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Careful the things you say. Children will listen.

“Dear (Little) Adam,

You are my inspiration for this project because my theme of loving and appreciating what you have before it becomes what you had, makes me think of you.”

So are the words that start Coco’s letter describing her school project; a project where she took a pair of her earliest pointe shoes and decorated them based on one of Adam’s art pieces. A tribute to her uncle.

By now, you know me. I never wanted to have kids. Neither did Adam. What was confusing to so many people was the difference between not wanting to have kids and how we felt about kids.

There was a thought that because I didn’t want to have my own children that I didn’t like children. People thought this despite the fact I was actually the greatest day camp counselor ever. Four years with 11-13 year-olds. Kids who trusted me, who I trusted and treated with respect. Kids who grew up to be friends.

I just knew, always, that I didn’t want to “have” them. Call it what you like. Call it selfish, call it ambition. I honestly don’t really care, it was what it was. It is what it is. I’ve never been fond of babies, that’s for sure. Toddlers are tough for me as well. But, man, once they start communicating, I could spend a lot of time with kids.

But the fact is, every moment I live now, every ounce of joy I fight for, is for my nieces. They’re 18 and (almost 15) 14 now. But they were 13 and 9 when Adam died.

“While everyone was grieving your loss because of the impact you made in their lives, I was grieving you didn’t live long long enough to make a real impact in mine. And yet you did.”

Everything I do in my life since Adam’s death, in one way or another, has been for Ava and Colette. When I wanted to die, my sister would mention them, and I stayed the course. All I can do is have joy to let them know that whatever comes their way, it is possible to survive. It’s possible to thrive. There’s always hope.

I don’t regret any of the choices I’ve made in life, at least the choices I made when I had all the information (hindsight sucks). I don’t regret not having children. But as I’ve grown older and wiser, I sometimes regret not having more children in my life to try and be an inspiration to. I want them to see me and see the possibilities. See the worst. See the best.

“I knew you were an amazing artist and uncle, and that you loved Aunt Laura with every fiber of your being. But at just 9 years old, I didn’t fully understand what was happening and why you to had to leave my life so early.”

Ava and Coco are no longer children. But I hope to continue to teach them and inspire them just by my joy. I may never get to spend as much time with them as I have, or that I wish to, but every moment will be the best it can be.

“I chose to recreate your painting on my shoes because it represents both the beauty and the turmoil in my life and our family after you passed away, but also the beauty and turmoil of your life before.”

Every once in a while, someone will still say something like “I don’t want to bring up Adam if it makes you sad.” And I try to remind them that I’ve never forgotten he’s dead; it’s a part of me. But it no longer makes me sad. If you remember even a small piece of him. it’s an honor to him. It’s an honor to me, and an honor to his parents and the rest of his family. It’s an honor to our life together.

I fell in love and married a man with a disease I could not solve, cure, handle, or do anything about. He wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t perfect. But the only anger we ever had with each other was based on fear, fear of a disease we didn’t name for years, fear of a disease we couldn’t comprehend.

“I chose to paint on my pointe shoes because, as you know, dance is and has been one of the biggest parts of my personal identity for as long as I can remember. But family always comes first.”

I was so lucky to be born into a family that loves like we do. A family made of Taylors and Fawcetts and Kuntzes. And then there is my extended family … the Currys, and the friends who have allowed me to be part of their families on holidays and weekends and special occasions.

And to the parents who give me the special privilege of hanging with their children, I’ve forever grateful. Your greatest gift to me is raising your children with love and tolerance. When you let me share in that, I’m so happy. When you can’t hang with me because you are taking care of them, you’ll never know how much I respect that.

Just keep asking me to hang with them, too.

I love you, Coco. I’m learning to understand that we all still process Adam’s death in our own time and our own way. But he adored you. He adored Ava.

We have so little time. So little time. Don’t waste it.

It’s a Saturday morning. Tonight the Olympics end. Long two weeks for sure, full of joy and heartbreak. It’s the first Olympics I’ve “worked” without actually being there. It’s possible I might be thinking “if I’m going do that much work and not be able to host Olympic watch parties, I should be there.”

But the Olympics aren’t on my mind right now.

You know what is? My friend, Charlie. (that’s her in the back right at a silent disco, of course)

She’s on my mind for no particular reason. I mean, our last text exchange was yesterday when I sent her a TikTok about dicks and she responded “Hahahaha.” “Yes.”

Earlier, she had texted “I’m in the Springs and I so wanna see you…but I’m probs super contagious still.” No, it’s not Covid. Look, she loves me AND respects my health.

But the last seven months have been one of the greatest periods of change and growth post-loss, and it’s because of her.

It’s because she tells me I’m beautiful all the time. That she reminds me I’m amazing and worthy of anything I want. She has her own struggles and trauma, and she spends a lot of time being my cheerleader.

You know what’s weird? Charlie didn’t even know me very much pre-loss. She was in our nerd circle, but we weren’t close at all. I wasn’t sure what I thought about her. Looking back, I should have known better because Adam liked her a lot, and Steve liked her a lot, and their judgment was always important to me.

She went out of her way to help Adam and me with finding help in the last year of his life … and at that EXACT same time she was experiencing trauma I can’t fathom. She looked out for Adam. He really appreciated your time and friendship that summer, Charlie.

After he died, she moved in for awhile, and our shared trauma and grief was a key component of how I survived. I’ll never forget this one moment when I had a bunch of people over. Something in what we were watching triggered me and I left the room quietly. Somehow she knew, and she followed me upstairs. She just put her hand on my back. Didn’t have to say anything.

Charlie is the one person in my life who knows everything. Like everything. I can tell her anything, the most personal shit. And she doesn’t judge; she laughs and sympathizes. Ok, sometimes she judges because she wants to protect me. And she’s usually right. She’s much better at boundaries than I am.

You see, Charlie knows my tendencies. She knows I have this deep desire to “help” people. She knows I’m gullible and naive sometimes, and that shit is going to bite me in the ass. She knows I take in strays out of some weird desire to save someone because I couldn’t save Adam. But as we know, I’ve been taken advantage of a couple of times. She stands in front of me to say “stop that bullshit.”

She’s the one who tells me all the time “you deserve better. Don’t waste your time.” I’m dumb and I don’t listen. But she waits me out because she knows I’ll get over it. She knows I want to do everything and see everything and feel everything, knows I can be fragile and strong.

Sometimes I don’t listen because I don’t want to waste time. Not waste “my time.” Those of us who have experienced loss and come out the other side better sometimes just want to “do, do, do” and we don’t stop and think about the consequences.

2021 has been hilarious and fun and sad, and so much of it is because of her encouragement. So, I just wanted to say “thank you.” I have so many great stories to share because of you. You’re a compass who keeps me on track to take care of me. No one makes me feel as beautiful as you do. It’s just so sad we like men so much.

And because of her, and her support to be braver, I’m ready to do some things.

So, I’m going to end this with a request for help. I’m ready to really clear out stuff in the house. You know the stuff. There’s still so much here that I need to let go of. But I feel so overwhelmed and I don’t want to do it alone.

So if you are a local friend and read this, text or message and say you will help. Because I will cry a lot. But I gotta do it. I’ll provide the food. The drink. The music. Also, the drunker you get me, the more likely I’ll be able to throw away stupid stuff.

Oh, and I’m really ready to travel. I’m going to use my PTO and my vacation like you wouldn’t believe, so get ready. I’m gonna go to Michigan to see the Harvaths; Seattle to see Christie; Amy and Carolyn in Atlanta, the Currys in Texas, Jana in Minnesota, Elizabeth and Lisa in San Diego, Annie and Kelly in San Francisco, Karen in D.C., J.R. in Mexico when he’s settled for awhile. I’m sorry if I didn’t mention you. But I’ll come there, too. And I really need to go somewhere I’ve never been just by myself.

And, who wants a weekend in Vegas with me? CHARLIE!!!!! Let’s go to Vegas!

I have this card I keep in my room.

Adam gave it to me at some point in 2016. I don’t know what stage it was. Was it when he was in outpatient rehab? Was it right before I sent him to his family in Texas because I didn’t know what to do? Was it in July when he got out of inpatient rehab and I “caught” him drinking again?

It doesn’t really matter when. But I know what it says.

“You are my favorite person.”

There’s some other words he wrote, akin to “I will do anything to work my way back, to get well, that’s how important you are.”

Come to think of it, this was likely sometime in February/March, when I followed through on a promise I made to myself. I packed a bag, called my friend Jeanne and asked if I could stay with her.

Adam was pleading. But I had to do it. If there was anything I learned later on in Al-Anon, it was that I deserved a life, too. I didn’t deserve the constant anxiety and fear. I came back and we worked together because I was still just as much in love with him in 2016 as I was in 1999. I was committed to him and our life, as long as he was committed to recovery. But when I left, I didn’t feel he was committed.

He was never checked out of our marriage; the alcohol wasn’t destroying our marriage, but the alcohol was destroying his liver; we’d known that for five years, and drinking meant death. But when the disease gets a hold of you…blah blah blah.

Rehashing that isn’t what led back to the blog today.

I’ve been thinking and feeling lately. Thinking is fine. Feeling is awful. If you follow me on any social media, you’ll know I’m out a lot, out with friends, doing shit, staying busy.

Yes, I’ve always been extroverted, but things have changed in the last years. I don’t like necessarily being alone with my thoughts much anymore. I want to be out hearing other people’s thoughts and sharing mine, but not the ones I have when I’m alone.

It’s because when I’m alone, I’m still likely to be randomly focused on the pain of 2016, as opposed to the 16 years before that. It’s because I still relive those final two weeks, and no one wants to hear that anymore. I still cry thinking of telling him I loved him over and over until he was unconscious, until he was no longer breathing, until I called the doctor to bring his family back because it was over.

I don’t think about wishing he was alive or having that life back. That’s a part of grief I’ve worked through successfully. But when I’m out and laughing, when I’m with my friends, I think of how good my life is now, and how lucky I am, how much joy I have. Someone can mention Adam, and I will laugh without a shred of sorrow or regret anymore.

But alone, I think of telling the doctor to turn off life support. Still. After 4.5 years. Look, I’ve been through this in therapy, I know I’m normal. Grief is a messed up process. I think of a widow friend on Twitter who said “I love my life AND I miss my husband.” It’s OK to miss your best friend.

I just wish I could forget all that. I wish someone would want to hear the things I’ve never told anyone. But I fear that people won’t “get it.” We widows still fear people will say we aren’t “over it” or “stuck,” which we know is the dumbest thing in the world, but it still hurts sometimes. I’m far from stuck. I’m just carrying sadness with me wherever I go, and I still cry a lot and just want to say “why me?”

I sometimes feel like the most stable fucked-up person in the world. But I try to forgive myself because I’ve seen so much death. I’ve watched two people die and then watched my mom dying in front of me just over a year ago. Please forgive me if I still have moments of complete terror about life because I know I’m going to have to go through this all again someday and it’s literally fucking terrifying.

But I had a point.

The point is I had a long talk last night with my friend Mike. He’s been in my Colorado Springs life as long as anyone. We talked about who we are, what we want, where we are going.

And I realized, I would like to be someone’s favorite person again. I don’t know what that means, really, because I don’t want to share a bathroom again (I know, I have three in this house). But even in the worst moments, Adam and I had confidence that we were facing this fucked-up world together. That we had each other’s backs.

That was a good feeling.

So I turned on my grief song. I wrote. Because that’s what I do.

We are heartbroken. Our beautiful mom, Jeanette, passed away Tuesday evening after contracting both flu and pneumonia at Christmastime. She was 86.

Our mom was the steadfast center of our family, a smart, funny and caring woman. One step into her house, which she nurtured for nearly 50 years, shows what was most important to her: family. She influenced the world through love and friendship, sending two pretty awesome daughters out into the world, and being a role model for them and her granddaughters.

Mom was born in San Francisco on November 3, 1933, the middle child of five with two older sisters and two younger brothers. She graduated from San Francisco’s George Washington High School in 1951 and shortly thereafter moved south to Pasadena. She received her AA degree at Pasadena City College and her business certificate from the Sawyer School of Business. While a student, she worked part-time at Bullocks on South Lake Ave where she wrapped gifts. Oh – her packages were so beautiful! The best part of every Christmas was seeing her creations … not just what was inside the box. While she was in the hospital, she talked about her time in Pasadena as a young woman, saying “we had a good time.” If she could have winked, she would have.

She worked for the Santa Fe Railroad and the Pasadena Independent newspaper before taking a job as a secretary at Aeronutronic in Newport Beach. In 1961, became a secretary at Jet Propulsion Lab where she met and married our dad, “retiring” in March 1967 when she became pregnant with Barbara.

Mom then devoted herself to being a housewife and mother. Ours was the house on the cul-de-sac where all the kids gathered to swim and play, and there was always a hot queso dip and chips ready for hungry school children. She bowled, played bridge and attended all of our sporting and social activities.

In 1983, she returned to work at Verdugo Hills High School as an attendance clerk, where she was always available for her daughters when we needed something. At least that’s what she said. We know she just wanted to keep a close eye on us. Though her presence did come in handy when Barbara wanted to go off of our “closed” campus for lunch at Tommy’s (Laura claims she never wanted to leave campus… what?!?). She continued working for years long after we left, finally retiring in 1998 to spend time with dad.

We know she loved us (her daughters) and was proud of all we did, but her heart became even fuller with the birth of her granddaughters, Ava and Colette. A devoted grandmother, Jeanette loved spending time with them, joining us for every concert, recital and dance competition she could – including trips to Nationals for BOTH girls in Las Vegas. She made the long drive to Orange County on a regular basis and stayed with us so she could enjoy their company. She wanted to be tagged in every social media post concerning them so she could share her pride with all of her friends.

Mom loved her soap operas and was sad when All My Children went off the air. No more Erica Kane! She continued watching General Hospital right up until the day she was admitted to the hospital.

She loved figure skating, Roger Federer and musical theater; she was a season ticket holder at The Pantages for more than 25 years. She had an extensive magnet collection. She loved light beer – one with dinner every night – and fried fish. Her favorite movie was “The Tales of Hoffmann,” but she also loved pretty much all romcoms. She looked forward to both the annual holiday gala and the holiday buffet at The Athenaeum at Caltech every December and enjoyed treating family and friends to an elegant meal.

She often downplayed her intelligence, but we were really proud of the way she took control of her life when dad got sick and later passed away. At the age of 80, she learned how to run every aspect of her household and finances, mastered her computer and managed to mostly figure out her iPhone. Waze, however, perplexed her. We will miss her riding shotgun and asking us if we know where we were going.

She never looked her age and rarely left the house without makeup, hair and proper accessories. Gosh, she was beautiful. Of course, all that beauty took time and it was a running joke that if we wanted her to be out of the house at noon, we needed her to start getting ready at 9 a.m. Not an exaggeration. We hope that we have those same good genes!

Thank you to our family who visited and checked in over the last week. We may not have responded, but we appreciate the effort. We love you. She loved you.

There will not be a funeral, but we do hope to host a party in the near future to celebrate her life.

This wasn’t exactly what I expected today.

But as I know, and you know, life will hand you an experience whether you want it or not.

I went back to Memorial Hospital today.

All of Adam’s hospitalizations, save the final one at Anschutz in Denver, were there. I knew every inch of that hospital: where the snacks were, what the cafeteria hours were, the restroom locations. I even had a filled punch card from the coffee shop. They knew me. They knew my drink.

I had no plans to return.

But when a friend texted, there was no hesitation. “I am free,” I said. Two of us were free, and we headed to be with her … and for me, it was an unknown experience to be on the other side of the fence, to be with a woman whose husband was tucked into a hospital bed suddenly and with little warning.

My own anxiety started while turning on to Boulder from Wahsatch. So many times I made that turn. Once it was in a panic with Adam at 3 a.m., sure he was going to die right there in my car.

The tears and shortness of breath came in the parking garage, and I kept crying trying to ask directions to a room; directions I couldn’t listen to.

So I got lost in a place I knew so well. I knew exactly where I was, but with nowhere to go.

The doctor was in the room when I found it, so I waited outside. When the nurse asked me if I needed anything, I told him I was waiting to go in. He had already heard my friends talking. I was the one with the deathversary. Here they are, with someone else in the hospital bed, and they were worried about me.

They knew this trip would cause me anxiety, more so on this particular weekend. I am still stunned by their caring: they were worried about ME! “I’ll be OK,” I said. “I know,” my friend texted. “Cuz you’re strong af.”

But there really wasn’t a hesitation. I would be there. These are my friends. These are the people who have been there for me since 1999.

The familiarity of the situation was disconcerting. Every sound is a trigger, every test result, every movement by a staff member. The yellow gown he wore for fall risk. The yellow gown that looked better on him because it didn’t match a jaundiced face.

About 8, I said I was going to the bathroom. I did go, but first I had to do something.

I took the central elevators to the fifth floor. I walked down the endless hallway toward the renal unit. I stopped at the bathroom I cried in many times. I paused by the set of chairs in the lobby, the set of chairs where I cried and asked Kathy, “if he dies, will I be OK?” “Of course you will,” she said “you are you. But I gotta tell you your breath is really bad right now.”

I smiled at that memory. I knew each of “his” rooms as I walked along the quiet corridor. There were three of them in all. I remember where I was when the nurse said his creatinine levels had dropped, and I nearly collapsed in relief. I remember the lounge at the end of the hall I slept in. The microwave I heated up my coffee in. The ice machine where I refilled his cup over and over.

Just one pass. That’s all I needed. It was ghostly. It was haunted.

But I was OK.

I didn’t want to make the visit about me, but for five minutes I did. Back in the room, we shared funny stories about Adam and his hospital stays, and how my friends were so supportive.

I got to hear the pumpkin cookie story again.

I know this situation is going to have a better outcome. My friend’s husband is safe and well-cared for now. She will sleep fitfully on the couch beside him. We will return to visit in the morning.

Because life doesn’t go as planned.

Take it as it comes.

 

Scrolling through Facebook, I came across someone who filled out one of those “get to know you” things. You know… Favorite food, favorite color, place you want to travel. One of the choices was “Greatest Fear.” This person had answered “widow.” So there you have it, I thought, I’m living someone’s worst nightmare.

For a moment, because I was having a good day, I considered responding and saying “don’t be afraid of being a widow, you’ll make it.” But I couldn’t. Because I reconsidered. And she should fear it. She should fear it because it sucks so much. At the same time, these fears are sometimes weird, right? I mean, I could say my biggest fear is being struck by lightning (it’s not), but the chances of that happening are so so slim. But for a woman, well, damn your chances of being widowed are greater than 50 percent.

You might as well face it head on.

I’ve returned to this blog today after a four-mile hike. I thought a lot about a year ago today. We were apprehensive as we made the drive to UC Colorado Anschutz for our first appointment with the liver doctors.

It didn’t go well. The doctor did not give us much hope for getting accepted for evaluation. She didn’t give us much hope of making it to the six-month mark. I cried and cried, talking about the unfairness. She promised she would advocate for us.

The drive home was silent. I am sure Adam was facing his own greatest fears: he had gone too far, taken one drink too many, hit the point of no return. He had no one to blame but himself.

He was tired upon returning home, and we went upstairs and held each other in bed. We snoozed. The atmosphere was thick with grief in the room. We still told each other we would make it; it would be OK.

Around 5 p.m., we went down to make dinner and the phone rang. The doctor. Fear. But then elation as she told us we had been accepted for evaluation. Yes, we understood it didn’t mean we would get on the list.

We held each other again, this time so confident of our future. I told him we wouldn’t be able to go to Star Wars Celebration because he would still be recovering from transplant. He laughed and said, “I should be good by then.”

Two weeks later he was dead.

A year ago I experienced one of the most genuine moments of joy I’d ever had, the feeling that somehow our lives would continue as they were.

I think of this because I know there is one part of my grief I haven’t accepted. My resentment of the transplant team and the transplant process continues to fester. I want the chance to scream at them again. “You let him die.” Alcohol use disorder is either a disease or it’s not. You say it’s a disease. Then treat him.

Maybe my anger toward them grows because the next two weeks of my life a year ago were spent in that hospital.

I don’t know.

You should fear being a widow. Because it’s going to be the worst year of your life, just like Christy said it would.

But you’ll make it through anyway.