And Now She is Gone

Tag: cancer

  • Phuck Cancer (And the Rag That Outlasted It)

    Phuck Cancer (And the Rag That Outlasted It)

    When I first picked up the rag it was approximately 1 a.m. My wife, Katy, had been in surgery for two hours at that point. I was in the hospital cafeteria trying to distract myself by reading. I needed to take my mind off the surgery; my brain has always been good at worst-case scenarios.

    I tried cranking the music I was listening to. I’d made a playlist the other night as I listened to my wife being cheno-sick in the bathroom. The title was “Phuck Cancer”, and it was filled with mostly aggressive tunes — hard rock, metal, Slipknot, DEATH, you get the idea. Currently TOOL was reminding me how fucked up the world is when I realized all Maynard and the boys were doing tonight was exacerbating my current state of anxiety. “Sorry Maynard, I figure you’ll get it,” I thought to myself as I removed my earbuds. Once my buds were tucked away, I gave reading another shot.

    It was really Katy’s idea that I bring a book. I knew I wouldn’t be able to read while she was in surgery, there was no way my anxiety-ridden brain was going to allow me to read a book. But I also knew Katy would feel better knowing I had a book with me. I require the ability to listen to music at any given moment; Katy was the same way with books. I swear that woman had a book in every purse, bag, and pack she carried. She took three with her for the hospital stay. So, I went along with the idea and picked something I’d been meaning to read but always found some excuse to put off.

    I sat alone in the large, low-lit cafeteria and tried again to make it through a sentence. The words wouldn’t settle. I stumbled over them like a shopping cart with a bad wheel, unable to get any traction. After a few lines, I stopped. I didn’t bother marking my place. In that moment, it felt pointless.

    I was sweating, again. I’ve always been a heavy sweater, and when I’m nervous those sweat glands put in overtime. I’d been sweating since Katy and I crossed the threshold of the hospital. Honestly, I’d been sweating since the surgery was scheduled. Her doctor had even asked if I okay after her speech about possible complications, a discussion she assured us she had with every surgery patient for transparency. I could appreciate her intention, but all she managed to do was hand my inner movie director another set of worst-case scenarios. And I was beginning to suspect that director was some cross between David Lynch and Stephen King, with a dash of Tom Savini for pizzazz — some seriously twisted stuff played through my head most nights.

    I grabbed a stack of cafeteria napkins, the brown, worthless kind — essentially just a thin strip of cardboard, non-absorbent. It took three stacks to get my head dry, and then I did another pass with my bare hands to check if any pieces had ripped off and stuck — you’d be surprised what sticks to a bald man’s head when he’s sweaty. My nieces were once entertained for an entire family picnic testing that exact theory with whatever they could find lying around.

    As I stood, I could see the golden arches of McDonald’s through the window. I checked Google Maps — confirmed, walking distance and it was a 24 hour joint. Sometimes a greasy gut bomb is just what the doctor ordered.

    It was cold out and I would be bundled up for the walk. The wind had picked up, and the city streets became wind tunnels in February. I knew between the jacket and my ski cap that I’d be dripping with sweat by the time I arrived, so I started to grab another stack of the useless napkins when I caught sight of some rags on the buffet counter. I walked over and grabbed one, looked around to see if anyone was watching, then glanced up at the ceiling for cameras. Bingo — there were a couple, but they were both pointed at the registers, so I was out of sight. The rag was coarse, not made for rubbing skin — industrial, made to scrub more than absorb. Not the best choice, but it would do. So, it came with me.

    Katy’s surgery was successful, but the cancer was persistent. I held onto that rag and would use it many times over the next few years. In the end, she chose to stop treatment and let fate decide. Well — fate can be a real fucker sometimes. My wife, Mary Katherine (Katy) Jordan, passed away peacefully at home in 2025. I discovered early in her treatment that if I rested a finger on her chemo port, I could feel her pulse. Sometimes at night, especially during her roughest nights, I would fall asleep with my hand there. That evening, sitting on the edge of the bed, I held her hand with one of mine, and with the other I rested my finger on her port. I stayed there until I couldn’t feel her pulse any longer.

    I used the rag to wipe away my tears later that night. In the immediate aftermath, that rag was a kind of grounding tool. In the fog of grief, the more I held it, the more I used it, it slowly became one of those items I used daily. Some days during work it would be balled up in my hand like a makeshift stress ball. Other days I took it with me shopping, it was draped loosely over the shopping cart rail, not for protection from germs, it just feels good under my palms, and it keeps me from screaming “Please move your cart from the middle of the FUCKING AISLE” while I shop. When doing yard work, I often would drench it with cold water, let it sit in the fridge for a couple hours, and then drape it across the back of my neck — something she used to do with a paper towel when I came in from a hot day.

    It just became normal. And when you’re grieving, normal is important.

    I’ve tried to throw it out. When it ripped, I instinctively reacted by moving it to the trash. I ended up standing over the bin, rag in hand, looking at it differently. There was an importance to it now — it was part of my story. Incidental, maybe, but still a part of it. And if I’ve learned anything from this experience, it’s that even the little things can mean so much. In that moment, the rag felt heavy. Not a heaviness that would’ve made it easier to drop into the trash, but a heaviness that made it cling to my hand. Not stuck — it literally felt like it was clinging, as if letting go of it was a mistake.

    It has a home with my drum set now. It’s my sweat rag when I play, which is appropriate — Katy would often watch me play. I don’t understand why the rag is so important to me now, but I’ve never been one to ignore those internal checks and balances that keep me sane. I’ll hold onto it until I don’t need to anymore. I’m sure that someday it will have served its purpose.

    I’m sure even Linus gave up his blanket at some point.

    …Right?

  • What the Music Carries Now

    What the Music Carries Now

    I love how music grows with us. It held our hands through high school, helped us find our voice as young adults, and now, as Gen X begins to enter “old age,” music becomes a connection to our past.

    We find ourselves returning to specific songs or albums in times of stress or trauma. We find comfort or strength in them; they help us remember better times.

    I have a few songs and albums that are forever altered by my experience over the almost six years watching cancer destroy my wife. Each one touched by Katy, but with cancer lingering close behind.

    Listening to this album is tricky now that I’ve lost her. It takes me back to a sunny weekend morning a fresh pot of coffee, Katy working a crossword on the couch with two puppies at her sides. I put on Indigo Girls, and at first she just hums along. By the second verse, she puts her lungs behind it, and the house fills with her beautiful voice.

    But these memories always come with the pain. It gets easier, little by little, to hold the pain back and sit with the peace a while longer. Still, sometimes the pain comes on too fast, and it’s hard to fight back the tears.

    It’s not all bad, though. Those memories bring her back to me for a time.

    Brief as it may be, it’s precious.

    So the music in my life continues to grow with me. And like so much else in my life, it too has to adjust to the trauma of Katy’s death. Yes, there is sadness in the songs, but there is also happiness. They carry Katy with them now. I can hear her, singing. Pitch perfect.

    —

    *Record scratch. Freeze frame.*

    Nearly seven years into our marriage, pre-cancer, we were in the car headed to visit family. “Another Brick in the Wall” came on the playlist, and I started singing along, quietly. She hummed along too. Suddenly she stopped and turned to me.

    “What are the lyrics there?”

    “Uh… we don’t need no… “

    “No! What does he say before the ‘leave those kids alone’ part?”

    “Oh, you mean ‘hey, teacher’?”

    She started laughing, hysterically. I couldn’t help but join in. After a few minutes, she caught her breath and said, “I thought they were screaming ‘hey, preacher, leave those kids alone.’”

    The laughter started again, and it lasted until we arrived at her sister’s house. And then again when she told the story over dinner.

    So now, every time “Another Brick in the Wall” comes on, I don’t hear Pink Floyd. I hear Katy, gasping for air, laughing at herself. So I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.
     

  • The Catharsis of Noise: Finding Peace in Punk After Loss

    The Catharsis of Noise: Finding Peace in Punk After Loss

    As I was processing my wife’s death, I listed to a lot of music. TOOL helped me process the anger and guilt, Pink Floyd made me look inward,and RUSH connected me to better times of my youth. John Denver and the singer-song writers of the 70’s connected me to Katy; she loved Jim Croce. I would mix in various playlists along the way; Apple is a good source of music – 80s Movie Soundtracks and Classic Punk Essentials have become regular plays.


    Classic Punk, the 70’s and 80’s era, is a genre I’ve hovered around for some time. Every heavy metal fan dips their toes into the Punk pool at some point. As a teen groups like Black Flag,The Dead Kennedy’s and the Ramones were known to me. Husker Du and The Melvins I was aware of, and I did not even consider Elvis Costello or the Police as early Punk examples! The longer I hung around the genre, the more I recognized that it is the perfect soundtrack for grief. I understand the hesitancy to accept this one, but hear me out. It’s a record I’ve been playing for the past few years; I think I can make a good argument.


    The first side of this record is about anger and aggression. I was on the edge in those early months after she died. I couldn’t tell you why I was angry, At GOD maybe, Katy for hiding her scans from me. I was a boiling kettle of emotions. Anger is embedded in the fabric of punk. Political and Socio-Economic rage, anger at the mainstream, alienation. These were constant themes in the music. Watching Darby Crash writhing on the stage while singing (Or mumbling, if I am being honest) Manimal was kind of cathartic. Rollins screaming in my ear “Drinking black coffee, staring at the wall / Anger and coffee feeding me” as I would do that very thing was a special moment in my mornings.


    The early stages of grief can be filled with a lot of anger, a volatile, aggressive anger that burns hot and doesn’t know where to go. Listening to punk gave that fury a home; it channeled those ugly, overwhelming emotions into something constructive. But things shifted completely when I sat behind a drum kit. Learning to play those songs was a whole different level of relief. Hitting the drums became a physical manifestation of my pain. Every snare hit was a scream, and every kick drum was a way to smash through the wall of numbness, exhausting the anger until there was finally room to breathe.


    Let’s look at the second side of this record: chaos. Punk is chaotic, and so is grief. When you lose a life partner, your world rips in half. You are forced to navigate a terrifying new space without the one person you trusted implicitly. Early punk bands mirrored this exact shift. They lacked talent but possessed an abundance of passion and raw emotion. Those kids didn’t know what they were doing, yet they played anyway. This DIY ethos was famously summarized in a 1977 zine cartoon: “This is a chord. This is another. Now form a band.” The priority was raw, unpolished survival over formal ability.


    When you first arrive in Griefville, everything is raw fury. Like those early punks, you have no idea what you are doing. It’s like waking up, swinging your feet out of bed, and stepping directly into ice-cold water when you only know how to doggie paddle. For me, punk music was the life preserver. Those kids just wanted to make noise and share it with friends. They surely questioned if it was worth it, breaking through walls of self-doubt to realize the music was saving them. That is the heart of punk—it isn’t about perfection, it’s about survival. I am channeling that exact, unpolished chaos to fight my way through the suffocating chaos of grief.


    I never thought I’d rely on punk music for my mental stability. But then again, most of my fellow Gen-Xers are finding that everything in our 50s falls into the “I never thought I’d experience this” category.


    Punk is the perfect companion to grief. Everyone’s soundtrack looks different. Some choose to cry alone in a dark room; others want to smash things. Mine is built on raw screams, out-of-tune guitars, and a blood-soaked Darby Crash reminding me I’m not alone.

  • Sit With It, Matthew!!

    Sit With It, Matthew!!

    “You need to sit with those emotions”-My therapist tells me this at least every third session. Supposedly, facing the myriad of emotions left behind by the death of my wife is necessary. And while I understand the purpose behind the words, I don’t like them. The experience makes me feel uncomfortable, sometimes forcing me to pay attention to that part of me that needs it.


    I am very good at avoiding.


    Wait—I should be honest. I have been IGNORING a lot of what has been tumbling around my brain for the past year. If you avoid something, there is some presumption of tackling the issue later, maybe at a better time. To ignore the issue means, well, out of mind, out of sight.


    I spent the past year wandering in a cloud of THC. I turned away whenever the pain pounded. If it is an action that causes the pain, I stop. If the destination was a trigger, I do not go.
    The memory ambush is the hardest. When I see a coffee mug she favored, or hear her voice in a recording from the past, these are the moments that hit hard, and they hit low. How can I be expected to sit and hold hands with dark and uncomfortable things?


    It’s easy to just get high and zone out on X-Files, but eventually it catches up. And when this type of clog breaks, it’s often messy. Like congealed grease in a clogged drain.


    It’s taken some time, but I see that the emotions I’ve been ignoring are a part of me now; they are a part of the experience that was my life with Katy. I don’t want to forget any part of it, even the bad.
    One of the last things Katy said to me was- “You have more story to tell”. It was the inspiration for my tattoo, and what I am hoping will drive me to better days.


    So, I am going to sit with the emotion when it hits. I’m gonna see where it came from, and I’m gonna look at it until it’s not as intimidating anymore. It will shrink to a more manageable size, and then I’ll tuck it away, someplace neat and out of the way. It will still be there, and maybe one day I’ll need (Or maybe WANT) to look at it again, and I’ll know where it is.


    And eventually I’ll have more room for my new story.

  • What’s In The BOX!?!?!

    What’s In The BOX!?!?!

    I’ve been struggling lately, especially with letting go. For three months, four boxes of chinaware for Goodwill and one box of Katy’s things for a friend have sat untouched—I keep making excuses instead of dealing with them. Usually, I’m good at procrastinating, but this feels different.

    How might you ask? I was scared; these boxes held items important to my wife. The chinaware was among our first purchases after moving in together. Katy loved hosting and always had creative party ideas. One Halloween at work, she made “Texas-Chainsaw mac and cheese” for the potluck. COME ON!!!

    Unfortunately, she never got to use her chinaware, and I am NOT the hosting type, so I took it to Goodwill. The box going to a friend contains the dessert cups Katy used when she made the Guinness Pub Pudding for one of our gatherings along with some shirts I didn’t want to share with just anyone and some Tomte related items, Katy and I both had a love of Scandinavian lore and history. 

    I dropped off the items at Goodwill and mailed off the package this morning. 

    Whew.

    And now I’m sitting here feeling good. The empty spaces the boxes once occupied make the room seem larger, not empty. It’s a satisfying sense of accomplishment.

    With the support of my therapist, I recognized that it is a normal response to feel apprehensive about this process. Each item had significance from my time with Katy, and parting with them at Goodwill raised concerns about relinquishing connections to those memories. There were a couple of ways in which I approached the process. 

    First: What am I afraid of? If others can enjoy owning a nice set of china even a little as much as Katy did, that’s positive. I imagine a young couple finding it at Goodwill, feeling proud to afford a nice set. She would appreciate that.

    Second: The material is not the memory. Yes, a material item can trigger the memory; but the memory, the images, smells, and sounds of the moment tied to the item will always be within you. She is not IN them. If I am honest with myself, she is in the urn on the bookshelf, surrounded by her Stephen King Books. Just the way she wanted it. All the memories I have of her are tucked safely away in my mind. 

    Have I lost a part of me? Yes, but what I am missing now is not in any of Katy’s former belongings. I’ve lost a part of me. I recall something my mother frequently said when Dad was deployed while we were children. “It is not easy being a mom without your father here with me, try playing baseball with only one arm.” I did not get it then, now I do. When Katy Died, a part of me died as well. It’s that simple. I feel like I’ve lost one leg and I am learning to walk again. 

    This morning was a step in the right direction. A small step, but an important one. Next up…her books.

  • Talking Cats and Ghost Stories in Walmart.

    Talking Cats and Ghost Stories in Walmart.

    Katy and Mirren-our female cat- bonded immediately. When she turned that corner in Pet Smart, she was eye to eye with Mirren, almost like Mirren knew she was coming, and it was love at first sight. Most of the pictures you see of Mirren as a kitten are with Katy. Mirren would sleep with Katy on those nights she had to sleep on the couch because she was too weak to walk up the stairs. Mirren would lay on the hospice bed with Katy, until she couldn’t. Ever since Katy passed, Mirren has become very talkative. I will hear her upstairs in the hallway chittering. She will sit outside the downstairs bath and cry, like she used to do when Katy was vomiting in there on the worst days.


    Last night I had to make a quick Walmart run for kitty litter. I made a stop in the toy aisle, just to browse, and bumped carts with a lady browsing as well. She was cute, but way too young for me. I apologized, she smiled and said it was fine.


    I started looking at the scratch pads when she suggested one that gets for her cats. This sparked your typical cat person conversation, we shared pictures and discussed those little quirks that annoyed us, but we put up with it. And then I shared the story that I shared with you in the opening. She gave her condolences and then shared something with me that made me cry.


    Her family is from the Philippines, her grandmother was a very spiritual person and firmly believed that not only do cats have a connection to the dead, but they can also communicate with the dead. Her grandmother’s house was always filled with cats and after her husband died, she would regularly have conversations wither her husband via the cats. This young lady said that Mirren is talking to Katy.
    I lost it. She hugged me and apologized, and I pulled myself together and refused her apology. She had nothing to apologize for. Her story was beautiful, and I will think about it next time I hear Mirren’s cry coming from somewhere in the house.


    This morning as I brewing my coffee, Mirren came walking into the kitchen. She started rubbing up against my calf. She gave me a few little chitters and then started walking toward the patio door. She sat and looked out the back door and cried out.


    “Good morning, my love.”

  • Boobs and Blood as Therapy.

    Boobs and Blood as Therapy.

    This blog post is gonna be a little bit different than what you are all used to.


    As I navigate this scary new world I now inhabit, I take pleasure wherever I can find it. Most of the time that pleasure comes in the form of music. New albums and concerts have been a big part of my therapy. Films have been a nice distraction as well. This year marks the 45th anniversary of my favorite horror franchise, Friday the 13th. These films have been a part of my life since I saw Part 2 at the age of 9 and I have been hooked ever since. If Halloween opened the door for the “unstoppable” slasher genre film, Friday the 13th used the heads of horny teens to prop it open. My wife Katy HATED these movies, but she would sit and watch them with me from time to time and the couch would quickly become The Satellite of Love from MS3TK. I have always been aware of how ridiculous these films can get, that is part of the attraction for me; I believe that if I had had more time Katy might’ve grown to appreciate their entertainment value.


    The franchise has had some classics-The first film and FT13: New Beginning are often recognized as modern horror landmarks-and there have been a few forgettable entries-Jason Takes NY is kind of lame-but even the worst of these films entertain on some level, if you can’t enjoy the sleeping bag kill in New Blood, I can’t help you friend.


    Friday the 13th also introduced me to the concept of “less is more”. My introduction to the franchise was in the form of made for TV cuts. All the boobs and blood were removed. There is something more intense about these films when they were cut properly, they are more effective without the gore and jump scares. To this day, I prefer NOT to see the monster until the last possible moment, and I like my kills in the form of some well mixed sound from off screen. As I got older and was able to watch the films in their original cuts my love of them grew. As the kills became sillier, the “jump scares” became more obvious and the plots just disappeared each of the movies became more comforting to me. Now they often play in the background as I’m building a LEGO set or doing a crossword. I still line up for theatrical re-releases; and yes, one is playing as I type this. And every Friday the 13th weekend I randomly choose two to binge.


    Find what makes you happy and embrace it. Comfort yourself in your own way, particularly when grieving. And my thanks to Jason for offering a distraction as I navigate life without Katy. Your support is appreciated.

  • No gifts this year

    No gifts this year

    With my birthday coming up I’ve been thinking about Katy a lot. Birthdays were never a big thing for Katy and I; we did not throw parties or buy lavish gifts for each other. We preferred to play hooky from work and spend the day together; that was a gift. Sometimes we would catch a matinee and other times we would treat ourselves to a daylong session of retail therapy at IKEA and Potomac Mills. Each followed by dinner at Red Robin. We had joined the Red Robin club early in our relationship, she did love a good burger. One of the perks was a free burger for your birthday. She was always so excited for that burger. For number 43 we had to stay home because I was sick. She went out and bought a movie that I had been talking about, and she brought home Red Robin.


    She was a gift.


    Katy did have one tradition on my birthday; it is one of those small things I took for granted. And it is something that I will miss immensely. The first time I slept over on my birthday she performed a gesture of her connection to me, and she would continue this right up to the last one. Just in case we have any readers that lean to the pervy side (not saying there is anything wrong with that); it’s nothing X-Rated. PG-13 maybe. You be the judge.


    On the morning of my birthday, and every Christmas morning I should add, she would somehow wake up before me. Katy was not a morning person. So, the fact that she would make an effort to rise before me makes this all even more special. She would get up, walk over to my side of the bed, lean down and whisper in my ear “Happy birthday, my love”. The “my love” did not come until later; in the beginning she would say “you sexy ape”. Then she would gently kiss my ear and head downstairs to take care of the dogs, which was my typical morning duty. Some years she would make me breakfast. Other years she would order Bob Evans. That little gesture was a gift. Katy’s love language was affirmation and quality time. Mine are, if you’re interested, acts of service and physical touch. I miss my cuddle buddy. Katy would do things like this throughout the year, but her birthday kiss was the one I looked forward to the most, and it will be missed.


    If there is anything I regret, it’s that I never told her how much I looked forward. I never told her how that kiss would make my cheeks feel hot and wake the butterflies in my stomach. I didn’t thank her for getting out of bed much earlier than she is used to, to take care of the dogs so I could sleep in. I never told her how much I appreciated her sitting through some weird or gory or boring for her kind of movie because I just “had to see it in theaters”. I never told her how sorry I was for dragging to a different record store every year, sometimes several in one day, and make her wait as I flick my way through ever album in the store before deciding they have nothing I want and ask her to go to another one. I like to think that as I write this she is somehow watching, or listening, or picking up my mental waves in some Star Treky kind of empathy way, and knows how sorry I am.


    This year I will not be celebrating. At least not from my end. I will not shoo away anyone that comes to me with birthday greetings, or bring gifts (nudge, nudge, wink, wink). But from my end it’s just another day. I am even working this year, and will be driving into the office, and I will be blowing some money at Mobius Records in Fairfax. It’s gonna take some time for my birthday, any holiday for that matter, to feel special again.


    I will forever miss her gifts.

  • A connection via Sticky Notes?

    Grief has made me recognize little things that I took for granted in the 20 years I was with Katy.


    In a marriage, at least in my experience, there comes a point when your partner develops into something more than just a partner, they become the eyes in the back of your head, or a 2nd pair of hands. If you are lucky this connection comes naturally, no work is required, like it did with Katy and I. Sometimes, you have to work at it, but either way, once that connection is established, it can become so normal you don’t even realize how important it has become. In my case, I became so accustomed to the connection I did notice how easily it fit into my life. 


    I lost count how many times Katy would stand behind me in the bathroom and say “Hold on, you got one of those little pimples on your back.”-Before you start twisting your face in disgust, if you are in a “serious” relationship and your other person does NOT pop the hard-to-reach zits for you, than I am afraid you are doing it wrong-There were a few instances when brought me a fresh towel while I was in the shower because she knew I had forgotten to grab one. 


    At times, we would put ourselves on a financial lock down, during these periods we only bought what we needed versus what we wanted. These periods were typically inspired by a vacation or home repair. During the lock down, Katy was that voice in my head that would tell me to put it back, it’s not a necessity. Other timed, she would be the devil on my shoulder saying “Fuck it, let’s buy it” When ordering dinner at one of our regular restaurants, she was there to remind me that I don’t like the way this particular restaurant fixes their masked potatoes, or the French fries are always soggy. 


    My point is, once your person is gone, you find yourself at a disadvantage; Last night as I was stepping out of the shower, I looked to my left where my towel should have been hanging, only to realize that I had not grabbed a new towel before hopping in. Driven on pure instinct, I took a breath and started to yell out her name. I stopped myself and stood there thinking through how I was going to get a fresh towel. I honestly did not know what I was going to do. This wasn’t the first time this had happened to me, I just had not recognized it until that moment of emptiness.


    Eventually, I snapped out it and just grabbed an older towel to dry off. As I venture deeper into this new world, I am slowly and cautiously learning how to navigate without her by my side. I still have her voice in my head

    that will NEVER leave, but the physical manifestation of her voice has transformed to sticky notes. I have them pinned around the house to ensure I don’t forget those things that she used to remind me of. 


    I never thought at 51 I would find yet another use for those little yellow pads. 

  • 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