LAUGH OUT LOUD OFTEN

Party

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Michael and I use a calendar app called Cozi to organize dates because it is a calendar app that we can use on multiple devices. When I add something to the calendar through my iPhone, it shows up on Michael's Android (or whatever phone he has). Cozi also pulls from a Random Act of Kindness calendar and we get little reminders to do things like buy a homeless person a meal or be nice to a strange and then it reminds us to take out the trash. Sunday, Michael said "According to Cozi, tomorrow's Laugh Out Loud Often and Share Your Smile Generously Day." My reply was "That sounds about right because tomorrow would be Chris's birthday." Meaning today. Today would be Chris's forty sixth birthday. 

I am usually bombarded with Facebook notification to wish Chris a Happy Birthday! or someone has wished Chris a Happy Birthday. That's not happening this year because I have managed to fuck up Chris's Facebook account. Back in December, maybe even Christmas Day, I discovered that Chris's Facebook account had been hacked. I know his account was hacked because Chris sent me a message through Facebook. Getting an email from a dead person is creepy and not at all helpful during the holiday season. Any way in my attempts to hack into Chris's hacked account, I ended up locking his account. I thought I had gone through the process of unlocking that account, but I noticed a few weeks ago that Chris was no longer in my friends list. When you search for him, he doesn't exist. Which actually makes sense because Chris doesn't really exist any more. Chris is dead. I am working on getting his account unlocked so we can at least turn it into a memorial page. 

I woke up at 3:00 AM Sunday morning to the Cabbage screaming. I opened the door to find her standing in the living room, yelling at Michael to wake up and crying because she had a nose bleed. She looked like she had just stepped off the set of the latest slasher film. I took her into the bathroom and cleaned her up, calmed her down and got the nose bleed to stop. I put her back to bed and then went through the process of trying to wake Michael up to go lay with the Cabbage. After the fifth time of telling Michael about the Cabbage's nose bleed he finally looked at me and said "Well..I didn't know any of this." He got up and went to the Cabbage's room. Later in the day, the Cabbage squirted soap into her eye during bath time which brought on another round of screaming along with a nose bleed. Micheal started getting mad because he couldn't tell why the Cabbage was screaming because she was incoherent. I made him step away and once again found myself cleaning her up, calming her down (so I could rinse out her eye) and stopping a nose bleed. Once she was dressed, she sat whimpering while I brushed her hair. She let out a loud whining "Am I going to die?!?!?". 

My first instinct was to tell her the truth but then common sense clicked on. I figured that it wasn't a good idea to tell a six year old that, yeah...someday, you're going to die. Instead, I explained that soap in the eye is not life threatening, it just stings a whole lot. I continued to brush her hair in an out of body sort of way, letting my brain float somewhere far away. It's a practice I perfected during the summer when their complaining would reach a limit I could no longer bare. I would imaging getting in my car and just driving away somewhere. Wow, my life sure is different then it was five years ago when I was frantic to make Chris's birthday a good birthday for him, seeing as it was his last and all. He never complained about it, but Chris was not one to complain. The guy had a tumor on his liver, blocking his bile ducts for more than two months before he would finally admit that his pain was bad enough to go the emergency room. Maybe that's why I have a low tolerance for complainers and this entry feels a little derailed.  

Laugh out loud often and share your smile generously. I might be struggling with that today, but on most days I think I share my smile with others. I admit that I don't laugh out loud as often as I used to, but I still laugh daily. Some time I purposefully think back to a moment where Chris said or did something that made me fall over with laughter. I never have to think too hard, because it was pretty much a daily occurrence. I take a moment to contain a fit of giggles over the memory and then I go about my day a little lighter.   

THE STORY OF THIS PICTURE

Seriously, Chinatown?!

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There was a break for lunch during the conference and Sarah and I walked up to Chinatown. Along the way, we stopped for a berry ice cream crepe from a food truck that was in a line of food trucks that made us regret our lunch choice. We made it to the Chinatown Gate where we stopped to take pictures and to check the time. After checking the time, Sarah and I decided to continue up the street. The street running up through the Chinatown Gate is the touristy side of Chinatown. This street is lined with tourist trap trinket shops and stores filled with elaborately gaudy crystal/glass chandeliers and sculptures. 

I didn't mind this walk. I knew that I would be back and that this was just a toe dip into Chinatown. We passed by shops with their wares spilling out onto the sidewalk. Racks of postcards. Tables of plastic snow globes. Racks of cards with names written in Chinese. I spotted Chris's name in passing and snapped a quick picture. It was later, while I was sitting in on talks about cell migration, when I looked back at the pictures I'd taken during that walk to edit them and maybe post some of them that I noticed it. That quick snap of Chris's name written in Chinese included me. There it was. Chris and Cindy, sitting right next to each other on the card rack. I whispered "fuck you, Chinatown" under my breath. 

Later, Heather and I were driving around California in the rain. Our plan was to some how sneak some of Chris's ashes onto Skywalker Ranch. As we buckled up, Heather asked "is Chris with us?" I paused with an eyebrow raised and then remembered that she meant Chris's ashes and replied with a chuckle and a "yes". I thought for a minute that she was asking if Chris was present on a spiritual level, hovering somewhere in the car. The image of it and the idea of Chris as a ghost made me laugh. You know Chris would be the most silly, ridiculous ghost. He'd be the kind of ghost that would make a slurping sound every time you went to drink something. Because that's the kind of thing he did when he was living. I'm pretty sure I heard is Dr. Zoidberg impersonation as I hopped out of the car to hastily dump his ashes at the gate of Skywalker Ranch. Heather pretended to read a map because we knew there had to be hidden cameras watching our shenanigans. It's the worst leaving of Chris picture I've taken. 

Is Chris with us? Fortunately and unfortunately. Even when I'm not thinking about it or expecting it, Chris shows up some how in some tiny way. It is equal parts lovely and hateful. The true definition of bittersweet. Mostly, at least lately, things seem more sweet than bitter. 

THE BIG SWIRL

Bling

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Michael has gotten real hipster with his beard and mustache. If he uses enough beard wax, he can twirl his mustache up into a curl on either side of his face. Yes, it's a little bit ridiculous, but I cannot express how much I love it. It's a little bit hilarious and a little bit sexy. Lately he's been thinking about suspenders and adding them to his work clothes. He wears dress clothes to work with a tie and everything. Over the weekend, he bought himself a set of suspenders and this morning he put on his blue and white checked shirt with his pink paisley tie and his new suspenders. I can't even. I came undone. I mean, usually I get a little turned on when he's all dressed for work, especially when he rolls up his dress shirt and his forearm is showing, but add the suspenders and well...I of course returned the favor by saying something about slowly taking all of that off him and rendered him speechless. 

That's something I'm really good at. Michael can talk quite a bit, but I can take a handful of words and say them just right as to turn him into a stammering rendition of Porky Pig. 

Then, I get a phone call reminding me of a life before this one. I sent in paperwork weeks ago to close out an account that Chris had had. I didn't know about the account until recently. I had supplied them with a death certificate and a notarized family tree starting and ending with me and Chris. Yet the place still had to call and ask me if I had obituary. I went blank. Obituary? I stumbled around online looking for one. I finally came across one that was in the Chickasha News. It contained a bad photo of Chris and a short paragraph announcing the memorial service. The whole thing made me wince. I can't believe I didn't write or have someone write and submit a proper obituary when Chris died. I didn't even think about it at the time. I didn't really think about a whole lot of anything at the time. 

"Couldn't pay my respects to a dead man. Your life was much more to me." - Neko Case

I could only imagine what the woman on the other end of the line thought as I sent her a link to this homely obituary. I wanted to tell her that she should have heard the things his friends said about him at his service or to go read through his facebook page. We all thought (still think) the world of Chris. We were just too surprised by his death to write about him. When I hang up the line, I'm perturbed that they would even be calling me to ask about an obituary. Don't you think a death certificate is enough? What about that whole depressing little family tree I sent in? The woman did ask about that. "No children?" said in a voice dripping with pity. I wanted to respond "thankfully, no." but instead I just replied "no." A widow is sad enough on her own without the added element of children.

This is almost a typical day. There's always a trigger. Some triggers are worst than others, like that phone call or when that one Mumford and Sons song starts playing. I see Chris, throwing his head back and opening his mouth wide to sing like a Muppet. This image is replaced with an image of Michael making a bad motorcycle sound as he drives us down the road and then watching him crack himself up over it. I'll read some political crap in someone's feed on Facebook and think about how Chris would write a response so sharp you wouldn't know you were cut until you noticed the blood and fallacy of your own statements. I always look at Michael when getting ready to leave a tip because he does the math without even really thinking and it is always correct. Chris genuinely laughing at something, probably the Simpsons. Michael laughing while twirling the ends of his mustache. The memories I have swirl together with the memories I'm making.

It is not a bad blend of colors.  

WHERE I LEAVE CHRIS

Chris. Acadia National Park. Cadillac Mt, first place the sun hits the US every morning

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There it was. The Appalachian trail. I knew it was in Maine. I know the trail starts and or ends in Maine, depending on which direction you're walking. I just hadn't planned on venturing near any part of the trail. Too far north. Too far inland. Too little time. So I left Chris on top of Cadillac Mountain in Acadia National Park, the first place the sun hits the US in the mornings. We shared a sunrise, something I can't remember doing with him when he was alive. Well, not unless you count that time we were attacked by the raccoon and sat the rest out of the night out at the table, staring bleakly into the woods and jumping at any sound. This spot was a nice spot blocked from the wind on a rock ledge that faced East. There was still a good portion of ashes left when we returned the next day for a stamp. Then Talaura and I got obsessed with seeing a moose. So we started driving West in search of moose, taking us into the mountain forest region of Maine. 

Talaura saw the sign for it first and asked if I wanted to stop, if I needed to stop. We were eating chili cheese dog flavored potato chips and they all started to gum up inside my mouth as I said no. Hot tears filled my eyes and I suddenly felt like I was drowning in a wave of indecision and self doubt. Why didn't I split my supply of ashes? Why didn't I check with Talaura ahead of time about going near the trail? Am I honoring Chris the way I should be? Am I doing the right thing? Then I started sobbing because all of it made me angry. Chris, the Appalachian trail, his stupid ashes, livers and tumors, my self doubt. And I shook with the struggle between pushing the sobs away and just letting them come. In the end I said "OK...OK tears, you get one minute. Sixty seconds. Then you dry the fuck up." I didn't make a bargain with myself. No ultimatums. I just let myself have a minute. 

I am constantly swimming in a pool of self doubt. I'm a good swimmer and I can tread water enough to keep my head out of water, but it's exhausting at times. I never see that getting out of the pool is an option. Instead, I see that I have three choices. I can keep swimming, I can stop swimming and let myself sink to the bottom of the pool, or I can lean back and just float. In that minute, I floated. When my minute was up, I started swimming again and this time, I swam to the edge and got out of the pool. I started thinking about my choice to leave Chris on Cadillac Mountain. It was a good choice. I left him in a good spot. I stand by that. This trip was not about the Appalachian trail and it wasn't the time for me to leave Chris there. I still believe the Appalachian trail is something Traci and I have to do together. I think this is the most confident I've ever felt about places I leave Chris. 

I suppose it's about time I got out of the pool since I've been in long enough for my fingers and toes to become all pruny. 

ENTER A POST TITLE

Today's fortune cookie prompt.

"Today's fortune cookie prompt."

I opened my Fortune Cookie journal to the next open space. "You will have a deep, meaningful conversation with an important person that will be life changing." I blinked at the prompt and tapped my pen against the paper. I set the pen down and picked up my phone, but then I set the phone back down because it was February sixth. I picked the pen up again and stared at the blank paper below the prompt. I was stumped. I didn't know if I should write something true or make something up. Girl meets the Dali Llama seemed too obvious. I made a sideways glance at my phone. I would not get on that sorrow train. I said this to myself as I once again picked up my phone to just take a peek to see if anyone had said anything about Chris's birthday. There was one "Happy Birthday" in Chris's timeline from someone I did not know. 

It was seven thirty in the morning. The day was young. I was sure that there'd be more birthday wishes to follow. I was curious about this first birthday message though. This stranger's "Happy Birthday!" seemed more like the kind you'd leave for a living human being. Maybe this person didn't know Chris was dead. Of course that's dumbs. How could this person not know Chris is dead? I'm in this limbo of feelings: sad that no one else has posted on Chris's timeline even though it's 7:30 in the morning and relieved that no one is making a big deal that it's Chris's birthday. I am slightly annoyed by this stranger's generic "Happy Birthday!" Way to make your birthday wishes so personal and heartfelt, Dude. I put my phone down and stopped trying to stalk a dead man, but I knew that I would end up checking Chris's timeline throughout the day. 

I returned my focus back to my journal. Conversation with an important person. The whole "important person" is a relative term to me. Anyone and everyone can be an important person at any given time. It just depends on the conversation and if this so called important person is saying words that you need to hear in that moment. I've had a number of deep, meaningful conversations with Terry in his backyard church. I consider Terry to be an important person, but that guy over there walking down the sidewalk would think otherwise. There was that time I gushed all over Brene Brown about how I was so dang happy, but that was less of a conversation and more of a vomit of emotions. After that, I learned to never admit just how happy I was. I could be happy, but I could not be stupid happy, because I learned that disasters follow those kinds of confessions.

In the end, I decided to write something honest, a conversation with Chris. I still want to talk to him. I want to know what he thought about Star Wars and how Deadpool will pan out. It would be nice if he finally told me what he wanted done with his ashes. It would be nice if he told me that he approved of the way I've handled myself in the years since he's been gone. I'd love to ask him who this guy was that left a Happy Birthday message on his Facebook timeline. I'd love to hear him say something that will make me laugh. He has not come to me in a dream in ages and maybe that's his way of saying "Move on. You will never know the answers to your questions." Except, I don't want to move on. I'm not ready to move on. I'll move forward. I have been moving forward. There's a difference. Moving on sounds like something you do after breaking up with a bad boyfriend. 

I know you're sitting over there reading this and thinking "Good God, are we going to hear her whine about her dead husband every year?!" Yes you are. So just assume that this blog comes with a warning label in February: Warning! Contains sadness and grief! May not be suitable for those not ready to talk about or are tired of hearing about death. It's going to be a topic around here probably every year around this time. Because that's when the memories of the horror of it all haunt the loudest. That's when I force myself to remember Chris as he was before he got sick so I don't remember the last morning. So I have the good memories clanging against the bad memories in an epic sword fight, poking my brain, my heart.

February is the worst. 

IF I WALKED 2,185 MILES

Stars in the east and I am awake

"Stars in the east and I am awake"

I took Monday off. I needed a day of re-entry after our weekend trip, to do laundry and buy groceries and lay on the couch. Michael always wins the sleeping game on these trips, meaning I lost. I needed a nap. I used my couch lounging time to watch Wild. I'd read the book. The movie wasn't a surprise, but I still ended up crying with the main character as she dealt with her memories of her life and dealing with the death of her mother. "The doctors gave us a year. It's been a month." Cheryl Strayed says this to a nurse outside her mother's room as her mother laid dying of cancer. I hear ya sister. They gave us six months; it was weeks. Doctors are about as good at predicting life and death as weathermen are at predicting the weather. 

As I rubbed my snotty nose on my sleeve, I thought "Traci and I should hike the Appalachian Trail. For Chris." If you knew anything about Chris, other than his Star Wars obsession, you knew that he always wanted to hike the AT. He talked about it constantly and was always picking up some sort of camp gear with the intention that he would need it for his hike. Why else would I have ended up with half a dozen titanium sporks? We watched documentaries about the trail. We read books about the trail. One night we even had dinner as if we were on the trail, cooking up dehydrated meal packs on a camp stove. I say "we" because Chris included me in his plans for the hike even though we both new that hiking two thousand something miles was not very appealing to me. It was never the idea of walking that distance that turned me off. It was the weeks of carrying everything I would need on my back, the weeks of being dirty and the idea of attempting to poop in the woods. I barely can manage that activity when camping at a campground with actual toilets. I included Traci in this idea because before I came into the picture, Chris and Traci where going to hike the AT together. 

I had that thought of walking the AT and then I imagined what that hike would actually look like. The average time it takes to walk the AT from Mt. Katahdin in Maine to Springer Mountain, Georgia is six months. If you left Mt. Katahdin as soon as the snow melted, hopefully April, you could be in Georgia by Fall, just in time to carve a pumpkin depicting your travels on the trail. I get two, maybe three, weeks of vacation a year. My boss is cool, but I'm not sure how cool he'd be about me taking a six month leave of absence. But whatever. Let's say I could take off six (or seven, let's be honest) months of my life and put everything I needed in a pack on my back to walk my way through eleven states. While we're at it, let's say I convince Traci to do the same thing. Though convincing her would be almost as challenging as the hike considering she'd be walking away from her kid for six (or seven) months. Quinn is on the cusp of that age where hanging out with your parents is so roll your eyes Bo-ring. We could wait until he's fully into that stage before heading out and tell her that her absence will make him really appreciate her more. The prospects of being around a moody teen may be enough for her to dig out her back pack. 

I'd like to think I'd start off just fine. Walking is my thang. I walk all the time. I just don't walk while carrying a bunch of stuff on my back, but how much harder could that be? I know. I am not delusional. There's a scene in the movie where Cheryl makes it to one of the camp sites and a guy there helps her thin down her pack to something more manageable, a metaphor for dumping the stuff in your life that serves no purpose. I know the one thing in my bag that would weigh me down and make the daily hike more exhausting would be the bag of Chris's ashes. Human ashes weigh more than you'd think and they do not serve me well. That would be the thing to dump. I can imagine the two of us doing a lot of cursing as we hiked along. Cursing our tired, blistered feet. Cursing the mosquitoes and the rain. Cursing the endless sound of our boots making one step after another. Cursing Chris for leaving us to do this ridiculous pilgrimage with out him. 

Occasionally Michael talks about doing the AT. He's talked about doing sections of it a time like my Uncle Russell has done over the years. Sometimes I am included. Sometimes not. Sometimes it's something he wants to do on his own and I encourage this. The idea of Traci and I doing the hike for Chris is just a fleeting hallucination. Dump the things that do not serve you a purpose. I don't need to walk two thousand miles to dump the things in my life that are not serving me well. Our accumulations are on a constant loop. We collect. We collect stuff that's good and bad and eventually we get weighed down by those collections. So we purge. Collect and purge. Collect and purge. As long as it has nothing to do with my basement, I'm pretty good at purging. I don't need to prove to Chris that I can do something I never really wanted to do in the first place. I think that sentence is the bottom line or the line drawn in the sand. Crossing the line in this case comes down to figuring out if I'm living my life or trying to live Chris's life. I don't want to cross that line and I know Chris wouldn't want me to cross that line. We all have ways of figuring these things out on our own. Some people need to walk two thousand miles to do that. Some don't.

I fell like maybe I've already walked my two thousand miles.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

I am hesitant to say the things that I am thinking today. Chris would be forty four today, if he were still walking around on this planet. When I think of Chris's birthday, memories go immediately to his last one. I hate that.  Not that it was particularly horrible. Chris was surrounded by friends. There was everything jambalaya and cupcakes. There was plenty of laughter. It's just that all of us knew that this was his last birthday. It was a bitter sweet celebration. Instead of letting my thoughts travel back to that day, I will send them to a different birthday.

When we were in graduate school, we spent almost every Friday evening at Stonewalls. We all met there right at five o'clock. The first one there claimed a table and a pitcher. Chris's birthday rolled around and I decided to have a little surprise party for him at Stonewalls. It was of course Star Wars themed. I had a table cloth and plates and napkins all with Star Wars stuff on it. Even the cake was a Star Wars cake. The only thing I had to do was figure out a way for everyone else in our group to get into Stonewalls before Chris. I gave Tiffany the task of stalling Chris. She came up with some story about how I was pregnant and afraid to tell him. Why this was the story I have no idea, but I can imagine the two of them standing in the alley next to Stonewalls deep in discussion while all our friends passed by one by one to enter the bar. Finally, every one was there that needed to be there and Tiffany brought Chris into the bar.  We all yelled "SURPRISE!" and he was thoroughly surprised. Then I had to explain to Chris that I was not pregnant. We all had a lovely time drinking beer and eating cake for dinner. 

This year I'm not so sure that it is not a coincidence that Chris's birthday has fallen on a day that I choose to write about gratitude. I can look at this day with dread and sadness and depression. I can remember the last moments when things were at their worst or I can look at this day and reflect on all of the good times. The time for sadness is over. From the moment Chris passed on from this world, we have talked about celebrating the life he had. We do not celebrate with tears unless they are happy tears. We remember with joy the greatness, the laughter, and the love that was Chris. I am grateful for every birthday I was able to share with Chris. I am grateful to have been a part of this man's life. I am grateful for all of those people who love Chris. We were all very lucky. So say we all.

I am thankful for play time with puppies, time spent on my mat and cuddles on the couch. I am thankful for the warmer temperatures and weekend full of promise. And I am always, always, thankful for you. Here's to a wonderful weekend and a special Thankful Friday.

THANKFUL FRIDAY

Blimp! Outside my window.

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Last night I dreamed that Chris and I were preparing for a big move. I interviewed with a strange group of people that reminded me of characters from Real Genius, but it was an amazing prestigious place and I was thrilled with the idea of working there. As we packed up boxes, Chris told me that he was dying. He said that he didn't have much longer and we needed to hurry and find me a place to live. The dream is a bit hazy after that. I remember walking with Chris, my hand in his. I remember us both being happy about the new job. I remember crying a lot and wondering how I was going to do any of this without him. 

It's funny that there are times still in my subconscious that wonders how I can go on and be after Chris. Obviously I am doing just fine and dandy. I guess sometimes when I'm having those Chris dreams, I'm looking for some sign or words or something from him to reassure me that I'm doing things right. I know that everyone out there would say "of course Chris wants you to be happy" and "he wouldn't want you to be alone". These are things that we think the dead would want for us living folk. The truth is I don't really know what Chris would want for me. We never discussed it. In those final weeks, we laid in bed talking and laughing about everything not important. We talked about cremation but not what comes after. That's it really. We didn't talk about how my life or what life was going to be like after him. For all I know, Chris is furious that I've moved forward so well, so quickly. Maybe not furious. Disappointed. Hurt that I could love another. 

As painful as these Chris dreams are at times, I'm thankful for them. I don't have them often. At the end of the day, I don't have much left of him but the version of him that comes to me in my dreams. In every dream there's a chance he'll tell me something important. There may come a day when he looks at me and finally says "Cindy, I approve of all of this". It's not that I need his approval really. It would just be nice to know, to really know, that he's happy for me. And not through some random sign like a scooter key. It would be nice to hear him say the words. I'd probably be happy with any words one way or another even if he's saying "I don't approve". Because this is a thing I know about Chris. He wasn't much for disapproval. It was more like whatever, it's your life, I don't really care. Any way. One day, whether he cares or not, he'll visit me in a dream and at least say "I'm happy for you". That dream will probably come the day I finally allow myself to be happy for me.

Happy Thankful Friday

THANKFUL FRIDAYS

Last week I parked my scooter and even considered covering it up for the winter. It has just been too cold in the mornings for me to ride. But today, they are expecting above normal temperatures and I am riding my scooter to work. Perfect end to a not so perfect week. Riding in to work hasn't been too bad though. It's given Chris the gumption to get up and back to the gym and join my Thursday night yoga class. This is something that not only am I thankful for, but makes me happy. I have lots of plans for the weekend that I probably should share with Chris, but haven't. I want to go to the Farmer's Market, work in the garden, and make cheese, this on top of all the usual chores of laundry, grocery shopping, and cleaning house. My biggest plan though is to take a nap at least once a day over the weekend.

Of course I am always thankful for the usual. I am thankful for you. Have a wonderful weekend!