And Now She is Gone

Tag: lossofspouse

  • I Want to Die: Four Words That Can Mean Two Different Things

    I Want to Die: Four Words That Can Mean Two Different Things

    A quick note before you read: this one gets into suicidal ideation, a hospital stay, and grief. If any of that is heavy for you right now, take care of yourself first—the 988 Lifeline (call or text) is there any time, day or night.

    I just finished Hacks. I can’t say I loved it—not really my cup of tea—but it certainly left an impression. Chock-full of memorable lines, one of which has stuck with me since I first heard it.

    Season 4, Episode 6: Ava angrily quits her job and walks down to the beach at night. Deborah tracks her down, mistakes another redhead in the ocean for her, and swims out fully clothed to rescue the wrong woman. When Deborah turns around and screams, “I thought you were drowning yourself!”, Ava sighs and replies, “Yeah, I’m not suicidal. I just want to die.”

    One morning, a few months after losing my wife, I found myself in the hospital. The whole incident is kind of a fog-induced blur—I just know that I was scared. The official diagnosis was severe depression with suicidal ideation. When I heard the word suicide, years of repressed Baptist guilt came rushing to the surface, and I suddenly felt like I was doing something wrong, as if there were a right way to grieve. I didn’t know how to unpack the word, or what it meant to—or for—me.

    I’m not suicidal. I just want to die.

    People hear “I just want to die” and think it’s about ending something. It isn’t. It’s about the fact that something has already ended.

    When you lose the person you built your future around, you don’t just lose them—you lose the future itself. Every plan that had her in it. Every version of getting older that assumed her name would still be there. That future didn’t fade or change shape. It died the same day she did.

    So when I say I don’t want to be here, I’m not talking about here as in alive. I’m talking about here as in this version of the world; the one where I’m asked to build a new future out of a life I never chose and never wanted. Nobody gave me a say in it. I just woke up one day and the future I’d been living toward was gone, and everyone expected me to want a different one instead.

    That’s not a death wish. That’s grief refusing to pretend the math still works.

  • 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.
     

  • A Target Shelf, a House-Elf, and a Memory

    A Target Shelf, a House-Elf, and a Memory

    She actually squeaked when she spotted Dobby sitting on a shelf in Target.

    Give her a character who’s misunderstood, picked on, beaten down, or carrying some emotional weight that nudges them toward bad choices, and she latches on instantly—like a mother desperate to protect her child.

    We never had kids—by mutual decision early in our relationship—but I think that instinct never disappeared. It just found somewhere else to go. You can see it in how she reacts to characters like Loki in the MCU, or Sméagol in Lord of the Rings.

    That need to nurture, to shield something vulnerable, didn’t fade—it just shifted. From the idea of a family to a shelf full of pop culture misfits who, in her eyes, deserve someone in their corner

    Dobby hit her hard. The moment he first appeared in Harry’s bedroom, she was hooked.

    So, I wasn’t surprised when she picked him up and looked at me with those “can I?” eyes—the same look I’ve perfected and used on her at least three times as often as she’s ever used it on me.

    I folded, like I usually do, and just like that, we had our very own house-elf.

    I hadn’t thought about him in a while—sorry, Dobby—until I noticed the little cobwebs. Instantly, I was taken back to that Friday evening wandering through Target with her.

    I took him down, cleaned him off, and gave him a new spot. I find myself doing this a lot now that she’s gone—shifting.

    There’s nothing that can prepare you for a loss like this. Over the past year, I’ve had to shift into a life of being single again. But it’s nothing like being single before I met Katy. Everything is different.

    So, I shift, again and again, just to keep from stumbling along this new path.

    Much like Dobby, I find myself in a new place—or at least learning how to shift into it. With a new perspective, and maybe just a little bit of magic, I think I’m going to be okay.

  • 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.

  • When a Band Tee Was My Armor

    When a Band Tee Was My Armor

    Here’s a hot take to mull over this weekend: genres make adolescence survivable. After that, they don’t carry quite the same weight.

    I should admit this entire argument was born out of a three-hour plus conversation with an old friend last night. After stuffing ourselves with Greek food from a newly discovered Uber option, we camped out in his garage studio and put on classic jazz – a genre we’ve both circled for years but never really tried to understand.

    At some point, I had to accept that my brain wasn’t going to just get jazz in one sitting. Once I stopped trying to decode it and just listened, something shifted. The music stopped being a puzzle and started being atmosphere.

    And that’s when the other idea crept in.

    Somewhere between the tzatziki and my failed attempt to “understand” jazz, it hit me: genres feel a little like high school cliques. Intense at the time. Slightly embarrassing in hindsight.

    When we’re young, genre is oxygen. Not because we’re experts, but because we’re overwhelmed. At eleven, you’re dropped into a social ecosystem with no map and a rapidly mutating landscape. We don’t know who we are yet – but we know what we like.

    We inherit taste before we develop it. We latch onto whatever our parents, older siblings, or cool cousins say is fun or exciting. Then something shifts. Our brains start recognizing the sounds, stories, and aesthetics that make us feel something, bigger, safer, louder, less alone. We begin building small corners of identity around those pockets.

    Not because we’re deep. Because it feels good.

    And in middle school, feels good is a perfectly acceptable survival strategy.

    Once high school arrives, genres shift from survival strategy to social armor. You don’t just like things anymore, you wear them. You defend them. You let them speak first so you don’t have to. A band tee becomes a signal. A playlist becomes a perimeter. A movie obsession turns into shorthand for who you are and who you’re not.

    As a military brat, I changed schools a lot, genres became my social shorthand. A way to identify my people quickly. They were badges. Signals. Saying “I’m into Metallica,” or “I’m into NIN,” or “I’m into 2Pac” wasn’t just about taste. It was vital social information. It told me where I might sit at lunch. It shaped my posture, my attitude, even my emotional temperature.

    Half the time, these signals said more about the social world around me than the music itself.

    Genres reduce the complexity of self-definition at a moment when everything else feels overwhelming. It’s much easier to say, “I’m into this,” than, “Hi, I’m Matt. I stumble over my own words when I get excited, I have crippling self-doubt, and my feet sweat unnaturally.”

    And then there’s the emotional instability of the typical adolescent. It’s the only phase of life where a song can ruin your week and a look in the hallway can trigger a three-hour identity crisis. Genres offer predictability. Predictability creates safety. When you know a genre, you roughly know how it will make you feel.

    Horror promises controlled fear.
    Fantasy promises escape.
    Pop promises familiarity.
    Comedy promises relief.

    As teens, who feel everything at 11, that predictability matters. Genres become tools for emotional regulation as much as entertainment. You didn’t just watch a horror movie; you managed anxiety through something structured. You didn’t just blast a breakup song; you let it hold the feeling for you.

    And then something shifts.

    Around thirty-five, I began to notice my tastes widening. It started with exploring metal subgenres. That led to folk. Folk led to bluegrass. And so on. The lanes blurred. The guardrails started to feel optional.

    None of this is me saying you’re some underdeveloped Neanderthal if you stay in your lane. I get it. I’ve logged plenty of hours inside the warm, predictable borders of the familiar – convincing myself I had “refined taste” when really I just didn’t want to feel lost again. There’s comfort in knowing exactly what you’re going to get. There’s nothing wrong with returning to what steadies you.

    The point isn’t to abandon categories. It’s just to recognize we don’t have to hide behind them.

    Which explains why rewatching as an adult can feel both comforting and faintly embarrassing. The thing that once felt like a personality turns out to be… a phase. But it was a useful one.

    Rewatching isn’t about reclaiming that armor. It’s about examining it, dents and all. Seeing what it protected. Seeing why we needed it. And quietly thanking it for getting us through a time when liking something felt a lot safer than knowing ourselves.

    Rewatch / Replay — experiencing it again, a little steadier this time.

  • 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.

  • 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.

  • Got Kind of Dark Last Night.

    Got Kind of Dark Last Night.

    I was on the fence about sharing this. It’s heavy and I don’t want to scare any of you. Also, because it contains some triggers regarding suicide, so this is your warning.

    Still with me….are you sure?

    Last chance to turn back.

    Okay then. First, please know that I am okay. I am working through a lot these days and I just got overwhelmed last night.


    Here is what happened…


    Remember that game as a kid where someone would yell “DOG-PILE!!” and everyone would pile on top of some random kid?-Boys are dumb-Were you ever the unfortunate soul that was at the bottom of that pile of adolescent BO and arbitrary boners?


    Currently, I feel like the kid at the bottom of the pile.


    Last night I sat down to watch a movie, The Electric State on Netflix (not bad), it has an emotional ending, and I lost it. I can’t tell you what happened during the last 10 minutes of the film because I was watching it through a curtain of tears.


    And I couldn’t stop. For the next 20 minutes I was a slobbering mess. As I sat there trying to pull myself together, my angst driven mind decided this was a good time to bring up the fact that I am currently jobless, and that I am responsible for two cats and my 73-year-old father. Oh yeah, and your wife died…let’s not forget that.


    I ended up in the ER. I did not know what else to do.


    It felt like everything was closing in. I was having trouble breathing through the seemingly unstoppable crying, and I was shaking so badly I think the cats could feel it through the floor as both came into the room and were staring at me with concern.


    With everything that was running through my head at that moment, there was one thing that hit me like a brick-it is the reason I asked my dad to take me to the ER. Out of nowhere, the following idea formed.


    If I was to find myself in a life-or-death situation, I would choose death.


    This thought ran through my head in NEON like some kind of news warning flashing across the TV screen. It was a form of thought that I have never experienced. Not out-right self-harm, but the willingness to just…give up. It scared me. I have NEVER thought of harming myself in any way. Has this always been here? If so, when did it start to root itself into my mind. Was it just waiting for the right time to make itself known? It suddenly felt like the words of that statement were alive and they were trying to push their way to that part of my brain that would make it all real. These words were strong, and in my current state I was not sure how long I could fight them. So, I asked my dad to take me to the ER.


    Again, I’m okay. I promise. They would not have let me come home if i was a danger.


    All of this from a 4-minute scene in a movie.


    The point of me sharing this is to remind everyone that grief will always be with those of us that have lost a loved one. That grief will affect us differently, but we all feel it. I know it will get better, easier to think about her. But the pain of losing her will always be there-that is something I will live with. There is no preparation for this. There is no map to help navigate grief. That is why it is important to have a support network. A group of people you can trust that can make sure you are okay, stay healthy and in some cases help with bills or cleaning the house.


    If my father had not been a shout away, I am honestly not sure how the night would have ended. I do not believe I would have harmed myself, but I probably would have worked my way into some level of cardiac event. Having him take me to the ER last night was a good decision.


    I miss my wife. So far, the pain has not lessened. There is a part of me that is missing now that she is gone. And that is okay, I gave here that piece. I wanted to her to have some of me with her during her next chapter.


    Again. I am okay. I promise.