Seven Thanksgivings

I spent the last seven Thanksgivings with Marcus. Throughout the tumult of our marriage, often living apart on different continents, his job moving us to three different countries, our standoffs and stubbornness with each other, me threatening to leave him too many times, always finding our way back to loving each other... Throughout all of this only now in the wake of his death can I see there was one consistent thing we shared and never missed, something sacred and rich: we celebrated every Thanksgiving together. It was always my favorite holiday, and though Marcus was German he embraced the day -- and the overeating -- as if it was his own.

As this year's Thanksgiving approaches the despair and panic of missing him have already begun to overwhelm me. To keep myself busy and to "focus on the good memories, not on the regrets" (as my grief counselor wisely recommended), I took some time to search in my photo files until I found a picture from each year we spent the holiday together. Not that these "good memories" take away the pain and intensity of the loss, but in looking at the pictures and reminiscing I see the goodness, the love, and the connection we shared during our time together. And that is something to be grateful for.

Marcus and Beth's Thanksgiving Retrospective

2002 - Lehnigen, Germany
Marcus and I weren't married let alone engaged yet. I was trying to impress Marcus and my future in-laws with my cooking skills and pies --I even hauled cans of pumpkin, bags of cranberries and pecans, and Karo syrup over from the US -- but instead they impressed me! Their free-range turkey weighed 40 pounds and it was roasted to perfection in their traditional Backhaus. The oven was first heated with a wood fire, then cleaned out, and the sand in between its walls stayed hot for hours. I wouldn't have believed it was possible if I hadn't seen it for myself. The turkey was moist and delicious.

2003- Lehnigen, Germany

We got married in August/September and before we even went on our honeymoon it was already Turkey Time. Marcus' coworkers were so envious about our American feast the year before we invited the whole Daimler team. The aprons were a gift from Marcus' mom. Germans don't eat sweet potatoes so they are hard to find. I finally paid something like $10 a pound at a gourmet market for imported yams from Israel.

2004- Marina del Rey, California

This was Marcus' first Thanksgiving in the USA. We went to my parents' house in California and were joined by two of my four siblings. Below is Marcus, who had become an expert Thanksgiving sous chef by now, whipping the cream for pumpkin pie.

2005 - Oberdiessbach, Switzerland
This year we fulfilled a promise to my dear friends in Switzerland to make a traditional Thanksgiving dinner for them. They loved everything except for the pumpkin pie. "Next time make more apple," they said as they scraped the apple pie plate clean.

2006 - Lake Oswego, Oregon
When Marcus got a job transfer from Germany to Portland we promptly rented a cozy lakeside cottage and made a nest for ourselves. No matter that we didn't have furniture yet when Thanksgiving rolled around, my brother in Seattle (center), his wife (left) and his family of four kids drove down for our turkey feast and an overnight. For dinner we sat on lawn chairs and balanced the plates on our laps. For sleeping, the kids rolled out their sleeping bags on the carpet.
2007 - On board a Lufthansa flight to Germany

With the unexpected passing of Marcus' grandmother we gave all the pies and cranberry breads I had made to friends and boarded a plane bound for Bremen, Germany. We flew business class on Lufthansa and were happily surprised when we were served turkey and all the fixings during the flight.

2008 -- Saltillo, Mexico
I could have never EVER imagined that this would be my last Thanksgiving with Marcus. We had moved to Mexico for Marcus' job five months earlier. The boss of the new truck factory was American and he very thoughtfully organized dinner for the American expatriates. Lucky that Marcus had an American wife or he wouldn't have qualified! The dinner was held at a popular Mexican restaurant and we speculated on what kind of food they would serve, what would be the Mexican interpretation of Thanksgiving. We were impressed with the attention to detail, they got everything right down to the cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie.

2009 -- Portland, Oregon

This year I have never had so many Thanksgiving invitations. I was very touched that so many people reached out, but early on I had decided I would stay in Portland and join our friends Alison and Thomas and their parents from Ohio and Boston. Alison and Thomas have been so good to both Marcus and me, sharing backpacking trips and barbeques over the years, and now they share stories of Marcus while propping me up.

In spite of being in good company I know it's going to be hard. I tell myself I won't be there alone. Marcus hasn't missed a Thanksgiving yet, so I know he will be there with me in spirit.

Letting Go of His Stuff...Or Not

Marcus died three months ago today. When is it time to let go of his stuff? Six months? A year? Ten years? Never?

We kept a storage unit here in Portland and I gathered up the nerve to set foot in it last week. Actually I went only to look for a tax document and stayed three hours. I organized all of clothes he had with him during his vacation in August, clothes that our friends tossed into garbage bags in our rush to make funeral arrangements.

Marcus took good care of his belongings, he folded every shirt, sock and pair of underwear with painstaking precision. He wouldn't have liked his things being treated this way. So I folded everything and placed it neatly in the large plastic tubs -- though I admit I smelled every item before putting it away, burying my face in the armpits of his shirts and the crotch of all his pants, longing for any hint of his scent.

I talked to Melissa that evening and she said, "Why don't you just pick ten things to keep and give away the rest?" To which I snapped angrily, "It was enough for me just to organize. I'm not letting go of anything!"

PHOTO: Dress for success. Marcus looked gorgeous in these shirts and always ironed them himself.

That was last week. I went back to the storage unit today to collect Marcus' dress shirts and wool trousers. My youngest brother wears exactly Marcus' size and I suggested I give him Marcus' cashmere sport coat as he just started a new job. He said yes and added that he was in need of more business clothes. I decided the rest of Marcus' work clothes would go to him, keep them in the family as a win-win. Marcus would approve and I wouldn't feel like I was truly letting go of them.

As I rummaged through the tubs I noted Marcus' abundance of hats, gloves, socks, fleece jackets, and sweaters. In my recent manic desire to clear out all clutter from my life, to simplify, to downsize (if one can actually downsize from a studio apartment), to lighten my load, I considered giving away Marcus' warm clothing. "Think of all the homeless people out there who could benefit from this pair of fleece gloves or this great hat," I thought.

Oh, but he wore those gloves to the park when he threw the stick for Jack. I bought him that hat in New York, in Little Italy. He looked so cute in it. We had so much fun that trip...

No! No, I couldn't do it. I couldn't give this stuff away, HIS stuff.

With tears streaming down my cheeks, I put away the hat, gloves and everything else except for the dress shirts and trousers and snapped the lid shut on the tub. I pulled the door closed, locked the padlock and left the rest of Marcus' belongings where they were, secure, unused, and waiting for some distant day that I might be able to let go -- or at least go back and smell them again.

You Seem Better...

PHOTO: Returning to familiar territory. Our old house (right), my new house (left)

“You seem better,” my dad said to me when I saw him this past weekend.

Really? Am I better?

Is better when you take the dogs on their nightly walk in your very quiet neighborhood, inadvertently get scraped by a thorny blackberry branch and let out a blood-curdling scream yelling “FUCK!!!” at the top of your lungs, collapse right there in the middle of the sidewalk at 11PM and sob so hard you scare your dogs, let alone the neighbors?

Is better when you call Marcus’ cell phone number and feel your heart race because you actually think there’s a possibility he’ll answer?

Is better when a friend brings over a box of fancy cupcakes and after she leaves you eat the whole box in ten minutes trying to fill the un-fill-able deep, cavernous, terrifying void left by Marcus?

Is better when you lie on the couch for two, three, even four hours just staring into space?

Is better when you eat a bowl of rice pudding – Marcus’ favorite – and raise your spoon toward the ceiling, offering him a bite, even making sure the spoonful has a sprinkle of cinnamon on it?

Is better when you climb to the top of a 3,000-foot mountain during a rain/snowstorm and in a fit of exhaustion and rage scream “MARRRRRCUSSSSSSS!!! I MISS YOUUUUU!!!” to the sky and just lie there on your back wailing in a wet puddle of snow?

Is better when you move into the apartment right next door to the house in which you used to live together so you can be closer to him, so he knows where to find you, and then turning the place into a shrine to Marcus by filling it with pictures on every wall and every shelf so each direction you look you see him?

Is better when you spend hours looking at photos of Marcus on your computer? Is better when you spend extra time looking at the pictures of him lying in his casket?

Is better when you go to the library and checking out every single book available on the afterlife? Is better when you consult with three different psychics to try to communicate with your husband, to understand why he died, to find out if he is okay, to let him know you are so very very sorry for not being more loving, more patient, more respectful toward him?

I want to be better. I want to have a productive life again. I want to be able to accomplish more in a day than just staring into space. My grief counselor advised, “Grief is hard work. Even staring into space is doing the work.”

My friend Ann also said something helpful: “Give yourself a break, you lost your husband just a second ago in the scope of things.” A “second” in this case is three months. Three very long, painful, confusing, exhausting months. Three months of which I have very little memory as the shock has made time seem like a big blur.

Sorry, Dad. Someday I hope I am better. I’m not better. Not yet. But I’m working on it.

My Life as a Tree

A block from Thomas and Alison's house in Portland, this maple tree stood out as the most vibrant in the whole neighborhood. I stopped to take the picture because, in between the storm clouds, the sun illuminated its leaves to blinding shades of red and orange. Mainly I took this picture for Marcus. He would have insisted on stopping to document this stunning site. I could just hear him saying, "Look at the colors! Look at the light!"and then fiddling with his camera to get just the right shot. I used to feel alive and vibrant like this tree. That was when the world was normal, before Marcus died, before I knew what grief felt like.

BEFORE


AFTER

Now, with my so called leaves blasted off my branches, I try to remind myself that life mirrors the seasons. For every ending, a new beginning. For every winter, a spring. And so, I will take a cue from nature, hibernating -- and healing -- until the buds force their way out and open up into blossoms. And, yes, that's the same tree as above, just one week later, proving once again that the only thing constant in life is change.

8 Reasons to Be Happy

When I am able to stop my tears long enough to look around and appreciate what goodness remains in life, there is actually a lot to be happy about. After pouring all my grief out to all you loyal readers, let me share with you the little rays of positive sunshine that have managed to penetrate my shell of sadness in the past week.

One: Three puppies and Melissa's two little girls showered me with affection during my stay in LA. We walked to school together every morning and the girls skipped on the way. It's impossible to be sad when you're skipping! This innocence and enthusiasm of these kids is a big reminder about the circle of life. Life does indeed go on.

Two: My parents are hip, healthy, young-spirited, and very caring people. Even if they don't know how to talk about death or about my difficulties over losing Marcus, they are always right there. I'm lucky for that, lucky for them.

Three: Friends can show their care in the most unexpected ways. My friend Cheryl from high school sent me roses in LA and they cheered me up immensely. They opened perfectly and fully during the week. I haven't seen Cheryl in several years (she was at Marcus' and my wedding in Seattle) so her gesture was especially touching.

Four: It's great to be a house guest where upon arrival (after a 1,000 mile drive) you are greeted with a PIE straight out of the oven! A big thank you to Alison who has the easiest, quickest laugh -- along with the most beautiful, biggest smile. Though her veggie pie was delish, it's her laughter that's the best medicine.

Five: Fall is here and fall is my favorite season. Why? Because it's all about pumpkin pie! Tip: I get my recipe off the label of Libby's Pumpkin can. But if you can't make your own, Costco makes a very tasty and large pumpkin pie and sells it at a bargain price.

Six: The sun is shining! In spite of managing my expectations for all rain all the time, Portland greeted me with four consecutive days of sun. Even better, it was warm enought to sit outside at Marcus' and my favorite French bakery, St. Honore, and eat an almond croissant. I have to say, that little tasty respite was good for the soul! And yes, it does feel comforting to retrace the steps of our life here together.

7: Marcus had put the RV up for sale but it hasn't sold, and now it's begging me to drive it to Crater Lake National Park before the snow sets in. (Crater Lake Lodge is where Marcus and I met, eight years ago, on September 29, 2001.) While I always hated the idea of owning this beast, I learned to enjoy the comforts of camping with a bed and an espresso maker. Marcus always drove, since I refused, but now I will have to face yet another fear and get behind the wheel.Eight: Last but certainly not least, I have a new boyfriend! His name is Nolan, he has six teeth, and still wears diapers. Okay, so maybe 15 months old is a little young for me, but he sure is charming. Like Marcus, he's German. What is it about those German guys that is so attractive?! Unlike Marcus, however, Nolan doesn't have a seductive British accent. But that's because he can't talk yet. I can't wait to see this sweet little thing grow up. He's a special boy, happy and always smiling. Nolan came to Marcus' funeral in Portland and during the reception wanted to play Peek-a-Boo with me. Even in my darkest hour, this little creature knew how to bring a bit of lightness.

Death: Just Talk About It!

Another road trip, another Motel 6. I am in Red Bluff, California, half way between Los Angeles and Portland, Oregon. It has been 51 days since Marcus died. I just spent ten days in LA, ten days as Melissa’s house guest, ten days of having very little time or space to cry. Ten days of wearing my "game face," a mask to trick people into thinking I'm "just fine" now. Which I am not. Which is probably why yesterday I cried for nine solid hours, all 541 miles of my drive.

Crying – deep, heavy, loud, guttural bawling – is not the safest thing to be doing while driving. It’s surely safer to talk with a cell phone attached to your ear or jam a messy Big Mac in your mouth than cry the way I was, my glasses fogged up and streaked with tears, my eyes filled with blinding tears. Driving up I-5, the potential for my Mini Cooper to become a semi sandwich, me the glob of tuna salad mashed between thick slices of Freightliner or Mack trucks, was extreme. But in spite of myself, in spite of my death wish, I made it. Yes, I said death wish.

PHOTO: My mom packed some snacks for my road trip, including a piece of berry pie. Eaten while parked. The pie stopped the tears for a few soothing minutes. Thanks, mom.

Whoever says grief doesn’t make you suicidal is wrong. What other way is there to escape this pain? This intense, endless, life shattering pain. Pain that curls you into the fetal position, writhing on the floor of the bathroom or in the car (pain does not discriminate in its choice of location, it can strike anywhere, anytime). Pain that shoots razor blades through your heart, slashing, cutting, tearing, ripping you apart. Pain that leaves a gaping hole inside you, a hole so large that nothing can fill it, a hole so wide that is impossible to repair. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross writes in her book ON DEATH AND DYING, that a surviving spouse’s reaction to loss is fear of their own death, fear that God will retaliate and take them too. Huh??? This is not my reaction. Do I fear my own death? No! Quite the opposite! I wish for it every day.

Of course this is a topic that makes others VERRRRRRY uncomfortable. It’s not a conversation that one can have with even the closest friends or family. It’s not a conversation one can really have period. I know my mother and sister, for example, would much rather talk about shopping than death – be it Marcus’ or my own wish for it. And it’s obvious my friends would rather talk about their kids or work or decorating their house. Death is a subject that I am noticing everyone is going to great lengths to avoid. Almost no one will talk about Marcus’ death with me unless I bring it up and insist on staying with the subject. My own family can’t even mention Marcus’ name. Hello, is there an elephant in the room?

There is only one person I can talk to about death – and I mean the real issue of death, death as beast, demon, torturer, inflictor of pain, inspirer of rage – and it is Maggie. Maggie’s husband, Paul, died of the same thing as Marcus (hemopericardium due to ruptured aorta) in February, so she is six months ahead of me in the grieving process. “I think about suicide every day too,” she assured me. “It’s the only way to stop feeling this pain.” Well, there you have it. Maggie thinks about suicide and she is still alive. I think about it and I am still alive.

The point to this is to remind everyone JUST TALK. Talk about death. Talk about pain and grief. Don’t avoid the conversation. Don’t be afraid of it. Everyone has to deal with death at some time in their life. Death is unavoidable. So don’t avoid discussing it. We can all help each other and learn from each other. And as long as I’m lecturing, I should also add, don’t drive while crying! It’s advice I plan to follow myself.

Today is a new day, my eyes are dry for the moment (albeit exceptionally puffy!), the sun is shining, and I-5 is calling me further northward. Tonight I will be staying in the beautiful Portland bungalow of my good friends Alison and Thomas. Next week I will be starting my nine-week grief support group. I also plan to look for a part-time pie baking job. And seeing as I will be staying in one place for the next two months, I am happy to report this will be my last Motel 6 for a while.

Back in the Saddle Again...Well, Running After the Horse

When I was 8 year old I went to horse camp -- one full week of learning to groom, saddle and ride horses. I was so excited. One of the first things our horse instructor told us is that there was an award given to anyone who fell off their horse and got back on to ride again. It was called the “Spurs Award.” That sounded nice, but I wasn’t going to fall off my horse. Of course, I did fall off. I don’t remember how or why I ended up on the ground – those horses must have been the tamest animals in the world to be putting little kids on them -- but what I do remember is that I wanted to win the Spurs Award. I was going to get back on and ride again. So I went running after my horse, chasing it so I could get back on, immediately. At the end of the week, at the closing ceremonies for camp, when all the awards were granted – for archery, for team spirit, for cleanest cabin – I was called up to receive my award, a paper certificate with my name on it: The Spurs Award. The horse instructor handed it to me and said, “When we said get back on your horse and ride again, we meant sometime during the week, not ten seconds after you fall off.”
I am reminded of this episode, this “award,” as I move through the days following Marcus’ death. Friends have written kind words telling me things like: You’re a survivor. You’re resilient. You’re resourceful. You are brave. You are a strong woman.
I don’t want to be strong. I don’t even want to live anymore. I’m tired. I’m not 8 years old anymore with that kind of determination to get back on my horse. And yet, I’m still here. And, like it or not, life keeps moving forward.
I am moving forward – at 75 miles per hour, to be exact. I packed up my beloved writer’s cottage in Terlingua, loaded the dogs in the Mini Cooper, and am currently heading West -- to Los Angeles first, to visit my family, and then to Portland, Oregon, where I will stay for at least two months to get medical treatment for my hyperthyroidism (when you see the goiter in your neck growing to the size of a grapefruit, you know something needs to be done about it!) Portland is where my trusted endocrinologist practices. But Portland is where Marcus and I lived for a year and a half (for his job). And Portland is where Marcus died one month ago.
Portland is the place I fear being because of All Those Memories. I fear the St. Honore Bakery and Caffe Mingo because those were our favorite restaurants and to not be able to go there with him, meet him for lunch, go out for dinner -- that can only add to my sadness. I fear driving on the Fremont Bridge as that’s the route he took to work and to think how much he was looking forward to his new project – that can only give me more heartache. I fear hiking in Forest Park because that was our backyard and where we road bikes, and to remember how much he loved biking and how he isn’t here to ride anymore -- that can only make me feel worse. I fear the American Medical Response ambulances, ubiquitous in Portland, with their sirens blaring, because one of those took Marcus to the hospital that fateful morning. And thus I fear passing Emanuel Legacy Hospital because that is where he was pronounced dead. I fear all those people – neighbors or coworkers – who haven’t yet heard about Marcus and will say, “But we just saw him a month ago…” or “He was so healthy” or “I cannot believe it” -- that will just send me further down into my abyss of grief.
Portland is my horse. I have learned that you don’t need to run after the horse to get back on ride. Besides, real life doesn’t give out Spurs Awards. I will take my time. I will try to remember and to BELIEVE all those kind words – survivor, resilient, resourceful, brave, strong. I will pack those words in my saddle bags to help me confront my fears when I arrive in Portland. I will cherish the good experiences Marcus and I had there and I will be grateful for those memories. I will eat at St. Honore Bakery and Caffe Mingo and order his favorite dishes. I will ride my bike in Forest Park and sing to Marcus in the trees. I will drive across the Fremont Bridge and shout Marcus’ name. I will see the AMR ambulances and the Legacy Hospital and I will thank them for trying so hard to save Marcus’ life. (From reading the hospital report, it's clear they did everything possible.) I will eventually get back on the horse and ride. Like it or not, the saddle of life awaits me. Giddy up.