I’m not sure why I’m writing this, who it’s intended for, or if anyone will read it besides me. A friend suggested I write something. He didn’t say what and up to this point, most of my efforts in this regard have been fantasy football draft recaps. Also, journaling is a common self-help tool. I guess it could be something I will want to read many years down the road to help me remember Shelli when my memory becomes an untrustworthy narrator. But then, I’ve learned that you can’t count on ‘many years’ anyway. Or perhaps Charlie will read it when he feels lost or disconnected. I only know that I’m not ready to get on with my life yet.
I received Shelli’s ashes two days ago and today would have been our 21st wedding anniversary. That is what compelled me to start this process. This week hasn’t been too kind.
Shelli died on 8/11/23. I don’t know the exact time but I know that it was in the morning. I was sleeping next to her. So it was 12 days since we were ‘together’ and I was eager to get her home. After signing some paperwork, I was handed a box that contained…her…along with a dozen Certificates of Death. Predictably, I fell apart at the seams.
One of the only conversations we ever had regarding the possibility of her dying was two months ago. She was okay with cremation, or at least as ‘okay’ as one can be when discussing what is done with their body after they die. Her only worry/question was where her ashes be would be spread. I’d offered some ideas – a Nantucket beach, the mountains in Colorado, and/or a beach in Evanston but she said it didn’t feel right. Those places have special meaning because of the people she was with when she visited. On their own, they were just beautiful, lonely, places. She was very quiet and then whispered words that I’ll never forget, “I just want to be with you. Is that okay?” It was the most beautiful and heart-breaking thing I’ve ever heard. I assured her that I loved that plan (should it be necessary). She now rests in our walk-in closet. Seemed appropriate. She loved her closet. She sits next to a box containing the ashes of our beloved dog, Gus. I never had the heart to spread his ashes either. Someday, hopefully no time soon, Charlie will have a very difficult job.
I don’t remember anything clearly between discovering that’d she died while I was probably snoring next to her (Friday) and the funeral (Monday). I remember cleaning her face and placing a knit cap on her head to cover her scalp to make her look more peaceful for Linda and Charlie. Then everything kind of fades to black. Eventually, I found myself on our porch where I would start taking care of the things I needed to take care of. I had to call hospice, text and call our family and friends, meet with the funeral home people, compose a eulogy, call the Rabbi, etc. I also had to dispose of every item that was related to her care in her final months or was even a vague reminder of her treatment. I only wanted Shelli’s stuff that predated 2/17/23 which is when the brain tumors were first discovered. Happy, reasonably-healthy, Shelli things only. Friends started to arrive almost immediately. I’d sent her closest circle of friends a simple message that read “Code Pink.” This is how it was to be communicated and much easier emotionally than typing “She’s gone.”
What got lost in that busy work was a full realization of the enormity of my loss – our loss. That isn’t to say it wasn’t there, lurking, ready to sneak up and sucker punch me. But it would usually only start to rear its ugly head in the evening hours when I was alone and while I was preemptively numbed by Lorazepam (relax, it is prescribed) and my first real drink in more than 6 months. Sleep didn’t come easy still, but I knew that I just had to make it until the following morning and our friends would show up like the calvary to distract me from loss with oft told stories from our younger years.
But back to those fuzzy days that followed her passing. The Jews are onto something with this shiva thing. Three days had passed from the time Shelli died and me hosting a huge 3-day house party. Our house is by no means small, but the biggest previous party was probably 50 – 60 people for my 50th birthday. This was no small undertaking. To be clear, I did very little. And by “little” I mean nothing. Her friends did most of the heavy lifting, figuratively and literally. A company was hired that managed almost all of it: food, bar, serving, cleanup, etc. But it was still my house, so I had to assume the diametrically opposed roles of party host and widower. Most of the time, I was thinking, ‘Shelli would NOT want the couch moved there’ or ‘Shelli would have loved seeing our respective friends embracing and exchanging numbers.’ I had those thoughts but at the time, it still felt like I’d be able to tell her about them later.
Once Shiva started, after the funeral on Monday and through Wednesday night, guests would begin to arrive each day around 4:30pm and our home would fill with the people we loved the most and I’d get another respite from impending grief. Shiva would end at 8:30pm and I would say (plead) to those still there, “You know, it’s not a hard out at 8:30. Feel free to hang around for another drink”. I was basically trying to run an after-hours party to spare me from the impending loneliness that I knew was coming. Of course, they would comply because who could turn down the wishes of the newly widowed? This would buy me another hour or two before our house would become empty save for me, Charlie, Linda, Amy, and our dogs.
Thinking back on it, even the funeral itself was kind of a blur. It too was held three days after Shelli died. I didn’t have to speak but I wanted to. I needed to, really. However, it was probably the worst time for me to attempt to capture in a reasonably concise manner what she meant to me and our family. In hindsight, I was still in shock. I know that I was in shock because there’s no fucking way to otherwise explain my ability to talk about her in front of a huge number of people and not be reduced to a sobbing mess. Perhaps that is the advantage of doing it so soon. The mourners don’t yet realize their loved one is gone. Really gone. I mean, intellectually, they do. But their brains haven’t had a chance to come to grips with the permanence of it much less think ahead about how the lives they thought they would lead in the future, would be without their soul mate/best friend. I remember the night after her funeral (and Day 1 of Shiva), I had trouble sleeping. It’s completely within my character to second guess everything I said in any public speaking situation or client meeting. Or even during an awkward conversation at a party. But the stakes were much higher here. This was her eulogy I was replaying in my mind, picking it apart and overanalyzing it. Those who attended the funeral knew who she was as a friend, colleague, client, sister, daughter, etc., But I needed to be her voice and to tell people who she was as wife and mother – who she was to me and Charlie. I think I failed in that regard. I’ll get to that later.
Like I said, shiva is/was great. It served a vital function. I’m not sure that vital function, per Jewish tradition, is to drink and laugh with friends, but that’s what it was for me. But grief has a slow fuse and when it finally goes off, it is a cruel, merciless, bitch. It started for me the day after shiva ended which was 6 days after Shelli died. By the way, “…Shelli died…” hurts to write and doesn’t feel real yet. I’m hoping this little ‘journaling’ exercise helps but it’s not off to a great start. Anyway, back to that Thursday. It was easy to think that was bottom. That I was now facing the full, awesome, power of grief without distraction or friends to back me up. But I soon realized, I wasn’t close to the bottom. I couldn’t even see bottom yet. I only knew that I was devastated yet somehow still able to converse with people, tend to some estate matters, and generally busy myself.
Now if I could be so bold as to offer a suggestion to an ancient religion, I’d maybe consider adding a Shiva: Part 2 that is held the week after the last night of Shiva: Part 1. Because, brothers and sisters, THAT is when it first really hits you. I mean it hits you like a goddamn freight train. That’s when you realize you’re alone in your grief and that is when you need the most support. That isn’t to minimize anyone else’s grief. God only knows how Linda and Mel are handling the loss of a daughter or how Amy is handling the loss of her only sister. Or the granddaddy of them all, how Charlie, at 17, is processing the loss of his mom. I can’t speak to their grief, only my own. I can’t explain it but I’ll try because I’m praying that it somehow helps me or maybe someone in the future. It feels like you are completely disconnected from your body. You can move and talk but you’re like a marionette and everything is slightly out of sync. Like, you’re saying normal sounding things but it’s a well-rehearsed act. You’re just saying words that sound like reasonable things to say in response to whatever is said to you. It’s like artificial intelligence. You even move differently and slower. You also feel like you’re on the verge of vomiting at any moment which more than anything is why I don’t eat much. The most mundane, least physically demanding, tasks feel impossible.
I felt intense loneliness yet didn’t want to be around people. I know, it doesn’t make sense. I felt alone because I was, in fact, alone. Not that there wasn’t support for me if I needed it, just that the support I most needed and craved was from the one person who could no longer offer it. That’s a unique kind of widow/widower grief. Unless you’re in a very unconventional marriage, there’s only one widow/widower per lost loved one.
The last 6 months of Shelli’s life were hard on everyone who loved her. I won’t go back over the chronology of events because it’s too painful and much of it I would like to soon forget, but over those 6 months, me, Linda, Team Shelli (text group comprised of her 5 oldest/closest), and a handful of other close friends would work tirelessly to give her even a sliver of joy. It was physically and emotionally exhausting – especially for me and Linda as we were her fulltime caregivers. At some point during that time period, Shelli lost most of her vision, ability to walk, and, her ability to speak. There was no TV to mindlessly watch or books to read. No dog videos on Instagram either. All she had left was our companionship and pure, unfiltered, love. We were able to make her, if not laugh, at least smile at times. That was our repayment to her for a life of love, friendship, kindness, and support that she had extended to us countless times.
For Linda and I, these friends and their frequent visits were our lifelines. I’d taken leave from work and seldom ventured more than a few minutes from home. My connection to the outside world was mostly through them. My sister likened it to the comradery soldiers who have been in combat together feel. That might be overstating it and insulting to those who serve/served, but I think she’s close. And to stretch the analogy further, when you return home from combat and try to resume your ‘normal’ life – without your comrades – it’s hard. Really hard. And that’s the downside to shiva and the companionship we received over the past 6 months. It ends. Shelli was our common cause and purpose in life and she’s gone. So now what? I should point out that these friends will always be my friends and considered part of our extended family. I love each of them with all of my heart. But the magic ingredient to these relationships has always been Shelli and I’m a poor substitute and probably a constant reminder of what they lost. Also, people need to move forward. That doesn’t mean it will be easy for anyone, but most of them get to grieve and move forward with their families intact. That isn’t the case for us. So, I feel stuck in place or really stuck in the past because memories are all I have, while most everyone else is moving forward. That is brutally hard and yet the natural progression of life. Also, my current memories are not a comfort at all. They are mostly of recent, painful, vintage and they’re crowding out the other 20+ years of (mostly) cheerful memories.
I have also discovered that there are grief landmines everywhere. Our house is basically the Museum of Shelli History. I don’t think there’s a single item on display (that doesn’t require a remote control) that I contributed. Everything was carefully selected by Shelli. Most are probably 4th generation. By that I mean, Shelli had bought similar items and went through her customary review process before a winner emerged and was allowed to stay for good. Our house was essentially frozen from the time she passed. It was like the ruins of Pompei. Her cosmetics, toothbrush, jewelry, bathrobe, shoes, etc. were exactly where they were before she died. Or they were until I hid them from sight. Contemplating any of these items can knock the wind out of me. It isn’t always obvious like a photo. It could be as innocuous as a tube of lip balm. For example, during the final 21 months of her life, she would sleep with a heating pad on her stomach. It started back in 2022 when she was battling colitis and she just kept using it. On the few vacations we’ve taken, she always made sure to pack it. So, to see it laying on the floor on her side of the bed, still plugged in, brought a massive wave of sadness. Music? Forget it. Her car presets are all her – yacht rock, the coffee house, and stations dedicated to the worst decades in music. Even NPR isn’t a safe listen. All are waiting to be pressed to remind me that she’s gone. Even my own music, vastly different from hers, isn’t welcome at the moment. Under the best of circumstances, my favorite artists can evoke sadness. I’m not about to test those waters so sports talk radio it is until further notice.
I’m about 2 weeks into this…journey. Or whatever you want to call it. I’m reading books on grief which helps a little bit. At least I don’t feel like I’m going insane. I’m also learning – or trying to learn – what it is I need. What I need is for Shelli’s ghost to visit me and tell me there’s an afterlife and she, Grandma Mary, and RBG are teaching my mom how to bargain shop. So what are my practical needs? I keep reading how I have to show myself kindness and patience and fill my needs. I have no idea what that even means. I do know that grief is different for everyone and that there’s no time-table or shortcuts. The folks who came up with the five stages of grief would later clarify that it wasn’t meant to be some one-size-fits-all road map. But from my exhaustive research on the internet, I know that this is likely going to last for a while. I won’t ever ‘get over it’ so much as I may one day be able to live alongside it. For me or probably any surviving spouse in a healthy, loving, marriage, the grief is all-encompassing. It’s not just what you lost in the present but also the future. It is the trips you’ll never take together. It’s the planned retirement to Colorado that won’t happen. All of Charlie’s life events that I’ll attend alone. It’s decorating a tree at Christmas by myself and probably poorly because that was Shelli’s gift, not mine. There’ll be birthdays and anniversaries that will reopen wounds. But the hardest thing to acknowledge much less accept is that she’s gone forever.
Now for what I wish I’d shared in my eulogy or at least some of the stuff. Shelli made me a better person. That isn’t hyperbole. I was NOT a fully formed person when we met. I lost my mom when I was 5 and naively thought that I’d lucked out because I couldn’t remember her. Which completely ignores the fact that I didn’t get to know her at all so there was no woman’s perspective or nurturing that only a mother can provide. There was also no healthy relationship I could one day model. My sister and I were raised by an amazing father whose love and support never wavered. We were always his priority. But that doesn’t erase what we lost as kids. So, when I met Shelli, I was insecure, emotional, and at times angry. For future decayed memory’s sake, I met Shelli through a mutual friend. She was way out of my league and dating someone seriously at the time. They eventually broke up and this mutual friend asked if I was interested. I swear I thought she was fucking with me. Shelli was, in my eyes, totally unattainable. I was also kind of an ex-jock/ex-fraternity ‘player’ with a reputation for not being boyfriend much less husband material. I say this without a trace of false modesty, but I REALLY didn’t deserve her attention much less her hand in marriage. Our first date was at the Green Mill, an ancient jazz club in the city. I hated jazz and had never set foot in the Green Mill before that night but I wanted to appear sophisticated. Our next date was at the Brew & View where we saw the re-release of the Matrix. I fell in love pretty fast. From that point forward, we were almost always together. We exchanged ‘I love yous’ the first time in Aspen while visiting her dad. That was when I knew that I had found my person.
I guess she saw in me potential and that I was, at heart, a good person who needed a push to become better. When I was in a negative spiral, Shelli would pick me up. She would, in her own very direct Shelli way, pull me out of whatever funk I was in. I wouldn’t say these were always gentle nudges. More like, ‘get your shit together. I love you. You’ll be okay.’ She was always there for me and I was there for her, even when we put our marriage in timeout. By the way, it was the worst attempt at a separation ever. We saw each other all the time. But I digress – I was at my best and most confident when I was with her. Not just because she was always the most beautiful person (and smartest) in any place she inhabited, but because she had my back and she made me feel special and seen. I felt 10’ tall with her.
She was the center of our family and took responsibility for the hardest parts of parenting while I got to be ‘fun dad.’ She never put unrealistic expectations on Charlie. A ‘B’ was okay but only if it was hard earned and wasn’t the result of a missing assignment or not studying for a test. Her love for him was completely unconditional and boundless. He was adored by her. Charlie still doesn’t know what he’s lost but it’ll come. He is so much like her. She wasn’t one to wallow in self pity. She didn’t cry often. Bad news, like a stage 4 cancer diagnosis, was addressed and then placed in a box. It was about moving forward and not living in fear or sadness. I see that same, awesome, strength in Charlie.
She was both funny and feisty. She didn’t tolerate stupidity or laziness. She would create To Do lists for me at the start of the week and continue to add to them with the idea being that I’d complete them on the weekend. I once pointed out that I never gave her a To Do list. She replied, “because I do everything else.” Touche.
She hated sports and watching me stew about my fantasy football team’s performance was probably hard for her to tolerate. But she knew I enjoyed it, so she’d bite her tongue. She would even feign interest if it was something I was especially excited about, like the 2005 White Sox championship.
She was never, ever, unprepared. Any trip included whatever materials were needed in the event of a zombie apocalypse or a tsunami. I’d tease her about it but we’d always end up utilizing some gadget she’d packed.
She wasn’t quite a hoarder but we have a lot of stuff that should have been tossed or given away. But she would find a neat, organized, place for it and tell me that one day, we might like to sit down and comb through hundreds of Thomas the Train toys.
She never gave a thoughtless gift. Even the overpriced watch she gave me as an engagement gift is inscribed with “Time Stood Still on 7/6/01”. That was the day I proposed. For our wedding, which was 8/24/02, she of course made it special. Rather than choose more traditional wedding flowers, she chose daisies because they were my mom’s favorite. Thin crust pizza and Italian ice was served late into the night for anyone who didn’t fill up at dinner. Even the venue was uniquely Shelli. Not a cookie-cutter wedding hall or hotel ballroom, she chose Galleria Marchetti which was a large tent situated in the middle of a busy area of the city. As for me, I wasn’t as gifted in the creativity/thoughtfulness department, so I’d rely on her friend Lisa to assist.
She loved buying nearly identical items – like a black puffy coat – and model them for me, usually when I was trying to watch a game. She would stand in front of the TV and twirl around. I would have to pick the one I liked best which was hard because they looked so much alike. But it didn’t end there. I would have to tell her why I liked one over the other(s) and then she would challenge my answer. I always tried to guess which one she secretly liked best to expedite the process. God, I miss those impromptu fashion shows.
She was my best friend and I have amazing friends. She was the best of the bunch. She was the first person I wanted to talk to in the morning and the last person I wanted to talk to at night. I’d pay an obscene amount of money to have one more conversation with her and hold her in my arms. I know that everyone thinks their loved one is ‘special’ and I’m sure they are in their own, unique, ways. But Shelli was a unicorn. She truly cared about things that most just pay lip service to. She was selfless, generous, thoughtful, and kind. Was she perfect? No. She could be exacting, impatient, and uncompromising. But her goodness won out and I loved her dearly. She also knew me better than I know myself and we’d been through so much over the past 21 years that it was especially cruel that she was taken after we repaired ourselves and realized that we were at our best and happiest when we were together. Our future was so bright.
So, yeah, grief sucks and there’s no expiration date or guarantee that I’ll come out the other side. I also know that Shelli would be pissed off if I ‘checked out’ and resigned myself to a life of sadness. She apologized countless times for getting cancer as if she was to blame. She knew my fears better than anyone. I lost my mom to cancer so I’ve been haunted by the prospect of terminal illness since I was old enough to understand it. Shelli knew this was going to eat me up and she was right. In some ways, I think she worried more about me than Charlie. She knew that Charlie inherited her mental toughness just as she knew how easy it would be for me to become that scared little boy again.
I guess that’s it for now. Yesterday was a stronger day than the day before. I only had a few solid cries, I booked 5 college visits for Charlie, and I ate a proper meal. Baby steps
Musings of a Widower 