My life with Gene begins

A few days ago, I wrote about the night I didn’t meet my husband. Since today is the 19^th anniversary of the night we met, it seems like a good day to write about it.

Quick summary: I had gone two-stepping for the first time on a Tuesday at the invitation of one of my girlfriends. She was there with her sister-in-law. This man I came to refer to as “a tall, rude man” kept coming by the table and inviting each of them to dance but totally ignoring me. Not a “hello,” nod or even a grunt. This happened again two nights later on a Thursday.

My girlfriend and her SIL couldn’t go on Saturday but I was enjoying being out – after finishing coursework for my graduate degree while working full-time – so I went without them. Imagine my surprise when as I waited for the couples dance lesson (which was held before the dance hall officially opened for the night), the “tall, rude man” sat down next to me at the bar.

“Hi,” he said, “I’m Gene.”

“I know who you are,” I said barely glancing at him.

We started chatting and pretty much never stopped. I spent the next four hours with Gene by my side. We stopped talking only for a few turns on the dance floor.

There were three women for every guy at this place and many of them approached Gene throughout the night, asking for a dance. He turned every one of them down over and over again. I got more than one disgusted stare from his suitors who were not happy as he politely declined their dance invitations.

Finally, I said, “I appreciate you keeping me company but I really don’t need a babysitter.”

“I’m happy where I am,” he said.

We talked about politics, religion, sports, careers. You name it, it came up.

About 11:30, I decided I was ready to head home. I thanked Gene for the conversation and dances and told him I was heading out. We said our goodbyes and I headed for the back of the dance hall to stop in the ladies room before going home.

I wasn’t gone 3 minutes when I passed Gene on my way out. My chair had been overtaken. Gene was surrounded by three different women.

I smiled and gave him a little wave.

I walked out of the dance hall and wasn’t 25 yards away when I heard the door slam behind me. I spun around. I’d been single long enough to be extra aware of my surroundings in parking lots, especially at night. But what I saw was nothing to fear. It was Gene.

He caught up with me and said, “I didn’t think you should walk to your car alone.” 

Aaawwww, chilvalry was not dead.

Once at my car, Gene took my right hand into both of his, looked down on me (he was a foot taller than me), and said, “Thanks. I had a great time tonight.”

“Me, too.”

And with that, I got into my car and Gene headed back inside.

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I remember having just one thought: What an interesting guy. He would make a great escort for all of the city functions I have to attend.

The idea of “dating” Gene never crossed my mind. I didn’t feel that way about him, but I knew he’d make a great companion.

I had no idea how right I was. But a few nights later I would begin to realize it and so much more. 

Our love remains

The thing about grief is you never know when it's going to pop up or what will trigger it.

I was having a really good day the other day, thinking that I've got it all together. I ran errands after work and stopped by the local nursery to see about buying some flowers. Yes, it's late in the season, but at least I am trying this year. Besides, flowers and all things plant-wise were Gene's area. I have a dark brown thumb that lightened over the years with Gene's help. But I can still kill just about anything green; it just might take a little longer.

At the nursery, I ran into the mother of a friend from grade school who is also a member of our parish. I haven't seen her in a couple of years. We said, "hello" and hugged and then it happened:

"So how's Gene?" she asked.

For the first year after Gene died, I always braced myself for that question whenever I saw anyone. But no one asked. Then after the 1st anniversary, I stopped preparing for the question. This was the second time in a month I had been blindsided.

"I lost Gene a year ago last month," I said. She lost her husband 17 year ago. We talked about loss for a minute or two and she left saying she would pray for me.

I went to my car -- without flowers -- but with my grief.

And then this evening I was watching the end of a movie I'd started watching several days ago, "Morning Glory," starring Rachel McAdams, Harrison Ford and Diane Keaton.

After something meaningful happens to our heroine, Becky Fuller (McAdams), she tracks down the man she recently broke up with.

"You were the first person I wanted to tell," she says, explaining the unexpected visit.

I can't remember the number of times I felt that way. Gene was always the first person I wanted to tell everything to. And with that memory, there it was again.

Grief.

I could almost hear its maniacal laugh, reminding me of one of the thousands of different ways I miss Gene and relied on him.

I could count on Gene for a celebratory or comforting hug depending on the news. A dinner out to hear every exciting detail or words of comfort, downplaying whatever failure or loss I was feeling. A kiss and another hug let me know not only was I going to be OK, but that what really mattered was who was holding me. No sense of failure, pain, or disappointment could penetrate the success and perfection of us.

My eyes are burning with tears but it's not grief. It's the understanding right this minute that while Gene may not be here physically to wrap his arms around me, I feel them as I write this. And I realize we can add "grief" to the list. No failure, pain, disappointment or grief can penetrate the success and perfection of us. We are still perfect. I am still loved and cared fir by the only man I ever truly loved.

 

Measuring grief

The 19 firefighters that perished in Arizona a couple of weeks ago have set off my grief-o-meter – the made-up instrument where I compare my worthiness to grieve with someone else's.

It has come up several times since Gene's death: July 2012 Aurora, CO and the Batman movie shooting. December 2012 Newtown, Connecticut and the beautiful 26 children and teachers. April 2013 the Boston Marathon bombing. And now the firefighters.

Each time something like this comes up, I feel unworthy of grief. I had 15 years of a life some people never experience for 15 minutes. A life filled with the most incredible love, friendship, passion, nurturing, support and fun.

Some of the victims in Aurora hadn't really started their lives yet or got to experience love or marriage. Boston's victims the same stories. The children in Newtown were just babies.  And the firefighters -- a few were months away from seeing their first child born and another firefighter had four children ages 6 and under.

Those children, those spouses, those parents, lovers, grandparents, they all deserve to grieve -- and for as long as it takes. A year. A decade. A lifetime.

Me? I got so much more than they did, I feel bad about feeling bad. It's been a year since Gene died, I should be on my way. And I am, and yet I wonder if I really am.

I've been told by some that I am just coming out of the shock. That my brain lets me remember only what my body can handle. Others tell me that I did the bulk of my grieving before Gene died. I loved him every day and, perhaps, in some way grieved him every day of the years we spent together (he was sick when I met him).

So which is it? Am I through the worst or haven't even started? Does it matter? I don't know. I only know that when I see a real tragedy, I feel guilty for feeling sorry for myself and for not bouncing back into life. "Those" people deserve to grieve, not me. I had time. I had love. I was happy beyond measure.

I know in my head that I deserve to take whatever time it takes. That nobody deserves their grief more than someone else. I just wish I could get my heart to feel the same way.

The night we didn't meet

Nineteen years ago tonight, I laid eyes on my husband for the first time. Sounds auspicious doesn't it? It wasn't. Far from it actually.

After finishing up coursework for my master's degree -- working full-time and going to school full-time -- I was ready for just about anything, socially speaking. So when a friend told me she was two-stepping, I was interested. Country dancing had taken hold across the country not just in Texas. I had wanted to try it. While athletically inclined, I have no dancing skills and line dancing was my last chance.

I met Julie and her sister-in-law at the dance hall. We took over a small table with four chairs by the dance floor. In no time, this tall lanky guy sauntered up (he actually walked, but were in a country bar so “saunter” it is). He was wearing a short-sleeve checkered shirt, blue jeans and boots. He didn’t look much the cowboy. No hat, and his close-cropped dark hair looked more military than country. His smile and ease in talking with Julie and her sister-in-law let me know this wasn’t the first time he’d been at their table. I didn’t expect him to ask me to dance, but he didn’t nod or even glance my way much less give me a “Howdy M’am.”

 

I didn’t exist.

 

After a few pleasantries with the girls, he and Julie headed for the dance floor.

  

A few minutes later, the two were back at the table just long enough for Cowboy Joe to ask the sister-in-law to dance – again without a look my way. On and on the evening went. Was this some sort of line-dance initiation? I waited for one of the “all dance” dances -- the equivalent of cotillion or a bad sock hop. The men form a ring inside; women outside. Dance with a partner and rotate onto the next. It wasn’t much, but I was out of the house and I’m was out with men.

Between going to school full-time and my daytime career, I had been too exhausted to date or do anything else. My big treat was doing laundry on Saturday nights, watching the TV show “Sisters,” and missing my only one in Tennessee.

During the months of graduate school, I could only think of how pitiful my life as a single woman had become. I was moderately successful in the work world, but my love life seemed an abysmal failure. We’d gone through two presidential administrations in the time since my last real relationship. The President of the United States was dating more than I was – and he was already married.

I spent most of my first night at Cactus Annie’s as a spectator except for the “all come” dances. The tall guy kept coming back and asking my two friends to dance, with hardly a glance at me much less an invitation to dance.

“What a tall, rude man,” I thought.

Yep, that summed up my first impression of the man who would become my husband.

Terrifying Grief

I’ve been trying to open myself to the idea of really remembering my marriage.

There's a problem that I only realized in the last week or so, maybe I don't want to remember. It's too hard. It's too big. I'm afraid my heart or head will explode if I really look at the life I had. Every now and again, it's as if I open a door just an eighth of an inch and the light of what was my marriage – my life -- is so beautiful, it's blinding. It’s glorious and excruciating at the same time. Really looking at it and remembering is frightening. What if I open that door and go in and the pain of the loss is so great that I can’t take it?

A week after Gene died, I had a dream. I was standing outside what appeared to be a mountain that had a small opening like the entry to a cave. I wouldn’t go in. I wouldn’t take a step toward the opening. From where I was standing, I could hear sounds from inside and could see glimpses. I was being drawn toward the opening. It was as if I knew I was supposed to go in.

 

I can’t remember what I saw or heard, but I remember being terrified of it. It seemed to be some sort of hell with all of the ugliness, excruciating pain, fear and darkness.  I was afraid that if I took a step in there, I might never find my way out. And then I woke up.

I knew right then that inside that doorway was my grief, and if I had gone in there, the grief would consume me. I would freeze in fear, unable to breathe or to move. Then how would I ever get out? It was the most terrifying place I had ever heard or imagined.

Now, a year later, I am stronger but am I strong enough to face grief and enter the opening? To look at my marriage, remember – and feel – how wonderful it was? To truly experience that loss?

 

I want to. I want to remember. I want to feel. I want to appreciate all that I had. I already do appreciate it but there’s a level of appreciation I haven’t gotten to – the level that lets you smile at the memory instead of cry or just block emotion altogether.

I know I have to go through this. Gene wanted me to really live my life, and I’m not. I suspect this is the only way – to enter the cave/mountain of grief.

 
I think I’m strong enough to enter. I just wish I knew what happens after that.

A little background to get started

June 7, 2012, my husband, Gene, died of cancer. He was the light of my life, my best friend, my soul mate. My Everything.

I'm seeing a grief counselor every now and again. Sometimes once a week. Sometimes once every six or eight weeks. Just whenever I need to talk. And yet, most of the time I don't even know what to say. Grief has robbed me of the words. There are no words. But the counselor lost her husband, too, and she gets it. All of it. The weirdness, the confusion, the lack of interest, the blah that life has become even though life is really quite good. The inability to enjoy life.

I can't even enjoy the memory of my marriage because I can't remember it. I still can't hear Gene's voice, although the other day I thought I heard it faintly for the first time since before he died. I can't remember his laugh. I can recall memories of our life together but they come to me like facts. There's just no feeling behind the memory. Sometimes, it's as if my 15-year marriage is a distant memory, like high school.
 

Happy beyond words

But I do remember one thing: Once I was happy beyond words.

I woke up every day with a smile and went to bed the same way. I literally thanked God every morning and every night for the life I was living with Gene.

No matter what else went on during the day that might rattle me, at the end of the day, I went home to the man who made my life safe and complete. I went home to my better half -- the other half of me.

Gene was my port in the storm. When I was with him, my heart was home. And now my heart is lost or at least being held for ransom. And my life is that ransom. I get my heart back when I die? But I don't want to die – at least not anymore..

Forgetting = self-protection

The fact that I can't remember my marriage is bothersome, frustrating, and sad but it's also OK. Because I can't remember, I have been able to function. I'm on my feet and have been since the day Gene died. And that's probably the biggest shock so far. That grief isn't what I expected. For a while, I thought I must be doing it wrong. I mean, how could a person love beyond a depth she ever believed was possible and then just poof, go on with life? Eat, sleep (at least some), brush her teeth, go to work, go to the grocery, out with friends. Do things that seem like life is normal when it's anything but.
 

Before Gene died, I had semi-arranged for  a friend to take over paying my bills if Gene died because I truly thought I would be in the fetal position for weeks, unable to eat, shower or work. But that didn't happen. I paid the bills, I took care of all of the important documents and papers I had to file. I rearranged banking and investments. (Gene kept a cursory list of stuff, but we never discussed it in depth. We never wanted to "go there" and discuss "what if" because we wanted to believe he could still beat the disease.)

And yet through all of that I just marched on. Sad at times, crying at time but not nearly as much as I expected.

Time to remember?

It's a year later, I know I've made progress. I feel different, and yet I feel no different since the day I lost him. My life is good by many people's standards. And while I see the colors of life, it's as if I'm living in black and white. Although I guess that's an upgrade from the earlier months when I felt like an alien on this planet without Gene.

The counselor has been encouraging me to write "our story" -- Gene's and mine. She thinks if I write about one memory, it will trigger another and another and so on, and I’ll be able to remember the great life I had, grieve its loss and have it remain a wonderful, comforting memory.

In our first meeting, the counselor told me, you can't go around grief; you have to go through it. Sooner or later. Maybe she's right. Maybe it's time to write -- and remember.