People like milestones. The first 100 days of a
Presidency. The first 100 days of a new CEO. The first
100 days of a major project. Me being me, I like to count
things so as of today, I’ve been a widower for 100 days. It still
feels very weird to call myself that, and I think that is the first time I have
typed it. WEIRD! Anyway, I can’t say I’d recommend the
role or the title.
A hundred days feels like it should be enough time to have
some answers. Long enough to figure out a few things. But
the one thing I have learned is that grief does not give a shit about 100 days,
or any calendar dates either. Some days feel
normal. Other days a song, a picture, and old text message have
knocked me to my knees. I’ve spent 100 days laughing at memories, crying
over memories and doing both at the same time. That’s what a widower
does I guess, see aforementioned comment on not recommending it.
Over the last hundred days I’ve sifted through thousands of
pictures, electronic and printed. I’ve listened to songs that have
become time machines and others that have become anthems. I’ve told
Bride stories and I’ve heard new Bride stories and rediscovered a few stories I
had forgotten all together. I thought I was looking for
comfort. What I found was something else, I found
proof. Proof we had a great marriage. Proof we laughed a
lot at a lot of different things. Proof we had far more adventures
than I remembered. Proof that the years together we were blessed
with were even richer than they felt while we were living it. We started
as friends in what we called the anti relationship. Looking back I think that lack of pressure became
one of the foundations of our success as partners.
The thing about evidence is that it lives in the details. Somewhere in the thousands of pictures was
another picture of Bride making a face at the camera because she hated posed
pictures. And then there were text exchanges that would make
absolutely no sense to anyone else but had me laughing out loud
anyway. Tiny moments that, when woven together, told a bigger
story. The puppy love from those early days eventually became much deeper. We
wore our marriage like an old shirt. Soft, comfortable and known in
ways we can’t know new shirts. We knew the story behind each stain,
every loose thread and every hole. The knowing was what made it so
comfortable.
The second thing I learned is that grief doesn’t move in a
straight line. Finding all of that proof
didn’t make the hurt smaller. That surprised me. I think
I expected memories to provide comfort. Instead,
they sharpened the loss. The more evidence I found of how wonderful
our life was, the more obvious her absence became. Every picture I
found of us laughing carried another message right behind it. You don’t get to do this anymore Smitty. And that fucking sucks. Early on I
think I was expecting this grief journey to be like a recovery
journey. Where ya start in a bad place and gradually move towards a
better one. Grief has not worked that way.
It feels less like a straight line and more like the
tide. Some days are calm, some days it feels like a rip tide
carrying me out into water I don’t recognize. What I started to
realize is that the hard days don’t mean I’m moving backwards. Most
of the time they mean I’ve stumbled across something important. A
memory, a picture, a story, or some other piece of evidence of the life we
built together. One hundred days in, I have stopped measuring
success by whether a day hurts. The hurt comes on its own schedule,
and I don’t have access to change the cadence. What matters is what
comes with the hurt. More often than not, it brings a memory worth
keeping.
Which leads me to the third thing I’ve
learned. Memories are both medicine and salt. I used to
think memories were just something we held onto. A collection of
stories and moments we can take out and enjoy whenever we need
them. What I’ve learned is that memories are far more powerful than
that. They can heal and hurt at exactly the same
time. Through all the photos, text messages emails, social posts and
all the other little breadcrumbs of our life, I have laughed so hard I couldn’t
see straight. Others hit me like a train on a mission and others
managed to do both within moments of each other.
A picture of us on Canon Beach when we came out for my
interview for the OPB gig reminds me of how much fun we had. It also
reminds me there won’t be any more new adventures with her. A
recording of her from when dear friends visited lets me hear her voice, and her
laugh. It also reminds me how long it has been since I heard that in
real life. Stories from friends let me see her through someone else’s
eyes, and that is just as beautiful. It also hurts. The
gift and cost arrive together, damn it. I am starting to understand
why memories can feel so confusing. We tend to think happiness and
sadness are opposites. In grief they are more like roommates.
For most of my life I have assumed the goal was to make
sadness smaller. What I am slowly learning is that sadness
isn’t crowding out happiness. The sadness exists because of
the happiness. One turns out to be evidence of the
other. There are days it would be easier not to
look. Easier to not open the photo album. Easier to not
play the song. Easier to not revisit the
conversation. But every time I do, I discover something waiting for
me on the other side. A laugh I needed, a story I forgot, another
piece of proof.
Looking back I finally understood why I kept
digging. I told myself I was looking for memories because I was
afraid of losing them. Afraid if I didn’t gather up every picture,
every text message, every story, some piece of Bride might slowly fade
away. I think part of me was afraid time would sand off the
edges. That years from now I’d remember the outline of our life
together and lose the details.
What I discovered was that the details were
everywhere. In pictures, in text messages, in stories, in thousands
of ordinary moments I had completely forgotten. The evidence wasn’t
fragile, it was overwhelming. And maybe this is the biggest thing the
first 100 days have taught me. Grief doesn’t move in a straight
line. Memories can heal and hurt at the exact same
moment. And love leaves an evidence behind. When I
started digging through our life together in pictures, I thought I was looking
for memories. What I found was proof. Proof what we had
was real. Proof that it mattered, and proof I was luckier than
most.
A hundred days wasn’t enough to find the answers, but it was
enough to remind me how damn lucky I was and how grateful I am.
Damn, I miss that Gurl
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