Tag: loss

1995/2025

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From seventh grade on, I grew up in a small town in Southeastern Ohio called Athens. I could dazzle you with my fifth grade state report knowledge and talk about how Ohio is the 17th state of the union, the first of five in what was known as the Northwest Territories at the time. Athens is so-named because it has a university built on a hill and founded in 1804—Ohio University.  
My dad got a job at the medical school there as a means of affording higher education for his children. It was scary to move somewhere new, leave old friends and familiar spaces, family, community and create something new. Athens has a way, though. It’s special. It embeds in your heart—the space, the people, the humid air. I was fortunate to make life-connections in this town. I am lucky I got to spend time with them these past few days.

While I didn’t know everyone at my 30th reunion, there were folks I didn’t have classes with or who moved in different circles, there were those I’ve treasured since I was a kid and others I’ve grown to love more and more as an adult. My heart is full and I am reminded that we all carry our own pain. Some of my classmates lost parents when they were young. Others, like me, in their 30s and 40s. Some are facing very recent loss or the prospect of aging parents needing more help with chores and care, whose health and momentum are slowing down pointing to heartbreaking inevitabilities. We all are walking this human experience with love, joy, loss, fear, and heartache.
I wish I had understood that better as a teenager. I hurt from loss and heartache then, was anxious and insecure—and I erroneously thought I was the only one, blinded by my own circumstances, desperate to be seen and loved while simultaneously hiding, afraid of being really seen at all. Life, given half the chance, helps remove the blinders, reorients the placement of self, and showcases that not only are we not alone in experiencing the fullness of humanity, it is our ability to share it (both the joy and the burden) that makes it wondrous and bearable. The things that carried me then, that carry me now are kindness and humor, antidotes to poison and ego. I appreciate the sharp wit, the clever word-play, the bright sparkling minds of my peers. That coupled with big hearts for others, for the world and the simplest small gestures of  kindness to others, to me make them a marvel. 

I wish I had more time to see more people to tell them all thank you. I love you. You matter. You made and make life better. I’m sorry I couldn’t squeeze it all in. Thank you to everyone who made this so special. I sit at the Columbus airport with a very full heart.

Unicorn

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I’ve likened Bryan to a unicorn, not because he was a mythical, mystical, enchanted beast. He.was.rare. Precious. He preferred to discuss ideas much more than events or people. He could change his mind with well-argued, reasonable, and passionate push-back. He listened actively, almost irritatingly so. He made his space welcome to the vulnerable. He was endlessly curious about the world, the universe, the opinions of others, my opinions. Now I want to make sure you know I’m not deifying the man. Bryan was absolutely human and anyone who was on a bike ride with him when the hangries hit KNOWS just how much so.

I know exactly how lucky I am to have been married to this man. I know what it means to be with someone whose heart and mind are peerless. That’s what makes being single now so incredibly difficult. I long for nothing less than a unicorn and I know that’s improbable and definitely more than a little greedy.

So what then? Admittedly, for the past year and change, I’ve been more of a grief aardvark. But maybe instead of looking for another unicorn, I need to become the unicorn–a better listener, a safe place for the vulnerable, more willing to admit when I’m wrong, able to change my mind when presented with new evidence.

I certainly have some work to do.

Waves Still Crash

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This morning, as I stood in my kitchen listening to Chris Stapleton serenade me while I drank my coffee, I looked over at our breakfast table. Bryan’s chair has a basket of clean towels I need to fold resting on it. The lyrics “Time keeps tickin’ on by so slow They say it’ll heal you, but I hope it don’t though” punched me in the gut. And then the tears started. The warmth and cadence of Bryan’s voice, talking about everything, his endless curiosity seeking out what I thought, the way his eyes would light up at me like I was the most beautiful woman on earth–they are so astonishing in their absence, his absence. My kitchen, filled with music and memories, is empty without him here.

The rhythm of regular days, working, walking, dancing, singing, tending cats, gardening, cooking, cleaning (not as much as I should), paying bills, discovering new expenses, whack-a-moling the problems and surprises that arise all fill space; they don’t fill his space. And they don’t erase the ache that is now a permanent feature to my heart. My God, I miss him so much.

A High Price and Worth It

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I enjoy scrolling through Instagram for funnies to share with my people. I want to bring humor and levity–life is heavy and hard, bringing laughter and lightness makes me feel good. Sometimes while I’m there, though, I get little nuggets of wisdom and this one from author Ali Smith really struck me: “When you have love in the equation, you also have death in the equation. The love story is always about the threat and promise of loss.”

“The promise of loss” stood out the most. Every relationship has loss for one reason or another. It’s broken off. The people grow and change and the relationship that was is no longer (maybe it’s a new one). Or somebody dies. For every single relationship, the loss is built in. So then why do we do it? Why do we love? Why do we build relationships with people? Because it’s worth it.

I watched my husband’s life slip through my fingers like sand and I have never known a pain more excruciating. I couldn’t fix it and I couldn’t heal him. Once he was gone I had to piece some version of a life without him which was antithetical to every choice I had made for the fourteen years prior. And I would choose him all over again knowing what was coming because we were worth it. The life we built was filled with joy, laughter, amazing meals shared with friends, travel, play, delight, curiosity, hard work, anger, frustration, tears, passion, and a few cats.

Knowing that loss is built in, I ask myself if I would be open to loving like that again. My answer is yes. It may be a high price, but it’s worth it. Life with love is so much richer than a life without it.