There's Good News and Bad News

It occurred to me sometime during the last months of Aida's life that, in general, we just don't pay attention to the obvious: That "till Death Do Us Part" means that one of us is going to die before the other one. One of us is going to go first.

Obvious, right? Simple, right? And just unbelievably difficult to understand. To (in a word of the 70s) grok.

Aida and I had the chance to talk about this odd turn more than once and more than once remarked on its essential strangeness. I remember realizing -- and telling her -- that when two people throw in with each other for the long haul it means that one of the two is going to go first; someone is going to make the way for the other.

Somewhere between November and December, it had become painfully clear that all that chatter about the parts "Until Death" and "'till I die" and blahblahblah ... was real. Oh my god.

I guess somewhere deep down I didn't think anyone really meant that part of it. I didn't think we were supposed to actually follow through on the whole "Death" thing. I mean really, what kind of a messed up system is that??

And so, my friends and fellow travelers, the good news may be that you have found a shelter and a home for your heart in the sweet arms of someone unbearably dear to you.

The bad news is that means someone is going to go first.

I think my Aida is crafting a most marvelous map for me; I'm going to need it.

No Joke

Today I had an early Easter with the Family and friends. Four generations of them. And four generations of love and laughing and good food and holiday traditions that I'm just now getting the hang of; I'm still shaking the confetti out of my hair (and I'll leave you with that for now).

I'll write more later about the experience of being a one-who-used-to-be-two in the midst of such comfort and silliness, but for now, the subject of the post:

Aida's mother.

While listening to Aida's dad tell me a story of something or other about Aida's mom, he very naturally and easily referred to her as "your mother-in-law."

So good. I feel so good.

Goodnight, Dad. Goodnight, Mom.

That Pesky Question

You know the one: "How can I help?" or its kissing cousin "What can I do?" -- a pesky and problematic question that seems to need a response, but is so often ... well ... unanswerable. And everyone knows it.

The only question more difficult - and common - is "How are you?"

Don't get me wrong. I understand and acknowledge that these questions are deeply meaningful and evidence of great care and concern on the part of the person asking. It's just that I (I won't speak for everyone else deep in the Grief Pit) often haven't got a clue. Or, as in the case of "How are you", I *do* have a clue and really, I'm thinking that most people really don't want to know.

That said ... re: the "What can I do?" question. I finally have an answer.

Interesting that it took me until halfway through Aida's memorial service reception before I figured it out (and we'd been on the ride since mid-2006), but I felt so good to have finally understood what it was that I really really for real want you to do.

And here it is.

Just love me. No strings. I want for you to send a card, or an email, or leave a message on my voicemail. A text. Picture mail. Poke me on Facebook (if the redesign still allows you to do that) Something. I want you to do something at least once a week to tell me that you're thinking about me. That you haven't forgotten about me or about Aida. That you care. Even that you love me.

And that you don't expect me to answer you right away. Not yet. And that you'll wait for me to surface and *then* we'll go to coffee/a movie/a bike ride/a mini-vacation/road trip/just sit.

I want you to do that and I want you to not stop just because I don't answer you right away.

Like I told a friend recently bereaved himself, all the love and none of the pressure.

Just keep reminding me that you care.

In the meanwhile, between the deep and the surface, I have to figure out when it's really okay to empty her sock drawer.

Bienvenidos Template

Changed the template for this freaking effing blog. We shall see if that makes it any more attractive to come home to.

My thought has been to explore the most difficult thing I've ever done in my life -- and that is to lose my wife - the love of my life - to cancer just over two months ago.

It has occurred to me that no one is writing handbooks for us queer folk on how to manage this thing. I mean, fer crissakes, we aren't even sure how to do weddings, let alone funerals and every single bone crushing day afterwards.

Here in California, last summer was an amazing flurry of lovelovelove with wedding after wedding after wedding after wedding. It was glorious. By the end of it in November (thank you electorate), just as we were figuring out the timing on sending invitations with the "M_____ sends regrets/will attend ..." tiny little insert card in them we got kicked in the collective rear. Turns out we don't need that kind of information anymore. At least, not for the next little while.

And in the meanwhile, my beloved wife died as I lay draped on her chest listening to the last breaths she would ever take on this earth.

So, what do you think of the template? Too moody?