What Happened Two Years Ago

Two years ago tonight, I last saw T alive. Here is the story of what happened.

We went to Mexico in mid-April of 2008. Two days before we were returning home, the Friday afternoon of the trip, T started feeling pretty bad. He had some intestinal issue, and by Saturday afternoon was so sick he sent me out to find some Immodium-type drug that might help manage the situation. That evening he sent us ahead to the resort restaurant, saying he wasn't hungry, but would join us later for a little while. We were sitting at our table when T's niece and nephew, who were facing the front of the restaurant, saw someone fall on the path outside. We shrugged it off, as the bar was that direction, but it did seem odd for someone to be that drunk so early in the evening at a family resort. A few minutes later, someone appeared at our table asking for me. It was T -- he had fainted as he passed the bar and only just come to.

He was bemused but all there. Several people from the bar had come out to help, and one woman, a doctor, told me it had taken him a while to regain consciousness. A very nice man walked us back to our room to make sure we got there safely. The hotel staff called the paramedics for us, and soon a crowd of Mexican police and medical personal filled our room. The language barrier was a bit of a problem, and all they were able to do was take his vitals. I think they said his blood pressure was low, or maybe high -- I don't remember exactly. They wanted to take him to the local clinic, but it was the night before we were leaving, and T said no.

He was doing better the next day, and made it home fine. Monday he stayed home sick, but by Tuesday he was feeling better and went in to work. He brought home a nice filet mignon from one of our favorite restaurants, and drank a glass of red wine. Meanwhile, I started feeling crummy on Tuesday afternoon, and T's son D was not doing well around that time. B had had diarrhea since the last days of our trip, and was still having problems. Our nanny, who didn't even come on the trip, got sick around then too.

Wednesday we all stayed home. T was feeling bad again, and he had a fever of 100 or so consistently throughout the day. By mid-afternoon I insisted he go to the doctor. He had initiated a transfer to my family practice doctor, though he hadn't had an appointment with her yet. Luckily, he could get in to see her that afternoon, so we packed up B, who was still having her problem, and headed off.

I was not in the room for his exam, so I don't know exactly what transpired, but apparently he did not tell the doctor about his heart situation when she asked about any chronic conditions: his enlarged heart, the valve replacement, or the drugs he took. She must have taken his vitals, listened to his heart, etc. I remember when he had some virus after his surgery, and took himself off to his cardiologist because he said it could be more dangerous in his situation. Why didn't he take it more seriously this time?

The doctor hadn't met B yet, so before we left I took her in to say hello. The doctor congratulated us on B, and then told me T would be fine.

T hadn't eaten much that day. I bought him a bottle of Gatorade, which I don't think he had any of. I think he might have eaten part of an English muffin, maybe a banana or some leftover rice. He sat in his black leather chair in the family room with the throw rug over his knees, watching TV, while I was in the office on the computer. Around 9:30 or so, he went to bed, and as I came through the family room probably soon after, I remember seeing his empty chair and the throw rug on the ottoman and being a bit disappointed that he hadn't said good night. I think he was already asleep when I came into the bedroom, or at least I don't remember him saying anything.

The next morning the alarm went off as usual at 6:30. It was on T's side of the bed, but he didn't respond. I figured he was still feeling poorly, so I got up and walked around the bed to turn it off, so as not to disturb him. (Knowing too well his penchant for privacy and my personal dislike of being awoken unnecessarily, I didn't want to even reach over him to get to the clock.) I was feeling better, so I took a shower and got dressed, planning to head to work. T was still lying on his side, his right arm tucked under the pillow in his usual sleeping position, when I finished getting ready.

I went in to get B up for the day, and she had had diarrhea again that had escaped the diaper and gotten all over her and her bed, even into her hair. I scooped her up and carried her through our bedroom, right past T as he lay in bed facing the other way, and into the master bath where we bathed her. I ran a bath and cleaned her up, while she fussed and cried. Carrying her back through the bedroom, it suddenly occurred to me to wonder why T hadn't gotten up to help me with her. Even if he were feeling pretty bad, he was a very involved and hands-on father.

Still holding a naked B wrapped in her yellow bath towel, I put my hand on T's shoulder. "T", I probably said. He didn't respond. "T! T!" I think I shouted, now shaking him. "Oh my god", I might have said, and ran around the bed to put B down, still naked, on her towel on my side of the bed. I ran back and shook him again. I noticed the hand under the pillow was a little clenched, and his head was tipped at a slight upward angle. He had been sleeping in a tee-shirt and shorts, unusual for him. I pulled the sheet off, and felt his arm. It was cold, and he was stiff. I felt under his armpit, and in his groin. There was a little warmth still there. I ran back to my side of the bed and called 911.

I don't remember what I said to the dispatcher. Maybe "My husband is not responding!" or something like that. The dispatcher told me to get him on his back and start CPR. When I tried to turn him, I couldn't straighten out his limbs. The right side of his face was distorted, and his lips were drawn back slightly, as if a wave of pain had come over him. "I can't turn him over!" I told the dispatcher, and then ran to open the front door so the paramedics could get in when they arrived.

I don't remember hearing any sirens, though I imagine they must have used them. Three or four people came quickly in, and I remember telling a kind-looking man, "I think it's too late". I was ushered out of our bedroom by a police officer (another kind man), and took B into her bedroom to get a diaper and clothes on. I then went into the family room with her and the police (I think there were two by then) and called our best friends E & D.

Did I say "I think T died", when I called them? I don't remember. They both came over immediately. The head paramedic came in and told me I was right, it had been too late. I asked him whether they could tell what time he died, and he said they might guess somewhere between 1 AM and 4 AM. They said they called the coroner, and he would arrive soon. The police were asking questions, collecting medication, telling me the bedroom was off-limits for a little while as it was a "crime scene". I thought that was humorous.

I sat on the couch that T picked out in the family room of the home T found for us, and tried to take in the fact that T was dead. I held B and cried. When the coroner arrived, he examined T's body and then took me and E out to the back patio (for privacy?) to explain that we may never know the cause of death, but an electrolyte imbalance due to his illness, like a marathon runner dropping dead on the finish line, was a likely candidate.

The police suggested that I might not want to see them wheeling T's body out of the house on the gurney, so we closed the doors to the front hall, and I sat on that family room couch trying not to listen or think about what was happening.

At some point that morning I called T's father and told him. "NO!" he cried, and he and his wife jumped on the first plane out. I called D's mother and told her. "NO!" she screamed. I called my boss, crying and keening. I called my dear friend L, and my Dad. I started a list of people to have called. I let E & D, and another close friend of T's, take over as much as they could. Someone, maybe me, called my doula and she arranged for a masseuse to come to the house one of the first nights. I called my grief counselor friend. Someone suggested sleeping pills, and I called my doctor to tell her what had happened (she was shocked and so very sorry) and get a prescription. For the first time in my life I took a sleep aide.

After almost six months, we got the autopsy report. The cause of death was inconclusive, but likely to be a cardiac arrhythmia. He hadn't been dehydrated, but maybe his electrolytes were out of whack. He had stopped taking some of his heart medication on the trip, apparently, so maybe that was a factor. I so much wanted to tell him what had happened, and talk to him to figure it all out. "You died!" I caught myself saying to him in my mind. "Can you believe it?"

A Sad Day

Tonight I'm feeling down. This afternoon I took B to a birthday celebration for the 1-year-old daughter of good friends, and I was reminded again of how awful it feels to be the only single person in a sea of families. "Happy loving couples" everywhere I turned, many with small children. Happy loving families, with their futures ahead of them.

I think B notices, too. Out of the blue at the party she said "Where's my Daddy? I want Daddy to come home." So do I, sweetie. So do I.

Wanting and Needing

I've been thinking a lot about the difference between wanting and needing in relationships. My goal is to be happy and content on my own, to not need anyone romantically in my life. Entering or staying in a relationship because of emotional neediness is dangerous -- it can make you do crazy, unhealthy things. And with a daughter to raise, I am hypersensitive to putting myself in situations where I might behave in ways that could impact her wellbeing.

But when I imagine being alone the rest of my life, having no one to talk to, no one to share decisions with, no one to help when the car needs repair or we've run out of milk, I get anxious and unhappy. I don't want to be alone, without a life partner. I want to be in a loving, supportive, give-and-take relationship.

I feel like much of my emotional energy is spent wishing to be with someone. In one way, it's good, because I'm focusing my attention on what I want. I'm a big believer in the idea that you get what you put out into the universe. On the other hand, I fear that I'm trying to live the "happily ever after" fairytale, concentrating on getting to the wedding to the exclusion of other goals and objectives in life. Goodness knows, I'm aware that just because you're married, your life isn't perfect and the yearning, striving, and growth doesn't end. But for right now, it seems that I'm all about finding that next relationship.

Which brings me to the status of Guy. I'm still seeing him, and am not actively looking for other men. He is such a nice guy, and I do enjoy being with him. Can you hear the "but..." coming? I just don't see it going anywhere serious. I'm not quite ready to call it quits, but I'm pretty sure that's where we're heading. I dated a very nice guy for 6 years, prior to T, with whom I had a very pleasant relationship that just never quite got to the finish line for either of us. I know what that feels like, and I recognize the feeling with Guy, I'm afraid. Having experienced the online dating world now, I'm not excited about the prospect of returning to it, but that's most likely the next step.

Stuck?

I've got that itch for change again. A while back, I spent a whole lot of thought and energy developing alternative scenarios for my life. How much money do I really need to live? Should I downsize the house to extract some equity and reduce my monthly bills, and quit my job? Should I take a leave of absence and concentrate on personal pursuits? Move to the wine country and work in a bookstore, or take off to Paris? I finally realized that in all that what-if imagining, I was just trying to find T again. Somehow, if I just changed the right thing, the gaping hole would be filled.

This time around, the trigger for spinning future fantasies was the realization that I feel stuck. Since T's death, everything has remained exactly the same. Job, house, friends, activities ... all have remained constant. I think that in fact this is a good thing. Stability in everything else helped balance the incomprehensible change I was grappling with. But I also realize I am frightened at the prospect of it staying this way forever. I'm living a great life, but it's the wrong life. I was supposed to be married, mostly happy, making decisions and raising my daughter together with my life partner. Now, I'm just drifting, like a space ship whose main thruster was knocked out, traveling in a random direction based on the last push from the now-silent engines.

I wonder if I make some reasonably large change, like a new job or house, will my life feel more intentional? We bought this house intending to stay in it forever. We even called it our "forever house". It's too big for just me and B, though, and if I downsize to something more appropriate for the two of us, will that feel like a positive step in accepting and adapting to my new circumstances? Or will I regret letting go of this great place, the last place T lived in? (You have to disclose when selling a home if someone died in it. How much detail do you think they need? T died in our bed, of natural causes. Will that effect the demand, or sales price?)

Job-wise, I'm still waiting for my professional mojo to return. I took a class related to my field last week, and really enjoyed it, but I doubt that my motivation and interest extends to searching for, landing, and succeeding at a new job. As I said last post, Blah. The more appealing change is to take a leave, or quit. Or best yet, get laid off, with a nice severance package to extend the time I can be jobless. I know I shouldn't even joke about that, with the difficulties so many good, qualified people have finding jobs these days, so it's a measure of the depth of my blahs that it's an option in my mind. And I also know that I'm not wishing to stop work so I can be with B more. At 3 1/2, she's often a delight to spend time with, but quiting work isn't motivated by wanting to stay home with her; it's to not be required to muster up the energy and interest in what seem fundamentally useless discussions, problems, and activities. I dream about working about 20 hours a week at something very satisfying and meaningful, with plenty of time for bike rides, projects, activities with friends, and also fun with B.

I know that in reality, I'm not stuck. I'm cocooned, preparing for my metamorphosis. I'm marshaling my strength and energy so that (to mix metaphors) when the thrusters are repaired and back on line, and real, appropriately motivated change arrives and my new right life begins unfolding again, I'll be ready for it. I'm incubating, gestating, hibernating. I'll be glad when this stage is over, and I can feel like my life is moving forward again.

Blah

I've been sad lately. We lucked out in Northern California this week, with warm, sunny weather on the heals of the time change. My stepson and daughter ran around in our culdesac after dinner during the week with the neighbor kids, like playing outside had just been invented. I rode my bike 6 out of the 9 days. The redbud trees are in bloom, and they are amazing. But I still feel blah.

Part of it is probably because the second anniversary of T's death is coming up next month. The warm breeze and blooming garden reminds of me one of the last things T said to me: "Our yard looks pretty good, doesn't it?" Part of it may be that things with Guy are tapering off. He's really a very sweet man, and I like him a great deal, but there doesn't seem to be much more developing. And with the anniversary blahs compounding the situation, I think I need to end it. Ah, but I do like him. So, I am conflicted.

I had an old friend over for dinner tonight -- someone I met in 1985 at my first job. We drifted apart about 10 years ago, reconnecting last year when I tracked him down after T died. I just felt the need to spend time with someone who knew me before T came into my life; someone who reminded me of who I was before, and could be again. He is good with kids, and brings his Weimaraner, and B was over the moon with excitement to have a real live dog sniffing around in the house and running around in the back yard. He brought pizza, and it was a much-appreciated, low-key evening. But now I'm facing a week of work, a week of getting up and being responsible and putting one foot in front of the other, and I am not feeling excited about it. I think I'll go lie down on the couch and rest up for it. Blah.

Ode to My Bike

Yesterday I had an unexpected couple hours of freedom in the middle of the afternoon, and the sun was shining. I considered going to a movie, but I've been trying to make exercise a priority, so I summoned my willpower and hopped on my bike instead. And as I rode through the cool, sunny afternoon, I thought about my relationship with my bike.

We've been through a lot together, me and my Specialized carbon-fiber triple crank road bike. I bought it the spring of 1993, when I decided that road biking might be a good option for exercise, and fun too. I had some new friends who were bike riders, and I joined a local cycling club. I learned road biking etiquette, how to change a tire quickly, and how to wear spandex unselfconsciously.

In the early years, I was a dedicated cyclist. I had a goal of 100 miles a week, and kept a ride log tracking distance, average speed, time, even altitude climbed. I got upset when my then-boyfriend scheduled a get-together with friends for the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday, because that cut into my riding time. I took my bike to Ashland for the Oregon Shakespeare Festival several years running (there's great riding there!). I flew it to Washington for a tour of the San Juan Islands, and to Virginia for a ride through the Shenandoah Valley. It carried me from the Sierras to the Sea on a week-long tour in 1995 and from San Francisco to LA on the California AIDS ride in 1999. A family member gave me a license plate trim ring that said "There are only two seasons: biking and skiing".

Then T and I started dating. He was a more casual rider, and would join me on group rides occasionally, but by the time we got married his floppy heart valves were slowing him down, and after his valve replacement surgery the following year he didn't go out on the road much any more. We were concentrating on conceiving, then carrying a pregnancy, then parenting. Cycling for me fell below the line on my priority list most of the time.

I remember vividly the first ride I took after T died. From my journal: "Three weeks today. I went on a bike ride for the first time in years. Turning on to El Monte and seeing the beautiful hills and knowing you weren't here to enjoy them had me gasping and crying. Then I got to thinking about how I love riding but it had not been a part of my life when we were together. Returning to that piece of myself was painful, like the pins and needles of a limb that fell asleep."

Returning to that piece of myself has been harder than I expected, what with the demands of a young child and a job, and the time commitment required for a good ride. I did acquire a kiddie trailer, so I can take B with me on occasion, and the weather here in Northern California is turning the corner into spring. I felt so good after yesterday's ride, and I miss loving a fit, athletically competent body. Starting now, I am making it a priority to get on my bike at least twice a week, even for just 30 minutes. And rekindle that romance!

Trying to Get the Feeling Again

Back in January I wrote about the New Normal, about how I felt like I was moving out of the phase of active grieving and settling into the new life that T's death created. And I still feel that way. It may actually stick -- I may in fact be past the worst of it. However, there is one area where I feel like there is a longer-lasting legacy of loss, and that is with my job.

I am extremely fortunate to have been in the right place at the right time to have fallen into the software industry in the mid-80's. Tons of opportunity, not a lot of training or experience needed. From that lucky start, I find myself holding down a great job at a terrific stable company, with a wonderful boss and great pay and benefits. However, since T died I find that I just don't have the same level of dedication, the same interest and commitment in pushing through when the going gets tough. When I'm working on something I enjoy, I still get a real kick out of it, and apparently (according to my mid-year performance review this week) do a very fine job. But my resilience is low when a project hits a snag, or when I need to work on something I don't enjoy very much. A lot of the internal resistance is related to having to convince, sell an unpopular idea, or get someone to do something they don't want to do. And as a project manager, that last category comes up pretty often. My knee-jerk reaction is to want to throw my hands up, say "oh well", and give up. It's just not worth the aggravation. I mean, no one will die.

This attitude does not serve me well, I fear. Or at least, it doesn't serve my career ambitions, to the extent that I have any. And more importantly, it doesn't serve my desire to live with integrity. It's wrong to go through the motions, to phone it in. Sure, in the early days after T died, that's all I could manage. (After B was born I had a similar phase, and I cut myself slack then too.) But if I'm truly coming out of active grieving, able to focus my attention on things beyond my loss and the overwhelming idea of parenting alone, then I should either be regaining my work mojo, or I should find another job.

I've shared my concerns with my boss (like I said, she's great!). Maybe I'm just bored, having been with my current company for 12 years and in the same role for the last 5. Perhaps I need a new role, or at least a new and different project, so I can bang my head against some new problems for a change. Maybe a new company in the same field would suffice. I'm not sure of the solution, but this year, I'll be trying to get the feeling again. I just hope that I'll have the courage, energy, and financial fortitude to follow my heart where it leads.