Adventures in Lost

 Today Ellie was supposed to graduate with her Masters of Science in Nursing. After she passes her boards she will be an Adult/Geriatric Acute Care Nurse Practitioner. But it was cancelled.

I was reflecting on all of the losses that we’re all experiencing. There are so many. Not only the loss of life. That’s a story for another time. I’m talking about all of the losses. The high school wrestler trying to be a four time state champ. The college senior excited about her last time to get to play softball at this level of competition. The underprivileged basketball star whose coach had lined up scouts to come watch him play so that he’d have a shot at going to college. Prom. Yearbook signing. Kindergarten spring play. MLB Baseball. Even the funerals for those who have died during this terrible time.

I’m reminded of my favorite story of my nephew, Bridger. My sister and her husband were out of town and my parents were taking care of Bridger, about 4, and Caid, about 2. They had gotten happy meals at McDonalds that day, and the toy that came with it was a really awesome Star Wars Storm Trooper. Bridger was so proud of it, he came in and showed my husband Sawan and me, who happened to be at my folk’s house. We oohed and ahhed. It was bedtime, so the kiddos started the bedtime routine, and fifteen minutes later, Bridger was completely distraught because he couldn’t find the Storm Trooper. So we formed a search party. Mom and Dad took the upstairs, Sawan and I took the downstairs. We moved couch cushions, we looked under furniture, we tried to think of what a four year old could have possibly done with the toy in the last 15 minutes, but we didn’t find it. Finally, my dad took a knee in front of the crying Bridger and tried to get him to retrace his steps. He said, “Ok. So, you had it when you came in from the car.” Bridger nods. “Then you showed it to Noey and Sawan.” Bridger nods. “Then you went upstairs with it?” Bridger nods. Dad says, “Do you think you know what you did with it after that?” Bridger nods in the affirmative again. We all breathe a collective sigh of relief. Why hadn’t we started with this tactic? “Oh! Well, what do you think you did with it?” In a loud sob he cried, “I think I LOST it!” It was so cute and heartbreaking and hilarious all at one time. Sawan was so tickled. When I try to remember the sound of Sawan’s laughter, I go to this memory for it.

When I recounted this story to Bridger’s mom, though, she didn’t think it was as funny as I did. She explained to me that Bridger thought that Lost was an actual place. It’s something he said all the time. “Where is it Bridger?” “Mom, I told you, it’s Lost.” 

When people talk about loss and death and grief and people dying, everyone has different language that they prefer. I know lots of widows that hate it when people refer to their husband as “lost.” “He was not a set of keys,” says one of my widow friends of her husband. My personal distaste is for the term “passed.” Because to me, I think that he was not gas. My dead husband was not a fart. So I say that I lost him. I like to think of him going to Bridger’s place. To Lost, where all of our favorite needed or loved things go. He’s there, hanging out with Bridger’s Storm Trooper.

But, I thought about this Lost place for the first time in a long time today. Maybe Lost is a place for experiences, too? Maybe all of those losses that we’re experiencing here are being enjoyed by those that we’ve Lost. Maybe Sawan and his homies got to watch this year’s Opening Day. Maybe he’s getting to watch cutie pies in plays and awesome softball games and triumphant wrestling matches and come from behind wins. Maybe he’s getting to cheer rights of passage and comfort the grieving. And maybe, just maybe, he’s getting to watch Ellie cross the platform, and he’s standing up and doing that whistle thing with his fingers really loud. ‘Cuz I know he would if this all were true.

Eight Years

Eight. Years.

It feels like yesterday. And also like a different lifetime.

I still remember the way the light looked on the morning that I kissed him goodbye, not knowing it was our last kiss. The sun had that beautiful butterscotch hue to it as it flooded the kitchen of our little condo, the rich color that only August sun has. I had on a too-big green give-away t-shirt and still had my TMJ mouth guard in. He scolded me for being out of bed early on my day off, but I wanted to make him coffee before he left for school. It was so--ordinary.

I would be widowed by the time that lovely sun set.

***

I find myself reflecting on the last eight years. What lessons have these years taught me? Among other things, this:

I learned how to grieve. Well, I know I’m still learning, but I learned early on that grief is a relentless teacher that never really takes a break, only changes, but can apparate back to it’s original form and back again in the same moment. I learned to give myself grace about timelines and linear “progress” and anything else that felt like expectation. I learned to give grace to others; too, even if they had expectations for my grieving that I could not meet.  Some of the support I got was tremendous (saints, I tell you!). But, it’s also amazing to me how few of the people in my current “inner circle” even knew me eight years ago. It’s hard for me sometimes that they never even knew Sawan, this man that changed me so fully and completely by his presence and then by his absence.

I learned that there are no guarantees. I was not promised a husband that would live until we were old. I was not promised children. I was not promised an easy life. (I was also not promised other marriage benefits-- like orgasms, or someone to do the “dude” things like changing the furnace filters and taking out the trash and opening all the jars.) I was only promised sufficient grace. You know, just enough grace to get by. Over the years I recognized that so much of the time I enjoy not merely sufficient grace, but rather an extravagance of grace.

I learned that life isn’t going to look like I thought it would. It isn’t even going to look like I thought it would once I realized I had to re-think life. I’m still learning to get over that and just live. I’m learning to live like this is my one wild and precious life, and I won’t squander it by merely surviving.

***

And where was I before the day

That I first saw your lovely face?

Now I see it every day.

And I know that I am the luckiest.

-Ben Folds from The Luckiest (which was “our song”)

It was pretty great while the luck held, Baby. I miss you every day.

Lonesome

Today, in my “memories” on Facebook, where it shows all of the posts you’ve ever had on this same date, from previous years, I had a status from 2009, less than a month before my husband died.  “I get ready for work so much faster when there’s no one around to pester.  It’s kinda lonesome, though.”  Sawan was out of town, fishing with my Dad, I think.  He was not a morning person, and hated it when I woke him up as I was getting ready for work.  So I of course woke him.  Every day.  If I had only known.  Less than a month later I’d be forever lonesome in my morning ritual.

It’s that time of year again.  I used to love summer, and now I merely survive it, especially the brutal 7 or 8 weeks between our wedding anniversary, July 1^st, and the anniversary of the day he died, August 24^th.  His birthday is thrown in there on August 2^nd, just to really make it hard.  It’s been almost seven years since my husband died but as the days get closer to the same length as that hateful day, my body remembers, and even though so much time has passed, it’s still hard.

I walked through Costco tonight.  The Halloween costumes were out.  It’s been a long time since an image like that has made me cry, but suddenly my eyes just leaked.  Will I ever get to have a little person to put in one of those?  It’s looking more and more like the answer is “no.”  On days like today I grieve for the loss of the life that I thought I was going to have.

Most days I’m ok.  Most days I remember that I’ve found my new normal.  I even have found a way to enjoy myself again.  I laugh a lot.  I don’t feel sad every single day.  Not even in this gross 8 weeks. 

But today, I’m just not that ok.  I long for the days when I thought that one morning without him was too hard, and when I still believed that it was my destiny to have a small, costume-clad person holding my hand.

#tbt

A couple of weeks ago, Ellie (my sister) found these photos from Christmas 2008 and showed them to me.  I had never seen them before. 

Sawan and Arthur

Sawan and I with our Christmas cracker hats on

Ellie says she was trying out her new iphone and took this picture before he left for work.  It was his contact photo in her phone. 

After looking through them that night, I had a dream about Sawan, which has seriously only happened about four times (isn’t that strange?).  It was just a normal day, we were back in our old condo and he was making me dinner, which is pretty much how life always was.  His back was to me almost the whole time, and in random dream world he was making a salad but then he was trying to put it all on a pita, not in a “hey this will make a great wrap” sort of way, but just in a “this makes absolutely no sense because it’s in random dream world” way.  He put raw onions on it, which he realized too late and was annoyed about because then he knew I wouldn’t want to eat it (I hate raw onions).  And then I woke up.  I never touched him, didn’t get to tell him I loved him, how much I miss him.  It was truly disappointing.  Especially for it only being the fourth time in six years that I have had a late night rendezvous with my dead husband.

There was also this one.  Because, you know, safety first.

So long, 2015 (don't let the door hit'cha...)

What a crazy year 2015 was.

By seasons, it was a rough winter, followed by springtime of conflict, one of my darkest summers on record, and a fall that was beautiful but also painful in a different way.  As the year moved on toward colder weather again, I found myself loving winter in a way that I never have before.  I need the cold to seal everything up and let dormant things lie, so that there can be new life.

But, amid the dark stuff, there was light.  Here’s are some of the major happenings:

I got a Fitbit.  I got it in March, and gradually became obsessed with it. By May my crazy was full blown.  Picture me doing laps inside my house getting steps.  The neighbors see me walk by and call out, “Getting your steps?”  Pacing the floor in a quiet moment, causing my friends to say, “What are you doing?” I went from the second week of May through the beginning of September without missing my 10,000-step count goal (When you reach your goal, the Fitbit vibrates.  I call it “Party on my wrist.” It now comes with a dance, as well.).  A combination of it getting more difficult to walk outside and a three-week separation from it in November allowed me to release myself (I have a problem with letting things go once I’ve set a goal).  I still average 9K, but it’s not like the 12K I was getting in July.  Let it go, Noel.  *deep breath* But, summer 2015 will always be the Summer of the Fitbit.  All of my Denver family had one, and we would compete against each other and our Australia family.  My sister would stop by just because she was going out to get steps and she wanted company.  We would all be together and find the furthest parking spot away so that we could all increase our steps.  It was such fun. 

From a Fitbit walk this summer.  Sun setting, perfect weather, and a field full of dandelions.  I hate them in my own yard, but at the park, it was so dreamy, all I could think was, "That's a lot of wishes."

From an amazing encounter with author of the Shack, Paul Young.  

That leads to another great thing about 2015.  I began to “read” again.  Well, sort of.  You see, I used to be a big reader.  I would read one or two books a month.  When I was a kid, I actually got grounded from reading more than once.  I would be reading when I was supposed to be doing other things, like chores, or sleeping.  After Sawan died, however, I had to stop.  I couldn’t read as quickly as I had before, and my comprehension had gone down the tubes.  Reading provided only frustration where it used to bring joy, so I gave it up for awhile.  There have been a few books that I’ve struggled through in the last six years, but it was just that, a struggle.  I have a friend that is an occupational therapist that suggested I try doing two things at once, like reading and swinging, or reading on my elliptical.  That would employ both sides of my brain and therefore help me to remember.  But, I found an even better solution, using her suggestion of two things at once.  Audiobooks.  I listen while I’m getting my steps (or walking, if you want), or driving, or working in the yard, or in the tub, or doing the dishes.  It’s employing both sides of my brain but I’m still being productive.  I “read” 17 books this year.  Plus, I’m old school reading (actual books with paper and words) three more right now, but that takes me forever.

August is always a hard month for me; the majority of my "hard days" fall in August.  I really keep thinking that it’s going to get easier, but man, this one was tough.  I told my mom one day that the only thing I wanted to do was smoke and work out.  A bit counter-productive, I know, but I allowed myself some grace in the cigarette department (I technically quit November 2014) and gained some muscle at Orange Theory.

Which brings me to my very favorite thing from 2015.  Orange Theory Fitness.  Orange Theory is a HIIT workout that kicks my butt every time, but is completely enjoyable.  When I tell my friends about it, some of them say they never want to do it, and some of them have come with me.  Either way, I am addicted to the endorphins and have injured myself more than once from trying to go too often. I think it probably saved my life this summer and so I’m incredibly thankful for it.

I started a new job in September staging real estate.  I work staging on the days that I’m not doing hair.  Well, to be fair, I only worked a handful of days last fall and then things totally slowed down around the holidays, so I had plenty of time for the busy season at the salon.  A really gifted friend is training me, and I love every minute of it.  It’s totally energizing in a whole new way.

I began to use Arthur (my service dog) less and less this fall; it just felt like it was time, because I’m doing so much better than I was when I first started using him.  I just don’t need him as much as I used to.  He and I are stumbling a bit through the transition of him not having to work all the time, but still being a good boy when I need him to work.  I think he doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand why I’m leaving him.  And, I miss him.  I don’t miss all of the questions or the attention that we got, though.  Anyway, we’re getting it figured out.

Arthur with his birthday cone

freezing his paws off.  not a fan of the boots.

September in Santa Fe

My parents moved away this fall.  My dad started a new job in October, so he headed north then, and my mom came and went throughout the fall working on finding their new house and getting the old house ready to go.  They left for good right after Thanksgiving. I went up there for Christmas (BTW, spending time in the town where I went to high school and have rarely been since was surreal), so I haven’t really felt their absence until this week.  It pretty much sucks.

Sprinkle in there a few bad dates, a few good dates (but none with a permanent solution to my single-girl woes), some awesome time deepening old friendships and making new ones, another season watching the Rockies lose, and you pretty much have my year.  For the most part I feel like 2015 can suck it.  I’m not sad to see it go.

old friends. (Or friends for a long time.  We're NOT old.)

(relatively) new friends.

I’m excited to see what 2016 will bring. 

My dear readers, my Readership of Tens, thank you for reading my words.  Thanks for your comments and words of encouragement.  Especially you widows…we got this!  We’re in it together.  Thanks for another year.

 

Christmas in Montana

My Favorite Song

My friend Grahm is a cowboy that’s been stuck in a city for most of his life.  In May he left Colorado for Montana, to work on a cattle ranch.

He passed through town this weekend, and I got to spend a couple of hours with him, cutting his hair, then eating some Chipotle (he had had Chipotle the night before, but was so excited that I had suggested it, Montana seems to be lacking in Chipotles).

I got to listen to him talk about all that he learned in Montana this summer about cattle and how to care for them.  He talked about the way that being in the wide open spaces feeds his soul.  It was a great chat.

My favorite part, though, was him talking about the fishing up there.  He was in great fly-fishing country, and he is a passionate fly-fisherman.  I used to know one of those.

I asked him to tell me about the biggest fish that he caught.  He told me that the fish he was catching weren’t that big…. So I told him to tell me about the biggest fight.  He used words like “tail water,” and “riffle.”  He had used a “streamer” rather than “nymphing or dry flies.”  Just the words were so familiar to me, but it seems like it had been so long since I had heard them spoken with such passion.  It was like listening to my favorite song.  I had to swallow hard against the lump in my throat.

Sawan used to talk about fly-fishing so much that I remember a specific time, after him giving me a forty-five minute college-style lecture about “flows” (it’s something to do with people controlling how much water goes from the reservoirs to the rivers) that I knew my eyes had glazed over and I thought, “Oh my god.  I’m going to have to listen to this for the rest of my life.”  If only.

Now I long to hear fishing stories because they remind me of my love.  Thanks, Grahm, for "playing my song" for me.  It was a delightful evening.

Celebrating Sawan's Birthday

No matter how much I brace myself for days like today, they still take me by surprise.  It’s often so much harder than I expect it to be, even though I’ve been dreading it.  Even though it’s still hard, it’s also easier than it used to be in some ways, which is it’s own brand of hard.  It’s like I feel guilty that it’s easier or something.

I woke up this morning with him on my mind.  Today would have been his 44^th birthday (I did the math wrong and thought that he was 44 last year, but he was born in 1969, that makes this year the 44^th).  I wondered, as I sometimes do, what we would be doing today if he were alive.  I can no longer say.  This is helpful in some ways, and hard in others.  The details of our life before are fuzzily slipping away, I can’t quite grab them, like when you wake from a sweet dream but can no longer remember exactly why it was so sweet.  That’s super hard.  It’s good, though; that I can’t obsess about what life would be like, and grieve that it’s not the same.  I’m doing less inventing things to grieve; I grieve less about what would have been.

I mostly just miss him.   There are so many things I want to tell him about.  It still happens, about once a month, that I see something and I think, “I have to call Sawan and tell him!”  The most recent was when the little bistro closed on Pearl St, where the salon is. We always speculated that it was a front for the mafia; it never had customers but remained open.  But there’s more.  I want to tell him that I’m going to school, want to share that decision with him.  I want him to know that I’m so healthy and skinny these days.  He’d love my body.  I want to tell him all about Arthur and how he’s doing.  I want to have him help me make the decisions about the house, and yet, I know that the decisions I’ve made would not necessarily have been possible with him alive (I just repainted the exterior pink, he never would have gone for that!).

Some people use the anniversary of the death to celebrate the life of their loved one, but for me, I always feel that that’s the day that took him away from me.  I choose his birthday to celebrate him and his life.  Today is the day that gave him to me.  I am sad today, but I’m focusing on the amazing man that he was, on the wonderful things that I learned from him, on the beautiful life that we had together.  I choose to celebrate him today and focus on the happiness that he brought me as much as I possibly can.

I miss him daily, still, but cry about it less frequently than I used to.  Still, on days like today, my face just leaks all day.

Happy Birthday, my sweet love.  I wish you were here.  

It's still hard.

Today is my sixth wedding anniversary.  I keep thinking these days are going to get easier, and maybe they are a bit, but they are still so hard.

Happy Anniversary, Baby.  I miss you every day.

Throwback Thursday

A friend sent me these photos a while back.  They're from a wedding that was four years ago today.  In 2009, Colorado had the same idea of spring that it does in 2013, and on April 18 dumped a snow storm on Denver that measured in feet. A quick plan B had to be come up with for a venue, as the Plan A venue (for an outdoor mountain wedding) couldn't even be driven to in the storm.  It became a beautiful story of community and creativity and letting go, and Sawan and I ended up helping more than just my hairstyling committments.  Afterward, we got to party a bit.  Here are the photos:

I love that they show us as so ordinary.  An ordinary couple with extraordinary love.

Happy "Sawan's Day"

When I was cleaning and organizing my office a few weeks ago, I found this:

It’s a card that I made for Sawan for his “birthday,” his special sobriety date (they call it a birthday in the recovery world), the first one we ever spent together.  It would have been nine years of sobriety today.

It was so interesting to me to read it.  Because it’s been so long since we’ve had an actual interaction, sometimes I forget, or think that I made it up, how much I loved him, how deeply, how fiercely, even from the very beginning.

We had only been together six months when I wrote him this card, but my love for him oozes off the page.  Not in a gag-me sort of way (and it was only intended for his eyes, anyway), but just in a real, ordinary, “I’m madly in love with you.  Love, Noel” sort of way.

I miss him.

Dancing My Sorrows Away

Four years ago, Sawan and I were getting ready to go on our annual fall foliage aspen viewing drive and he bought a CD of Jackson Brown.  It was “The Next Voice You Hear.”  There was a particular song on it that he wanted to hear, that used to be one of his favorites, that reminded him of a particular season of his life.  He played it, and I’m not even sure anymore, but I think the song was “These Days” but it could have been “Fountains of Sorrow” (and it really bugs me that I can’t remember).  Either way, as he listened to the words he marveled at how different life was now.  I knew that the song for him was about another woman, but I didn’t ask.  I knew he’d tell me eventually if he wanted to talk about it.  We never did.

But we listened to the whole CD.  It’s a great album.  I remember exactly where we were in Deer Creek Canyon when certain songs came on, what curve we were rounding when “The Pretender” was playing.  It was a great day and a great memory.

Last Wednesday, I went to see Jackson Browne live with my parents.  It was one of those enchanted evenings that are hard to put into words.  We had front row seats.  The opening band ended up being two thirds of Nickel Creek, one of my old favorites, and they played some new stuff that was so good that it felt like I had been to church, like she had seen my heart and written a song for me.

Me, Mom and Dad at the Paramount, 11/14/12

I seldom ever feel Sawan near me anymore.  I have seldom felt it at all in my widowhood, actually.  I am learning to allow myself to lose the tug of war with his memories, learning that I cannot remember every detail and that I have to let him go.  I can no longer remember the details of what his body looks like, what he smelled like, for months I have not been able to remember what his fingers felt like in mine.

But on Wednesday, with Jackson’s sweet voice singing, I felt Sawan there with me so strongly.  I felt like he was next to me.  I looked to my right and felt like I could see his left hand, with his ring on his finger, and felt his fingers interlaced with mine.

And then, Jackson played this song, for the encore, one I had never heard before.  It’s not all entirely relevant, but it felt like it was for me, about Sawan, and I felt like we danced together.  (They were filming and broadcasting it live, so listen to the first song, and then watch for my mom and dad and me at 5:07, no need to watch after that unless you’re a big fan of “Rock Me On the Water.") 

Here’s the lyrics:

Keep a fire burning in your eye

Pay attention to the open sky

You never know what will be coming down

I don't remember losing track of you

You were always dancing in and out of view

I must have thought you'd always be around

Always keeping things real by playing the clown

Now you're nowhere to be found

I don't know what happens when people die

Can't seem to grasp it as hard as I try

It's like a song I can hear playing right in my ear

That I can't sing

I can't help listening

And I can't help feeling stupid standing 'round

Crying as they ease you down

'cause I know that you'd rather we were dancing

Dancing our sorrow away

My First Tattoo (or the Third Anniversary)

Remember this?  How I scheduled an appointment to get a tattoo earlier in the spring?

Well, the day arrived.  As with all of my “Hard Days,”  I had a strategy in place, but left lots of room for cancelling everything if what I needed to do was stay in bed.

I began my day with breakfast and a tattoo (that's not a very normal sentence, right?).  The perfect girl to go with me on such a day is my sweet friend, Dani.  She has many qualifications for being the perfect girl to go with me.  Most importantly, she is one of my besties.  She and I worked together several years ago, and then she bought a condo in the same building where Sawan and I lived.  The night that Sawan died she came upstairs to be with me.  She was there when the Paramedics were there, when they told me he died.  She stayed with me until my dad got there that night.  But, she was also perfect to go with me because she is also my most tattooed friend.  So, when I scheduled this appointment I asked her to come with me.  She took the day off work and we planned a day of hanging out.

She took me to an awesome breakfast place, then to the tattoo appointment.  She set me up with all of the things that I would need to care for it (the right kind of soap, the right kind of moisturizer, etc.).  Then we went shopping for a little retail therapy.

Before.

He drew it in first with a marker.

It didn't hurt nearly as much as I thought it would.

After.

A close up.  Sawan had a tattoo of a large brown trout reaching up for a fly just like this one on his left shoulder. 

By mid-afternoon I was exhausted, as Hard Days can make me be, so I headed home to take a nap, which didn’t work, as is also typical for Hard Days.

I headed over to my parents house to hang out with my mom and dad and sister for the 5:30-midnight segment.  This has been the hardest part in the last couple of years, as 5:30 is the last time that I talked to Sawan on the phone.  Once I get to that point in the day, I can’t help but walk through my day as it was in 2009.  This year proved to be the same.

For me, August 24 will always be the day that took Sawan away from me.  Some who have lost loved ones choose to celebrate on the anniversary, but for me personally that has not felt right.  I do, however want to honor him (and myself) on that day.  So, I feel like getting a tattoo and taking lots of breaks to rest were exactly what I should have done this year, and I’m so thankful for all of the people who cared for me, with sweet messages, cards, flowers and spending time with me.  In spite of such deep loss, I feel so incredibly overwhelmed by blessing at the same time.  I’m so thankful.

A letter to Sawan on his 44th Birthday

Baby,

I thought about all of the things that I could write on here, and I just decided that I would write you a letter.

I wonder if you can hear me, if by some sort of magic this gets through from my world to yours.

I want you to know that I’m finally doing better.  For such a long time I felt so destroyed by the loss of you that I felt I would never recover.  It felt like I was a dandelion, that one day the wind came and took all of the seeds from me, and I felt I was supposed to gather them back to myself and be a whole dandelion again.  I’ve learned how to just be the plain stalk and appreciate beauty in that.

Really, what it is is that I was a caterpillar, and the loss of you was my chrysalis, and I wish you were around to see the butterfly that I’ve become.  I wonder sometimes, though, if you would even know me now as the butterfly, I’ve changed so much.

Some days I still feel so cheated.  I feel like we both really missed out.  I wish that you could see the boys.  I wish that they could remember you more.  I wish that you could have met the littlests.  They are so much fun, and they break my heart.

Arthur is doing awesome.  I’m so thankful that you trained him so well to start off with.  You would be so proud of the way that he takes care of me.  I think he still misses you.  He snuggled me extra sweetly this morning (he sleeps on the bed every night, now, he thinks it’s his bed), he knows when I’m sad.

I wonder what you would look like today, on your 44^th birthday, if you would finally have some gray in your hair, or just maybe a few more “blonde ones” in your beard.  I wonder if you would have some wrinkles finally, or if you would still just be the amazingly young looking handsome man that I fell in love with.

As your birthday gift today, though, I want you to know that I’m ok.  Remember how you loved it when I would say, “I’m happy?”  I say that sometimes now.  That hadn’t happened since you were alive. 

I still miss you everyday.  I don’t think that will ever stop.  I still love you.  I don’t think that will ever stop, either. 

We seem to think that heaven is the best things of earth.  If that’s true, then I wonder how it could be heaven for you if I’m not there.  But, if it is the best things of earth minus the people, then I hope that today you started out driving a corvette really fast, and finish up drinking beer on the river catching ten-pound trout.

Happy Birthday, My Sweet Love.

Love,

Wife

Shootin' (or what I did on my fifth wedding anniversary, and the bizarre way my life has turned out)

I grew up in Montana, where guns are part of the culture.  However, I’ve never really been a fan.  Actually, I’ve been known to say, “I hate guns.”  To me they have always been a symbol of everything violent and dangerous.  I know too many people that have been hurt by them, both accidentally and on purpose, by themselves and by others.  I just don’t like them.  I want to stay away from them.

Sawan owned several when we got married.  He moved into my condo and I told him that I loved him and accepted everything about him, so the guns could come, but I wanted them put away safely.  I wanted them in his closet, where I wouldn’t see them.  I asked him to lock them, and he promised.

When he died, my brother didn’t want the guns in the condo with no one staying there, so he went to get them.  I told him they were all locked and I had no idea about keys, I would never even look at the guns with Sawan, so he hadn’t shown me where anything was kept.  My brother and dad went to find them, and, I suppose luckily, none of them were locked.  As far as I know this is the only thing that he kept secrets about.

I found out the night before last, from one of my best friends, that he had run into Sawan at a gun show once and Sawan had made him promise not to tell me that he was there.  I also heard stories, when we were all sharing about his life of adventure “pre-me,” in the weeks after he died, about shotguns and sliding glass doors and non-returned apartment damage deposits that I had never heard.

This is one of my greatest regrets.  I regret that it was a part of his life that he loved and I wouldn’t enter into because of my fear.  Guns are something that, as I’ve gotten to know other men (like, my brother), are deeply connected to their masculinity and I wouldn’t share that with Sawan.  It makes me sad.

When my brother took the guns that were Sawan’s and agreed to lock them up (and I know that they are, because I tried to open that closet at my parents’ the other night and couldn’t) and take care of them, he also made me promise that I would shoot them.  On Sunday, I did this for the second time.

It was Sunday, July 1, that I did this, which may seem to you like a strange way to spend my anniversary.  We had decided to do it that day because there were three of us that were trying to get together to do it and that was the first day we were all available.  I hadn’t thought through the date when I agreed to it.  It ended up being the best thing I could have done that day.  Being with my brother and my friend, who are both very gentle with me, getting out any aggression I might have been feeling by firing a powerful weapon, and getting good quality time with these two amazing guys was a pretty great way to spend my anniversary.

Plus, I felt like a bad-ass, which is always fun.  Sawan would have been proud.

Shooting Sawan's Smith and Wesson (I call it the Dirty Harry Gun)

Gabe and Jon.  I try to pay attention when they're talking about guns but it literally sounds like another language to me, so I find myself thinking a lot about what I'm going to wear the next day.