And Now She is Gone

Tag: life

  • 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.

  • Its Just a Name. Right?

    Its Just a Name. Right?

    I had to go to the DMV today to have Katy’s name removed from the title of the Jeep. This allowed me to renew the registration for a couple years. It was not a bad experience, but it was not my favorite moment of the year by far.

    I arrived fully prepared to complete the task set before me, having anticipated any emotions that might arise. Although I initially approached the process with a sense of accomplishment for addressing another challenging responsibility, I began to experience a wave of emotion as the young woman behind the glass went through the procedure for removing Katy’s name from yet another document. My head started to feel light and my knees were shaky. I gripped the edge of the counter, closing my eyes as I lowered my head and tried to collect myself. I focusing on not losing my cool, or my cookies, in the middle of the DMV. In my attempt to maintain my focus, I looked up and observed my surroundings. I was trying to find an object that I could focus on when I suddenly noticed there was a police officer standing next to me. He was in a ready position in case I was gonna pass out.  Slightly embarrassed, I steadied myself against the counter and gave everyone a reassuring smile. The young lady behind the glass appeared relieved, and the officer returned to his post as I started to appear more steady on my feet.

    Right about this time I looked down to see my wife’s name staring at me. Her death certificate was still lying open on the other side of the glass, and it was suddenly the only thing I could see.  The bold black font popped against the light blue background, with perfect type and spacing that Katy would have appreciated. She enjoyed using classic typewriters, once spending five minutes punching keys and laughing in an antique shop. She was so happy in that moment, and I tried to take it in. I tried to touch the moment. Tried to smell the shop, hear the keys, her laughter again…

    However, the moment was interrupted by a young lady behind a thick sheet of glass, just trying to do her job. “SIR! Do you have any other questions about removing your wife’s name?”  As she asked this, she passed my documents back to me. She had placed them in a nice little pile with highlighted notes on the most important pieces. I still looked through to the pile to ensure I had everything, and then I held up the death certificate and studied her name again, and I said, “Wish you had some knowledge on how to remove it from this one?” The poor girl sat there, her mouth was open and her face had gone white. She was terrified and I could see was actually trying to come up with the answer. This was when I noticed the “EMPLOYEE IN TRAINING-please be patient” sign right taped to the glass directly in front of me.

    I thanked the young lady for her time and sat down to fill out the required paperwork. Once I received the new title, I put it away in the important folder and went about the rest of my day.

    Later that evening, as I reflected on what had happened, I recognized how silly my reaction really was. Valid, mind you. But silly at its core. It’s a piece of paper issued by the government for some reason or another.  Her name being removed from the title of the car, or the bank account, or the Barnes and Noble account, will not erase her from my memories. i.e., silly.

    She will always be a part of me, and I will never forget her or the time I had with her. No matter how many documents or accounts I must remove her name from.

    I am sure there are some still out there waiting for me.

  • 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.

  • Our Story: It all started with a CD

    Our Story: It all started with a CD

    




    The very first connection I had with Katy came when we discovered we were both Indigo Girls fans, and the song that inspired that revelation was The Power of 2. 

    Before we get too deep into my story, I wanted to share a little background info to set the scene. We had reached a point in the relationship where I didn’t really know what to do. Before Katy, most of the girls I had dated, not even dated honestly, they were more along the lines of a series of “hook-ups”. No connection. And then Katy came into the picture. Katy was different. And when I recognized this, to my surprise, I thought that maybe, just maybe, I was falling in love. And that scared me, not because I didn’t think I could handle it. It was more because I did not want to fuck it up. I had to play this right way, not rush.

    So, I made her a Mix-CD.

    Music was the glue that held it all together for me in those days. I was wandering day by day in a fog. Drifting from one meaningless job to the next. When Katy and I met, I was working the night shift at the local ER. I would tell people I helped to verify insurance for admitted patients. In reality, I was a copy boy. Every night I spent 4 hours preparing medical files for copying and then I would spend 3 hours copying those files and putting them away. I still don’t know why I was doing it, but it was a job. I felt like I was one bad decision and away from living on the streets. But, through all this music kept me from doing something I would regret. I would like to say that it was one song that would inspire me to do great things. I kind of wish I had had some cathartic moment when the clouds opened wide and there was David Gilmour, surrounded by angels, singing “Learning to Fly”, and I was like “FUCK! I got it now. Thank you, David Gilmour,” but it was just music in general. No matter how shitty my day was, when it was over, my friends were waiting for me on stage to sing the fog away. And the genre didn’t matter. Once I hit 30, the line that separated genres disappeared. Good music is good music. 

    Therefore, the idea of a Mix-CD was perfect. It was the best way for me to express these new feelings fluttering inside me in ways that would allow me to get my message across to her. The Mix CD had done so for countless other’s right!? I mean, who didn’t have one of those CD carry cases with a collection of your personal mixes for every occasion? They all had titles like “GET PUMPED!” or “I’d Hit That!!” I always preferred more creative titles for my CDs. For example, “The music plays in R2D2’s head 24/7” which was a collection of my favorite Tangerine Dream tracks. So, now that I had decided on the CD, I began thinking about what songs I wanted on the CD. I had to be careful. I didn’t want to freak her out, so I stayed away from anything that could be interpreted as serial killer vibes. Every Breath You Take was off the list. I also wanted to avoid cliché songs. No Journey, (Look, I love Journey, but let’s be honest…) I also wanted to avoid sappy songs. You know, those songs that people dedicate to the person they saw standing at the other end of the subway car, “I hope you hear this, let’s connect!”. No Air Supply. Katy and I had discussed music. I knew she enjoyed Sarah McLaughlin and worshipped Dolly Parton and HATED cover songs. Except those sung by Phil Collins. That was the extent of my knowledge in this area. So, I spent the next 6 hours shifting through the catalogue of music in my brain for the perfect tracks. 

    I started out with The Violent Femmes cover of Epp App Ork Ah Ah. I added I Wanna be your Boyfriend by the Ramones, and Pride and Joy by Stevie Ray Vaughn. And then the Indigo Girls, Power of Two. I used a live version of the song from 1200 Curfews. This one was picked for a specific reason. I was falling in love with Katy. I accepted this about halfway through my makeshift recording session. As I listened to Amy and Emily sing, I heard the lyrics for the first time. Or maybe it was more like they were different to me now. They suddenly started to make sense to me. I understood what they were singing about. I felt what they were singing about. It was Katy. At that moment, I knew I was falling for her, hard. It was a whole new song to me, and it said everything I wanted to say. By the time I was finished, there were 11 songs on the CD. Each one meticulously curated from my own personal collection. I sat on my bed, my laptop still playing music, and I looked at the CD. This is it, Matt. You give her this CD and she is gonna know your fucking heart will be on display. This is either going to be the first step toward something great, or your first true heartbreak. 

    A few days later, I went to her place. We went out for dinner, but I had to head home that night due to an early morning the next day. I gave her the CD. “Here, I made this for you” we were standing on the steps leading to the front door of the townhouse she shared with her sister. She looked at me, a smile beginning to form, and she asked, “Did you make me a CD?”, My face suddenly felt puffy, and a sudden flush of embarrassment slammed into my cheeks and my stomach did a cartwheel. “I did. Is that okay?” She sprang towards me and I had to catch her. When she drooped to her feet she squealed, “No one has ever made me a CD!” and she kissed me deep and hugged me hard. She grabbed the CD and kissed me again. Then turned and skipped into her house.  

    About a week later, I was at her place again. We were discussing what we wanted to do for the evening. It was one of my overnight trips and we always tried to do something fun on those visits. I had not asked her about the CD yet. I didn’t want to come off as desperate. So, I kept my mouth shut. We finally landed on ordering Chinese and staying in. We got her sister’s order, and we sat down on the couch to watch something while we waited for our food. I decided this was a good time to ask her if she had listened to the CD. “Oh, right! I loved it!”. She was telling me about the songs she liked, but I didn’t hear any of it. All I could think about was that the fact that this woman that I was quickly falling in love with enjoyed the CD I made for her. 

    Nothing else mattered at that moment. 

    The next thing I realize, the food is there and all three of us are standing in the kitchen. She and her sister are talking about the CD. After Katy had listened to it, she had to have her sister hear it. She would admit to me later in our marriage that they had listened to the CD in her sister PT Cruiser. They would listen intently to each song and then discuss what it could’ve meant, what was he trying to say. Suddenly, Katy looked at me. “I want to listen to it again, but with you. I want you to tell me the story behind each song” This was new, “What do you mean, why I choose them?” She thought about that for a second. “If you are comfortable sharing that, yes. I want to know why you love these songs. I have a feeling that each of those songs was hand-picked, and I want to hear the story behind why you picked each one.” She looked with a stern pout, like she would throw a tantrum if she didn’t get her way.  So, we listened to the CD together.  

    We went to her room, which was in the basement, set up our dinner, put on the CD and settled in. As each song played, she would ask questions like “Where were you the first time you heard this?” or “What do the lyrics mean to you?” And with each song, I opened up a bit more.  

    I want to take a moment here to explain something. You are going to hear a lot through these stories. I believe that in every relationship there are little moments strewn throughout that will make up the fabric of that relationship. These moments weave together over time and create a blanket. And that blanket will warm you when you are cold. It will hide you when you are scared. And it will be a pillow when you’re too tired to hold your head up. This was a moment. In fact, this was one of the earliest moments between Katy and me; this is when we began to weave our blanket. 

    Okay, back to the story.

    The Power of Two started playing. Katy had stood up to stretch out and froze. She looked over at me, smiled and said, “I was surprised to hear this one on my CD.” She sat back down, but now she turned herself to face me. She suddenly had this serious look on her face. She was on to something. She leaned in close and said, “You don’t seem like an Indigo Girls kind of guy.” So, I told her about the time I was hanging out at a friend’s house and this friend was listening to the album Nomads, Indians and Saints. When I hear Chicken Man, I stopped what I was doing and listened. Amy Ray’s voice felt somehow off to me, like she shouldn’t be singing the song, but it still fit perfectly. And the harmonies were like nothing I had ever heard. I immediately asked to borrow the CD and listened to it 3 times that night. I was officially a fan. Katy listened to the entire story with interest and excitement. She giggled here and there. Would, as normal, ask me clarifying questions throughout? And then she told me about her love for the duo. Their music was a strong bond between her and her sister. They would sing the songs, harmonizing perfectly. They were both fantastic singers, and I was privileged to hear their rendition of a few songs. 

    We ended up talking about music until the wee hours of the night. After her CD was over, she put in Paul Simon, Graceland (more on this one later) and that led us to a discussion about our favorite 70s singer songwriters. And then I ran out to my truck and grabbed my CDs and we listened to Def Leppard, Pyromania. I explained to her how this was the last good Def Leppard album. All that over produced, MTV branded sugar on me bullshit was, well, shit. It was easy for me to nerd out when talking about music, and I was normally on guard against it. But with Katy, I wasn’t on guard anymore. The conversation flowed between us smoothly, intently listening to each other and learning how to navigate each other’s rhythms. It was really special. 
    The Power of Two would remain a part of our lives. It was our song. Our first dance. And music would continue to be our glue. It drew us closer to each other through the discovery of each artist. Every song she had never heard was another opportunity for me to settle her deeper into my world. And we would spend hours discussing the lyrics to various songs. Our favorite game was created that night. We called it The List. One of us would ask the other, “What are your top 5 Love songs?” or “Give me your top 10 songs used in car chase scenes” We would play that game until we couldn’t stay awake. 

    This is our story through music that connected us.  
    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
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    Our Story: What’s on TV?
    
			
    Our Story: What’s on TV?
    
			
    

    Every relationship has a period where the two participants are trying to figure each other out. It typically begins when the couple decides to cohabitate, a significant step often filled with anticipation and the subtle scent of new beginnings. This can be a pivotal moment in any relationship. Moving in together will tell the two humans whether they are compatible 25/7. Seeing this person on a date night or a weekend stay over is one thing, but when these two individuals live their lives in close proximity to each other, sometimes right on top of each other, things get real. 

    For Katy and me, there was a period of fine tuning. We each had annoying habits that we either had to destroy -mine was smoking-or little quirks that no one else had ever seen. For example, Katy had this thing about her drinks. She almost never finished one. She would grab a bottle of Dr. Pepper, her favorite soda, and sip on it as she watched Grey’s Anatomy, or worked a crossword. Let me be clear, she would sip it. I’m not sure I ever saw Katy “gulp” down a drink. She wasn’t proper about it, she wasn’t trying to be prim or polite, she just never “gulped”. She would eat the same why, tiny bites, nice and slow, “I want to enjoy the taste” she would say whenever I would joke about her bird like picking at her food. Because of this slow and steady approach to her beverages, it was not uncommon for her to have a half bottle of Dr. Pepper sitting there when she was ready for bed. So, one of two things would happen. If it was a Dr. Pepper or one of her Starbucks concoctions, it would end up in the freezer. Katy loved the texture of slushy drinks; she would enjoy those days post-surgery when all she could “eat” was ice chips. At any time, I could open our freezer and see four or five cups, can or travel mugs filled with some drink in various stages of the freezing process. The other options, and this was the one that I had to work with for 19 years, was when she would leave the half empty bottle, can, cup, whatever she was drinking it from, right where it was. 

    She never did it consciously. It is important to mention this. She wasn’t a slob; she just had the kind of brain that would allow putting off work until late, or next week.. If, in her mind, the task before her was too much for her or it did not fit with whatever activity she was ready for, she wouldn’t do it. She was very good at procrastinating. In here mind, (and it would take me a few years to understand this) as she stood to go to bed, she would remember the half-drunk beverage sitting there, then she would look in the kitchen’s direction and think about how far it was from the couch to the kitchen, then she would think about how much easier it would be to just pick the container up as she passed it in the morning when she walked from the bedroom to the kitchen to get her morning before coffee. There, the problem is solved. 
    Katy was not a morning person, she would end up walking past the container from the previous night, as if it became invisible overnight. This is where our little game would begin; this is a game that would continue right up to play out right up to the day she was constrained to the Hospice bed. I would leave the container right where it was, and would wait to see how long before she would take to the sink for washing. Sometimes the container would sit there for days growing a carpet of mold, at which point I would break down, dump whatever was left and wash the container until the next round. 

    I was never angry about this, at first it was more confusion than anger. I grew up with a Marine. You did not leave your dirty dishes lying around the house, much less waste what you poured. That was just wasteful. I couldn’t understand how her parents had never taught her this simple act that holds the superstructure of our society together. You remember the movie Signs, with the daughter that kept glasses half full of water all over her room and the house. Eventually (spoiler alert) we learn that is what is saving the family from complete annihilation. Well, as we would get deeper into our marriage, the half empty container became a sign of endearment for me. As long as she continued to leave her half-finished beverages around the house, things were normal. After she was gone, I would continue to find these containers around the house. There was a half-finished glass of water in our bedroom, on her side of the bed. It sat for 3 months before I was able to take care of it. 

    Anyway, those little things that come up in this early phase can either make or break the couple. However, as you continue to navigate these twists and turns, you will also find things that you have in common. My favorite part of those early days of Katy and me living together was when we discovered something new that we both enjoyed. For Katy and me, these were a few television shows. This was before streaming when TV was still a destination. We quickly sank into the mysteries of LOST. We fell in love with Sheldon and the gang on Big Bang. But the one show that grabbed us both right away was, and I hate to admit this, was American Idol. 
    It became a weekly viewing for us. Tuesday nights, 8pm. Katy and I would prepare for viewing with a snack. We would have our favorites each season. During the auditions, we would pick our favorites and decide who should win it all. We would laugh at the bad auditions, marvel and hiding talent, and admonish Cowell when he was too harsh’ we also praise him when he was right. Each season would pick our favorites. We both enjoyed Clay, we were shocked about Hudson, and we both thought Kelli was adorable. 

    But there was only one signer that made Katy actually vote, Chris Daughtry. He had that gravel to his voice that made Katy swoon. She loved the clean vocals of a good singer/songwriter, and a slight southern twang was preferred in her country. However, when it came to rock and roll, she wanted some gravel in the voice. Nothing unintelligible, mind you. She was a stickler for clear pronunciation. But if the singer has a touch of scratch to their vocals, she was all in. Katy was not gender specific either. Male or female, it was all about the gravelly voice to her. Kim Karnes, Joplin and Sting all got her toes tapping equally. 

    He was smart to open with “Wanted Dead or Alive”, hands down Katy’s favorite Bon Jovi song. I thought his performance of Cash’s “Walk the Line” sealed the deal for him. For Katy, it was his rendition of “What a Wonderful World” that was the song that was going to win him the whole kit and Kaboodle. He was voted off during the Top 4 week. Katy was devastated. She was livid. At first, she sat there in shock. I followed along as she went through each stage of fandom grief. First there was a shock. This is not happening. Something is wrong. Maybe we missed something. Anger replaced the shock. The sound was bad, he couldn’t hear himself, that is why his voice didn’t sound right. Maybe it was the mic. After that comes disappointment. This journey we had been on together was over. The best singer on the show just got voted off. America is stupid. These thoughts would be applied to the 2016 election in the same attempt to make sense of it all. Welcome to fandom, my love. 

    She would go through the same rollercoaster of emotion watching Orange is the New Black at least twice and almost weekly watching Grey’s Anatomy. 

    Over the next few seasons, we gradually stopped watching. The fun wasn’t there anymore. None of the new contestants were as exciting. Katy said the show suddenly felt disingenuous. It became something different to us at that point. It wasn’t taking the music seriously anymore. They were just looking for the next face they could plaster on marketing materials. Because of this, people that hated the show would pick a contestant that either had no talent or was just an annoying person. She was exceptionally upset when that one kid kept getting voted to the next round when he was obviously not as talented as the other singers. I guess it was a way to mock the show. We both understood why they were doing it, but we felt that it removed the legitimacy of the contest. What was the point? 

    Daughtry became one of our musical bonds. I continued to listen to his music, and I would always share his singles with her when they were released. We would often listen to his music when goofing off around the house or yard. Daughtry and Lizzy Hale released a cover of Separate Ways by Journey in April 2023. Katy really enjoyed it, which was a shock. I’ve mentioned it was one of the few non-Phil Collins covers she would allow. When Katy went into hospice, she created a playlist on Spotify. It was full of the songs she loved, and several of Chris Daughtry’s songs were on the list. 

    Daughtry’s music takes me back to those early days when Katy and I were still navigating this unfamiliar territory we were in. There was a lot of confusion, embarrassment and awkwardness to overcome in those days; but the music kept us moving in the right direction. 
    

    
			
    
		
    
		
	
  • 
		
		
    
			
			
    Till Death Do Us Part
    
			
    

    




    Till death do us part. 
    I initially was not fond of these words in our vows. 

    They were a heavy thing to say on the day we got married. A day of celebration. I found the term to be depressing. They even felt threatening, as if the something or someone did not want us to get too comfortable in our new life together. 

    Little did I know the truth behind them.

    When we first heard the words “it’s cancer” our vows came rushing back to me, “till death do us part” smacked me across the face and then landed in my lap like a cold, wet blanket. 

    The words were suddenly very real. They went from being just out of my sight, like a shadow observed from the corner of my eye, to standing right in front of me. Laughing and pointing at my naivete. 

    No one expects “till death do us part” to turn out to be true. You imagine you will at least get a good 50 years with your person. My parents did, their parents did. Why not us?

    She and I would imagine ourselves as the old couple that all the teenage girls would observe and say, “I hope I find that kind of love someday.”  

    She and I would joke about being the funniest, most chaotic couple in the retirement home. I would flirt with the nurses and she would assure them I was harmless. “He’s always been the horny one,” she would say to them. 

    Our life together was cut short. We were not allowed to grow old together. Fate denied us that. And I was thrust into a dark and confusing room without her to guide me. 

    “Till death do us part” has meaning to me now. Weight. It is tangible and I understand their purpose.

    They are there to make us recognize that we are not in control. Death is out there, and we are powerless to stop it. 

    Those words are meant to ensure we do not take the time we have with them for granted. They remind us to focus on every minute. To make an etching of every hour. To record every second of your time together. 
    Do not dwell on the words. Do not let them interfere. But do not forget them. 

    I did. I let them fade into the background because I was convinced nothing could happen to me and her. We would have plenty of time. We would experience all of life together.

    Till Death Do Us Part.