Check the Box

After you died, my role as your caregiver was over.  There were no more doctors’ appointments, researching miracle cures, e-mailing your primary care physician, oncologist, cardiologist, nephrologist and naturopathic. No more updates on symptoms, asking questions, and advocating for appointments, imaging, and medication.   

I got so used to checking the boxes each day:  take your blood pressure (check), weigh-in (check), morning meds (check), doctors’ appointments, drive to the pharmacy, oh and scratch your back (check check check). I wanted to take care of you the way you had taken care of me - with love, respect, and total dedication. I didn’t want this to end with us feeling like there were stones left unturned or options left unexplored.  It was all-consuming…and truthfully one of the greatest honors of my life.  

Then one otherwise ordinary March afternoon, you took your last breath and that was that.  There was initial chaos...but then things got still.  Then they got real quiet.  Medical equipment disappeared, doctors stopped calling, meds were thrown out, family dispersed, and schedules were forgotten.  I ignored the constant buzz of my phone.  I didn't know what to say to people and didn't want to talk to anyone but you anyway.  So what was the point? Finally, the phones went silent too.

No one tells you when the love of your life dies, when it’s all said and done and you've done the impossible together, that's not the worst of it.  In a way, it's only the beginning. 

I made the initial calls to make arrangements for services, of course.  I met with the funeral home director, scheduled your cremation, all the things you're supposed to do.  COVID-19 put a prompt end to planning an actual service.  But then people started asking me if I had called our bank, notified my retirement company, cancelled your credit cards.  “Don’t wait too long.”  “You’ll want to make sure Jacob is protected should something happen to you too.”  

Wait, what? 

 

Let me pause here a moment to give you a glimpse into life without you. 

I don’t believe you died.  

I don't mean that figuratively, I mean I literally can't believe it, I've tried.  Denial is a real thing and man does it mess with you.  I wake up every morning and see the sunlight coming out from under the bathroom door and think you'll come walking out of the bathroom (naked, no shame 😄), with your reading glasses on, having just finished your morning Facebook scroll.  You'll say something funny, kiss me on the cheek, then hop back in the bathroom to take a shower. 

I go to sleep and dream vivid dreams like life has carried on right where we left off.  Last night we went on a motorcycle ride.  I swear I could feel the rough mesh of your motorcycle jacket as I wrapped my arms around your waist.  I could smell the road.  It was real wasn't it?  It feels real.  It's the waking hours that don't.

Sure, there are tiny moments throughout the day when reality sneaks in through little holes in my delusion, and with it comes sharp agonizing pain in my throat and chest and I can barely breathe.  This is my actual life now? No. Unbelievable.

Nothing could have prepared me, however, for the list of tasks I had ahead of me, the ones asking me to check here and sign there. They all wanted me to wipe you away like chalk dust.  

I started with an e-mail to cancel your monthly donation to KQED, a call to K-Love (Christian radio) for the same thing. I mean c'mon, so sweet!  But then came the bigger calls to our bank, which immediately resulted in forms and packets being sent, asking me to send your death certificate to prove to them that you were gone.  My husband's not dead.

One bank offered the option to check single, married, or widowed.  At least they acknowledged there was a difference. There is a certain sensitivity in that.  Retirement accounts were harder.  California State law requires that you make your spouse at least 50% beneficiary to your retirement account.  So when your spouse dies (and you've been reminded that you could go at any time), and you need to ensure that your 5-year old won’t end up a penniless orphan, you come across a form that doesn’t allow you to ease into your new life, like “widowed” did.  I had to check “single.” And it felt like a betrayal to our marriage.  It felt like I was betraying you.

That box was taunting me.

I was instantly reminded of how long it took me to find you, all the heartbreak we experienced before we ended up together, the confusion, the sea of crappy dating experiences (Lord!).  I recalled the relief I felt when you were finally mine, my person. Memories of our courtship bubbled up - getting to know each other, the intense attraction, letting down walls, trusting and starting a family together.  We cultivated a healthy, loving relationship over almost 11 years. I felt safe and protected, and looking forward to our future. I was so damned sure of everything.

Now, looking at my computer screen, I was supposed to check a box that cleared it all away, erased it (erased you).  It made me feel like we didn't exist anymore.  I was transported back to the starting line, totally alone, and this time knowing exactly what I had lost...us.

That box is hostile.  It hurts. But I checked it.  And I'm sorry.  

For the record JoJo, we are still married.  I'm wearing my ring. I am still crazy in love with you.  I talk to you every day, and I believe you can hear me. We are still married. 

Period.