

Kevin never was one to appreciate Christmas. He never cared, as his upbringing was one of pain and terror, instead of love and support. He didn’t really see the point until we had kids, and he was finally able to view it through their eyes, the way it should be. Despite how much it hurts, then, I’ll continue to nod, smile, hug, and hold the precious memories of my kids in the open, under the sun, where they can continue to flourish and nourish their still tender hearts.

Even as mine still breaks.

As foggy as the day he died is due to grief, I can remember the day I met Kevin as clear as if it were just a few minutes ago. (I’d say “yesterday” but I can’t remember breakfast today, so we’ll go with a few minutes – right? right!) It was in high school, and I was best friends, almost the girlfriend of his older brother at the time.

What? It was a really small town back then! Specially when you factor in the fact I also dated their best friend, who later was married to my sister for a while. heh!

Anyway, it was my Senior year, so I was 17, almost 18. I’d only been going to the public high school since the year before, having been raised in little Christian schools all the way through my sophomore year. I learned quickly that all the cliques had been formed in kindergarten, and I just didn’t belong to any of them. I wasn’t a jock, a cheerleader, a preppy, a goth, a metalhead – I was simply the quiet girl who sat in the back of the class trying not to be noticed. Then I discovered that if you hung out with the stoners, they’d absolutely accept you as one of their own. You didn’t even have to smoke! As long as you didn’t care if they did, and didn’t rat them out, you were in.

That’s how I met Bubba and Kevin’s brother, Cory, and was integrated into the Stoners, much to my mother’s chagrin.

While I don’t remember the exact day, I remember everything else. I was headed to my locker before first house, only to find Cory – the tall, lanky, dorky clown (literally) leaning against the one next to mine, with a shorter, buzz cut kid who looked to be about 12 – too young for high school. He was all of 150 pounds of flesh stretched over his 5′10″ height. He was a skinny little shit, wearing a little smirk like he knew everything, and was smarter than the rest, no matter who ‘the rest’ might be. I don’t remember what I was wearing, but he had on a pair of dark wash jeans, construction boots, a light t-shirt, under a black Carhart jacket. And his hair was buzzed short – shorter then military short. Like buzz cut so you don’t have to cut it for 6 weeks, then break out the clippers again, short.

After the hello’s with Cory, I looked at him with a clear “Who the hell is that?” arched brow. He smacked Kevin on the back of the head, told him to say hello, and followed it with “This is my fucked up little brother, Kevin.”

I rolled my eyes, said hi, grabbed my books and left. Little did I know that in just four years, that fucked up little brother and I would be together…