And Now She is Gone

My journey through grief

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about

I am a 50+ widower living in VA with two cats and my father. I lost my wife of 20 years, Katy, to cancer in the fall of 2024. I entered into therapy for help navigating my grief and journaling was suggested. Through journaling I discovered that I enjoyed writing and I began to experiment with various styles and format until a friend, after reading some of what I had written, suggested I share some of what I was writing and here we are. While I am not sure what this will be, or if I will even keep up with it, I can assure that what I post here will be genuine. At times I will share stories from my life with Katy. Some times it may be my stab at fiction or poetry. It may not be good, but it will be honest. And I encourage your thoughts and ideas regarding what I post, I walk to chat. Anyways, I do appreciate the time you are taking to visit my blog. Matt
  • It Lives With Me

    It Lives With Me

    I live with loneliness.

    It’s a loneliness that crawls over me. It gets into my head and makes me doubt whether I am good enough.

    It attaches itself to my most personal parts and tempts me in ways that make me feel ashamed.

    It follows me like a bastard shadow, and trips me up as it kicks my feet.

    I try to navigate my way through, but it is an endless labyrinth of stone with sharp corners and walls covered in rotting ivy.

    Sometimes I can hear it. It’s a low static thumping that keeps me awake at night and clouds my mind during the day. It whispers words that punch deep and bruise me dark.

    I don’t know if it will ever leave, I don’t if I will ever get used to it.

    So, I live with loneliness.

  • First to Last

    First to Last

    On the first night they met, their worlds collided, and he was excited and uncertain of their future.

    On the first night they slept together, he lay in bed after, watching her sleep and he felt a peace wash over him

    On the first night in the house, he truly felt at home for the first time.

    On the first night they knew of cancer, he lay in bed watching her sleep and he was terrified and uncertain of their future.

    On the first night in a hospital, he sat in the chair bedside, and he wished he could be as brave as her.

    On the first night he had to call paramedics for help, he wondered if he was doing enough.

    On the first night he accepted her fate, she held his hand, looking into his heart, and said to him.

    “You have more story to tell”

    On the last night, he lay in a bed suddenly too big, and he cried, terrified and uncertain of his future

  • Do They Feel it Like I Do?

    Do They Feel it Like I Do?

    Last night, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, I could hear one of the cats in the hallway crying. This has been happening a lot. It is usually Mirren. She sits in the hallway, crying out. As I listened, I thought about what losing Katy must be like for the cats. Confusion, maybe? Do they feel her loss? I’m sure they do, not the same way I feel it, but they feel it.


    For the cats it was sudden. One morning Katy was not in her spot on the couch. For them she just left. They never did go into her room when the Hospice bed became her permanent place of rest. She was not there to greet them in the morning with those loving caresses and kind words she always shared first thing. For them I imagine it is an emptiness that they can’t explain. Her scent still lingers in the house, but they can’t find her.


    They may not have the emotional attachment to her memory that I do, or maybe they do. But I am sure they feel her loss. It would explain why they both, Mirren especially, have been clinging to me at every step. The minute I open the bedroom door in the morning, they are both sitting there, waiting for me to open the door. Or maybe they are waiting for her, hoping that she steps out again. When my work day is over and I sit on the couch in the evening, Mirren is immediately on my lap. I wish I could explain to them what happened, give them both some kind of closure.

    I just tell them she is on vacation.

  • Too many empty rooms

    Too many empty rooms

    Something has changed and he can’t understand it.

    The silence is new. It is a silence he has never heard before. It is loud, and intense as it rings in his ears.

    He tries to fight it by opening the windows to let the world in, but even the world can’t penetrate the walls.

    Occasionally he hears her laughter, but even that is only a whisper that floats just out of his reach.

    Each step he takes on the stairs is loud and violent, and they stretch and twist making the climb more uncertain.

    The doors are cold to his touch, a block of ice behind each one.

    He tries to adapt. He tries to get used to it. But understanding evades him.

     And then he sees it. It stares him in the face and mocks his recognition.

    All the rooms are empty.

  • Its a Mess

    Its a Mess

    He stands in the doorway looking over the mess. It’s her mess. Not as in she is responsible for it, but it is her stuff.
    In one corner he stares at a pile of pens. It is a hulking mass of writing tools including highlighters, dry erase markers, crayons and even a few pencils. He sees one with “Akeela and the Bee” stamped across it and he thinks about when they saw the movie. It was one of those special pre-screenings where they asked your opinion after the show. When they were done the young lady gave her the pencil and she loved it.
    He looks over the many notebooks and folders she collected over their 20 years together. She always asked him to stop off at many an office supply store, “Let’s see if there are any new releases” she would say as they entered. He would say the same thing whenever he entered a record store, and she would mimic his delivery perfectly every time. When the back-to-school sales started she would get excited, Saturday would become a loot day for her. Some days she would buy nothing; on other days she should fill the cart. He would watch her in those moments. She would meticulously examine each notebook, taking in the aroma of fresh paper and cardboard. As she ran her fingers along the binding, she would smile at him and relay the many ways she will use the notebook. He knew that most of them would go unused, but it didn’t matter to him. This was as close to a religious experience she would get so he let her have it.
    Now he sees another stack of notebooks. These are worn and used, and they scare him. He can see short phrases or solitary words written across the front to remind her of what is in them. Sometimes, during her down time, she would just write. Even in the worst parts of her treatment she would write. He would watch her writing in that chair, an IV pumping poison into her. She did not write for any purpose on those days. She wrote to forget why she was there. She wrote just to write. These scare him because he knows what they will bring. Emotion. Those are her words in there, her thoughts and he cannot handle those yet. Someday. Not yet.
    He sees a jar filled with small slips of paper. This was a gift for her. Each slip of paper has compliments and short phrases of endearment. “This is for those day you are feeling beaten and alone.” He says as he gives it to her. He never asked her if she read any of the slips. Now he decides to take a look and discover not only had she looked at them, but she also wrote her own notes on them. This one says, “never let him go” on the other side of “You are beautiful” and this one has “how lucky I am” on the back of a slip with “Kiss me, just because” on it. He puts the lid back and sets it down. He will keep this as well.
    Looking at the room one might think it is a mess. He sees it differently. Each of the pens she left behind brought her some happiness. Every notebook was a comfortable place for her to escape. He knows that he should get rid of this stuff, but it is hard to do when each one comes with emotion. He can still smell her in each notebook and feel her when he grips one of her pens. He cannot throw this stuff away, not now.
    So, every day he stands in the doorway looking at her mess and thinking about her.

  • The Hoodie

    The Hoodie

    He is standing in line at the grocery store. There is woman and her daughter behind him. He can hear them giggling and then the mother taps him on the shoulder.

    “My daughter and I think your hoodie is very funny, can I ask where you got it?”

    He looks down and recognizes the hoodie. He is wearing one of her hoodies. This was the first hoodie he bought her. On the back there is a picture of a penguin and beneath the penguin is written

    I AM F*#&!@^ FREEZING!

    He was so excited when he purchased it. He knew she would love it. He became a little child again, waiting for the special toy he saved 50 box tops for. He just could not wait to see her face. On the day it arrived she was not home. So he sat at the kitchen table and waited. When she arrived, he went to her, he couldn’t wait for her to see it. She looks at him surprised at the package. She opens it and gets excited because it is a new hoodie. She had not even seen the design on the back. “Look at the back” he says, and she does. Her face lights up and she laughs. He always loved that sound, her laughter. Especially when it came as a surprise to her.

    She loved it. And she wore it. Everywhere. She wore it when they went to see Patton Oswald at the Kennedy center. She was wearing it the day they picked up Baxter, and the day they he died. She was wearing it when he drove her to the first surgery to remove the cancer. And now he wore it.

    “It is my wife’s.” He doesn’t know why he refers to her in present tense, He knows it allows the conversation to continue. The daughter sighs and says “aww, how sweet, you share hoodies!?” The mother laughs and says, “I can’t get my husband to let my borrow his tools, much less wear his clothes.”

    “She’s dead. Last year.” And he turns to pay for his groceries. The mother and daughter are shocked. He sees the mother say something to him, but he doesn’t hear anything. He thoughtlessly turns and says thank you and walks to his car.

    It is easier to announce her death bluntly, one might say impolitely to strangers.

    He doesn’t care if he offends them.

    It makes these little moments go by faster.

  • Our Story: The earworm.

    Our Story: The earworm.

    Buckle up folks, this is a long one.

    I know I said that I did not adhere to genre prejudice; but if there is one style of music that I would set as THE music that started it all for me, it would be hard Rock. Specifically, the dirty denim bands. These were the bands always looked like they needed a shower. They would stare at me from the phots on the album, I knew that they to show me all the horrible things I was warned about in Sunday School, and I was ready for it. Saxon, Fastway, Alice Cooper, these were the bands firmly imbedded into my musical foundation. And if there was one band that sat atop the heap, it was ACDC. As far as I am concerned, they were the kings of dirty denim. You can almost smell ACDC music, and it smells of alcohol, cigarettes and sweat. When I discovered them at the age of 10, it was quite a scene. But I’m not here to talk about that moment. Nor will I talk about the connection Highway to Hell gave Katy and I, that one is for me. I will tell you about one of my cherished memories of her. When she found herself with an ACDC song on repeat in her brain.   

    It was Saturday. One of those cold and damp days of fall. When we got out of bed that morning we went from the bed straight to the couch. I made breakfast while Katy swiped REELS on Facebook in the other room. As I cooked bacon, I asked her if she wanted to do anything that day. She yelled back to me “I would like to look at paint colors for the bathroom, Home Depot.”  She loved DIY projects. She would watch all of the fixer upper shows and come away from them with ideas for improving the house in one way or another. The problem was that Katy did not really have a lot of commitment to these projects. It was inevitable that she would reach a point where it was no longer fun, or it would get too complicated, and she would slowly abandon the project. Her master bathroom remodel, initially envisioned as a quick refresh, ballooned into a six-year odyssey of delays and unfinished work, ultimately requiring outside help. I hated it when she would drag me along with her. This was in the days before I  was medicated. I would turn into a sulking  six-year-old. I could be an asshole about things in those days. Katy was very patient in those early years. She was looking out the window and I could see her changing her mind. “Actually, that’s too far to drive today. Whatever we do I want it to be close to home” Oh thank God, I whispered to myself. We bounced a few more ideas between us, but in the end, we landed on ordering Chinese and watching a movie. Couch Potatoes is it.  

    We spent the rest of the morning in that same spot. Playing games on our phones and creating various lists of pop culture stuff: what are you top ten noir detective movies?-that kind of list. When lunch rolled around, we ordered too much food and settled in to decide on a movie. Katty was in the mood for something funny, but not silly, smart funny. High humor if you will. For me that was Monty Python or any of the films from the Mel Brooks catalogue. I proposed watching Something About Mary, we both loved that one. But Katy said she wasn’t in the mood for Ben Stiller. Then I suggested watching School of Rock, that was one of my comfort movies. She looked at me. “You know, and you’re not gonna like this, I did not like that one.” She mimicked a shy school girl pretending to feel guilty. I frowned a bit and said, “Well I think you should give it another chance. Besides, you’ve not watched it me. Might be a different experience.”  

    Katy was not a huge Jack Black fan at this point. She had enjoyed his dramatic roles, but in her opinion everything else he did was just erratic and he felt out of control. So, I was not surprised when I learned this information. She would eventually grow to at least tolerate him as I forced his various projects into our entertainment bubble. She sat with that for a few seconds and then she smiled and said “Fuck it, let’s watch it.” She was sweet like that. We got ourselves into movie mode and clicked play. Movie mode for us was a serious thing. Especially when it was just the two of us. We would discuss the movie, often pausing to dig deep on scene. These discussions would range from a serious debate about character development  or choices that actors make over to picking out the flaws or mocking the horrible acting. We spanned the entire range of film commentary, from the insightful reviews of Siskel and Ebert to the comedic riffs of Mystery Science Theater 3000.

    As the opening scene plays out and the camera floats into the bar we see Mr. Black twisting and flopping his way across the stage. She turns to me and says “See, frantic.” Once the story started to play out Katy became more interested. She started asking me questions about the bands Mr. Sneebly would introduce to the kids. We talked about Zeppelin, and how they changed modern rock. We talked about RUSH and their dedicated fan base. She wanted to know more about The Ramones, were they really brothers, did they ever change melodies?  She picked my brain for every bit of information she could get from me about this music that drove me.  As the credits roll, we are treated to the kids performing their rendition of A Long Way to the Top, by ACDC. Katy really perked up during this, “well this is adorable.” She bounced on the couch, gave me jazz hands a couple times and hummed along until the song faded out. She enjoyed the movie, she could not deny that. I must have been projecting these thoughts onto my face because when she turned in my direction she laughed “Okay, smart ass, Don’t get cocky. Yes, I liked the movie much more this time and yes, I DO think that watching it with you made a difference.” I was cleaning up our Chinese food pile and looked at her,. “You know why?” “If I say yes, will you skip whatever BS you were gonna feed me and move along?” I looked up at her, smiled and, in my best shy country boy imitation is said “BECAUSE YOU LOVE ME!!”

    You ever get a song stuck in your head? One that digs in like a tick and pesters you for hours, maybe days. Sometimes it’s not that bad if it’s a song you like. Other times it can feel like you are being waterboarded. I was noticing that my wife had new earworm. She was humming it while doing a crossword one night, kicking her foot up and down the beat. One day she was humming it at her desk while she surfed YouTube. After a while it just became one of those songs for her.

    Now we come to cherished part. Fast forward a couple of years and we are in the back yard with the dogs. I am desperately trying to teach Baxter to fetch. Baxter was our basset hound; he was not an energetic dog, and he often tired out after one time across the yard to grab the tennis ball. This day he impressed me by fetch the ball twice. He was laying in the grass staring at me with those sad eyes.  Katy was sitting on the steps of the deck encouraging Baxter as our other dog, a chihuahua named Gromit, stood just next to her, wagging her tail and vibrating (As small dogs often do) staring at Katy hoping to be picked up. I had brought one of my Bluetooth speakers outside with us and had the local classic rock station on. We just finished listening to a Billy Joel tune when the iconic guitars and bagpipes that open A Long Way to the Top began to play. I should tell you guys that to this point I am not sure Katy had ever heard the original version of the song. Only the movie version and whatever version she was playing in her head when she hummed it. At first she didn’t react. When the first chorus kicked in she I could tell something was brewing in that wonderful brain of hers. She cocked her head a bit like a dog leaning toward a strange sound.

    “Who is this?” she asked. “ACDC” I responded. She sat up and looked at me, with slight confusion on her face. “That’s the band with the silly guy in the school uniform right?” This would be how she would verify ACDC’s identity for the remainder of our marriage, it’s also one of those things that I am missing real hard. “Yep. That’s the one.” I was still in the yard. Baxter had made his way over to me and flopped himself down in my lap, so I was going nowhere for bit. Katy remained in her spot on the steps, she had picked up Gromit by this point, and she continued to listen. Suddenly she perked up, “Hey, I know this song.” I loved these moments with her. She would often go into detective mode when something was challenging her. And she loved a good mystery. I could see her trying to pinpoint where she had heard the song.

    After a few more bars I saw her face light up, she found it. “Wait, is this the song the kids were singing at the end of School of Rock!?” I smiled and answered yes, I was massaging Baxter’s ears, another activity I miss. Then her face squinched into confusion again. “ACDC wrote it?” she questioned. I was impressed that she recognized them, she always struggled to keep up with my favorite vocalists. As I looked at her, I could tell she was not convinced I was telling her the truth. In her defense, I did have a tendency to exaggerate purposefully to confuse her or get her agitated. Nothing mean, just harmless playing. “Are you fucking with me?” I was starting to agitated now. “Yes hon, ACDC wrote the song.”  “That little guy in the uniform wrote this song?” she asked. “Well, I am not privy to the inner workings of ACDC’s song writing process. But I am sure that Angus had something to do with it.”  And then I said, “Why the surprise. You’ve heard ACDC before, you like a few of their songs.” She gave me the kind of look a parent gives their child when they discover (SPOILER ALERT!) Santa isn’t real. “Well, I don’t really ‘like’ any of their songs. A few are fun? But this one tells a story, and you know how this girl loves a good story song.” I could not argue that one. But now it was staring to bug me. Nightcrawler and Highway to Hell told stories! In my head I was preparing my counterpoint when she stood up and proclaimed “MATTHEW! I want Starbucks. Take me to Starbucks and you might get lucky tonight!” Again, I couldn’t argue against that.

    ACDC would pop up in our lives a few more times during our marriage, but this is the moment that sticks in my mind. Like a song. I can play it over in my head whenever I want.

  • A new kind of fear

    A new kind of fear

    




    This is a different kind of fear.

    Not like the fear I felt the night I asked her to marry me.

    Not like the fear I felt when we bought our first house.

    Not like the fear I felt when she looked at me and said “I have cancer.”

    Not like the fear I felt when she told me she wanted hospice.

    This is a different kind of fear.

    This kind sticks to me, like sap from a tree.

    This kind of fear stings my eyes like the sweat of a hot summer day.

    And I have to face it alone. 

    It’s that kind of fear. 
    

    


  • 

    Here She Comes Again
    



    

    Here She Comes Again
    



    

    

    

    



    

    




    Here she comes again

    She sits next to me on the couch, and we watch a movie. Then I go to bed, and she says “good night, I’ll see you tomorrow”

    The next time I see her, she is standing behind me in the kitchen as I load the dishwasher. She says nothing. Just watches me with that smirk on her face. You know the one, it says “oh yeah. he’s mine” proudly and boldly.

    And then. In the middle of the night, when I’m lying there staring at the ceiling praying for sleep, she comes. She lies next to me, drapes her arm across my chest, and we both drift off to sleep. She has this quiet little snore, but I never tell her. I keep it for me.

    Sometimes, when it’s quiet in the house, I will hear her laughing at something she is watching in her office. She is going to share it with me, and I will have to feign that I enjoyed it as much as she did. And I do.

    And now I am driving to anywhere and she is in the passenger seat yelling at the car in front us, “THE LINES ARE THERE FOR A REASON JACK ASS!!” and I laugh and watch as she turns to me and says “Hey, let go get pancakes”, And we do. At midnight.

    These little moments make up the day. They haunt me when I’m awake and tease me in my sleep.

    It is vicious, insidious, and painful.

    But it is necessary. Because these images must stay with me. No matter how cruel it may be I can not, will not let go.

    I know someday they will lessen, and it won’t hurt so much to see her.

    Right…?
    

    


  • 

    Our Story: Sing like no one is watching.
    



    

    Our Story: Sing like no one is watching.
    



    

    

    

    



    

    Katy and I both enjoyed the classics. We would listen to new artists when they came into our bubble. She discovered Brandi Carlise when she saw the Indigo Girls, and she became one of those artists we would enjoy together. Most of the time, we relied on the music we both grew up with. A lot of 80s one-hit wonders, and classic stadium anthems. And then there was Dusty Springfield. I knew the name but had never really listened to her music. She was a new artist in my world. One song became a mutual favorite between Katy and me, and it would insert itself into our lives. 

    Son of a Preacher Man, by Dusty Springfield. 

    The first time I heard the song was as part of the Pulp Fiction soundtrack. It was playing as Vincent Vega enters the home of Mia Wallace for their “not a date” date. I remember hearing the lyrics and thinking that it was a somewhat ominous song to play during the initial meeting between the characters. The song is, after all, about doing something you should not be doing, with a person you shouldn’t be doing it with. In my opinion, it was one of those moments when the music was forecasting the plot. Kind of neat when directors can pull that off. 

    There were four songs that Katy would sing on the spot. These were her four inner songs. Songs that she held a personal connection to. We all have them, songs That are tied to you, they are part of you and the connection is so strong the song will never leave you. Think of these songs as part of your own personal soundtrack. You can sing them from start to finish. You know where every signature vocal tick is placed in the song. You can air guitar the solo with pinpoint accuracy. You never Sound as good as the original, but it doesn’t matter. You still sing. 

    With Katy, it did not matter where or when these songs came on, Katy would start singing them. Even if it was a muzak version, she would sing along. Her four inner songs were, 

    Fancy, the Bobbie Gentry version, 

    The Power of Two (you know all about that one.)

    Father Figure by George Michael 

    and Son of a Preacher Man by Dusty Springfield. 

    One beautiful spring Saturday, Katy was on the back deck reading. This was something she enjoyed immensely. Once the warm weather arrived she would spend as much time on the deck as she could. I sometimes called her my favorite lizard. The sun warming her body and a good book in her hands was a perfect Saturday afternoon. This particular Saturday I was in the kitchen preparing burgers for grilling , there was music playing (as I always did), that sexy guitar riff opens the song, and I heard Katy yell out "Turn that up!" I complied and looked out the window just in time to see Katy close her book, close her eyes and enjoy the song. The sun had been re-charging her batteries, and she was ready to sing. And she did.

    From the beginning she was in the song, in the moment if you will. And I loved these moments. Katy was never shy about singing in public, but unless she was performing in a play, she hold back. But when it was just the two of us she would let go.  It was these moments all fear of judgment left her, she was comfortable with me, and she would give it her all. 

    She had pulled one of the other deck chairs over so that it would form a footrest for her, and she stretched out and leaned back into the chair. She kept her eyes closed as she sang. The words flowing out of her in perfect time, she was keeping time with one finger tapping the arm of her chair. I started to wonder just how long she would keep going. Most of the time would only go a few bars in, but for one of her inner songs it she would complete the some. I could tell in her mind she was on stage, an audience before her, on their feet cheering her on. Loud and clear. I suddenly noticed our neighbors behind us standing in their yard watching her. They were smiling as they watched Katy perform. She might’ve stopped if she knew they were watching, But she never opened her eyes. She was in the "sweet spot" and nothing was going to Interfere. As she poured her heart into the song i could see her being transported to to a small that small town church. She was stealing glances from the the preacher’s son. from across the room. She was giving him flirty looks, a shy smile on her face. 

    I never interrupted her, and the neighbors eventually went on with their day. But for a few moments we were given a show, and we enjoyed it. Later that night I asked her about the moment, I didn’t say anything about her audience, I just wanted to know what made her sing out like that on the deck. "I heard the song. I love the song. I sing the song." 

    I learned a few years later that the song was actually the catalyst behind one of her earliest moments of sexual awaking. She was around 14 years old, the song was playing on the radio. She was not unfamiliar with the song, However, this time she felt something.  As Dusty sang about sneaking around with the preacher’s son, stealing kisses when no one was looking, Katy suddenly felt flush. She thought about how exciting it might be to have a secret boyfriend. I had a similar reaction to Joan Jett's cover of Crimson and Clover. As I Listened to her story I thought about how lucky I was to have Experienced two moments of complete comfort and joy from my wife. 

    That is the sign of a good song. It will transport you a better time, or a cherished memory. That day it was a Privilege to see the power of music transport my wife to a place of joy. 

    Now, all I have is the music that filled my life with katy.