Letters to Michael: Falling Down the Rabbit Hole

May 8,2012

Yesterday we moved into the condo.  As predicted it is tiny, a little less clean my standards, and I am frustrated that there are no places to hang towels and we have lost our ocean view. The overhead lights cast a glare that I hate and there are no lamps to soften it. When I get frustrated with these little things I remember our eleven year old neighbor, Marlow singing for you (in life and at the memorial) “The Sun Will Come Up Tomorrow.”  But today, for me, the sun did not come up until around noon.  I wasn’t sure it would ever come up.  In fact, if given a choice, I would have avoided leaving my bed all day.  I was, indeed, Alice falling down the rabbit hole and not enjoying one second of the dark, ass over teacup, ride.  Death is not something you can run from.  You can’t even hide.  The reality of it finds you and pushes you so hard against a brick wall that it your breath away.  The finality of death is an unacceptable assignment that is impossible to grasp, comprehend, or learn anything from.  Trying to feel lucky isn’t even working anymore.

One part of my brain remembers you in such detail.  I remember our first few exciting dates, our living back East and all the details of our life in Manhattan Beach.  I am constantly reminded of all the places we’ve traveled.  Someday those memories will make me happy. But, right now I am reminded that if you were here you would tell the stories that people ask to hear and I would relive our adventures through you. I might fill in when you leave out a part you’d forgotten but, I always liked the way you told the stories best.   But now, when I tell a story about the places we have been, it starts with, “My husband and I went there and….” And for a second I pause, catch my breath and find myself thinking, “This stranger has no idea who you are and that you no longer exist.”  How many times will I have to explain that you died, or worse, how many times will it happen that they don’t even ask?  It seems strange that you are not here for me to be proud of and laugh with as “we” get to know those strangers together.   

What is unbelievably difficult to grasp is the reality that you actually no longer exist.  My brain just can’t compute that finality.  If I start to miss you, which is becoming more and more often, then my brain says, “Well just make a call!”  Then reality kicks in and pretty much knocks me back down the rabbit hole, into darkness, and I am free-falling into a sense of unending pain.  I hate the kind of pain that three simple Advil won’t cure.  I am generally a cheerful person and I don’t enjoy unreasonable amounts of crying.  I hate pity parties where I am the only guest.   I can almost always talk myself out of any funk and rise above any problem big or small.  But, right now, this problem is insurmountable.  So far I have no solution to this problem, none!   You were my go to guy when I needed to solve a problem.  You listened better than anyone I know.  Even your closest friends confirmed that reality about you.  When I was in a funk, and there were no words to help, you just wrapped your arms around me.  You gave me a safe place to process and gain control.   All I could think today was, “What the hell do I do now?  Where are those arms to surround me now?”  Today my energy for anything fun was tapped.  The mere suggestion of going for a walk was unthinkable.   Go for a walk?  The effort of taking one step seemed impossible. 

I now understand much more fully the depths of depression people can fall into.  Grief is a close relative to depression.   I don’t think I’ve met that relative yet.  I realize that am just sad, shocked, confused, and in pain.  My energy for doing much is quickly running out.  If I am lucky this will be short term.  Right now my diagnosis is grief.    Fortunately, Page is here to pick up the pieces.    But what do I do when the kids go home and get busy again?  What do I do when all my friends are sick of seeing me sad?   I’ve been in their shoes and it isn’t easy to carry the weight of someone else’s sorrow very long.   Normal life returns for others not experiencing the situation on an intimate level.  It is only natural that life goes on for others, it should.   But I can’t help but wonder what is normal for me without you? When will that fog obscuring something called “The future” clear away?  I have twenty-one years of living one way so I am not sure what comes next and how to act.   When I am with other couples I am no longer one of them, I am walking alone because I am odd man out.  I haven’t been that person in so long I keep turning around and looking for my other half and he is not there!  

So which is easier, staying in the rabbit hole, or climbing out?  I know I have to face the music, and working out a new gig.  I am just not sure of what tune to play.  I think that this is going to be a very slow dance toward the light.  You don’t cut off your right arm one day and learn to write with the left the next.  It takes time.  It takes banging the head against the wall of reality until you get tired of that headache and stop.  I never imagined being so frustrated and angry.   I am practical and smart but this particular problem has me stumped.   I guess that is why it is recommended that after a big loss, such as this one, to take at least a year before making any dramatic changes.  However, we were traveling.  I live out of a suitcase.  When does that merry-go-round stop and I find some sort of permanency again?   

Michael, you have been gone less than four weeks.  Why does it seem like a lifetime?  How do I get through a full year??  I see other people managing to do just that, they work through it and end up on the other side.  Today I can’t picture walking one step without you there.  I can’t even get it through my stubborn brain that I will never hear your voice again. The sound of it is already fading. But I remember you had one of those voices that was so wonderful it should have been on the radio announcing football games, or commenting on sports, or stumping for your favorite political candidate.  I loved your voice, and even after all these years, just the sound of it made my heart jump with excitement.  You were my guy who loved me unconditionally.  You were a once in a lifetime and I expected to have at least that long together with you.  When I went to the American Embassy in Guatemala to pick up copies of your death certificate they asked for your passport.  I got it back with holes punched in it and a big stamp next to your picture that read, “CANCELLED.”  Your passport was good until 2015.  Who knew that your passport to life had an early expiration date? 

I know that I expect a lot of myself.  But this is all such new territory.  And damn it, contrary to popular belief, I am not that adventuresome without you.  I am not sure that I can go to Costa Rica and live for an extended time without you. While I am looking forward to watching Page give birth, and can’t wait to hold the baby in my arms, there is a reality that takes a bit of the glow off that part of this fairy tale.   Page lives in the jungle.  Even though it is exciting to have monkeys in the back yard, it is not so exciting to have the possibility of scorpions and tarantellas hiding under towels, in shoes and in the shower.  You always took care of the extrication anything I afraid of while I ran for higher ground.  

I can almost hear you arguing that this visit with my daughter will be fun and different because there will be a wonderful baby to hold and love.  And yes, this is an exciting, once in a lifetime, can’t wait to happen, bonus for me to experience with Page.  Right now it is really the only carrot that keeps me sane.  But it won’t be the same without you there to agree that this is the most beautiful baby on earth.  You won’t be there to see him surf at age two like you predicted.  You won’t be there for me to come home to when my usefulness in Costa Rica has expired or the bugs or snakes chase me away.  Actually I am a nomad. This is true because right now, and for some time to come, by our own design, I have no home.  Until I figure things out, feel comfortable living in our home without you I will live out of a suitcase.  The rent that house brings in is my safety net.  But more importantly, I can’t picture unpacking and moving into any place without you.   I keep being reminded that my handsome, funny, sensible companion is gone.   I guess over the next year I will be making a lot of trips to the rabbit hole.   I hope to be sensible and not to fall in so deep I can’t easily climb out.