The Widower’s Rant: Boo!

I’ve never been a big fan of Halloween. Don’t know why. I liked getting candy, so once I was responsible for my costume, I routinely did the easiest thing I could do: dress up as an Army medic. My friends and I routinely played Army, so I had much of the kit you’d need: helmet, fatigues, web belt, ammo pouches, and so on. Playing a medic fit right in as I wanted to be a doctor. So when we played Army, I would shoot people so I could treat them. One-stop shopping, so to speak. As an adult, I resisted dressing up in costume. Don’t know why. I would rhetorically ask, “I’m happy with who I am, so why do I need to dress up like someone else?” I never got the memo that dropping your persona and simply enjoying yourself was supposed to be fun. I was overly serious as a younger man. But I digress.

For Halloween this year, I headed down to our son’s house to help pass out candy to the neighborhood kids. It was delightful fun. It reminded me of our neighborhood in Irvine, where parents walked gaggles of kids around in various costumes. Beth enjoyed handing out Halloween candy to kids. In college, she would rollerblade around Davis in an Easter Bunny suit and hand out Easter Candy. Our neighborhoods in Petaluma and Geyserville were not great for Trick or Treaters. Plus, our doggies did not make the most welcoming of noises after hearing the doorbell—though holiday appropriate to listen to noises that make you fear being torn limb from limb—so we often put out a bowl of candy on the porch and retreated to a back room with the pups. I’m glad I didn’t sit in a dark house in a back room and avoid the doorbell this year. 

As I was driving by the lake, trees freshly dusted with early-season snow, the idea of a “Ghostie Bethie” popped into my head. It made me laugh aloud. She’d be the least scary ghost. I imagine she’d likely forget she could pass through walls and would open the door. At least that way, you’d know when she entered the room. It’s not that I necessarily believe in supernatural forces. I’m not planning on having a Séance. But the idea of Ghostie Bethie was oddly comforting. And definitely amusing.

About 25 years ago, Beth had a bad coughing fit and extruded an intervertebral disc into her spinal canal. It impinged on her spinal nerves, so fixing it was imperative. We found a sub-specialist surgeon at UCLA. I remember driving from Irvine during a rare Southern California rainstorm to meet the surgeon. The 405 in the rain with drivers who rarely see wet pavement was always an adventure. After the successful procedure, Beth spent the night in the old wing of the hospital in Santa Monica. After she returned home, she told me that her sleep was repeatedly interrupted by the monitors alarming for the first few hours of the night. A nurse would come to reset it, only to have it happen again, and again, and again. She asked the nurse why it kept alarming, given that nothing was abnormal. The nurse matter-of-factly told her that years ago, a young woman died in this wing, and the legend was she haunted it by setting off alarms. I suppose she found it amusing to deny other patients their rest. Do ghosts sleep? I suppose if I were a ghost, I’d wake people up, too.

Beth decided to take matters into her own hands. She announced something to the effect of, “I’m sorry you died here. But I need to sleep because I have young kids back home. Would you please leave me alone now?” And after, the alarms never went off again. Beth was very pragmatic. She didn’t necessarily believe in ghosts, but if it worked, why not give it a try?

As an aside, Beth was a rare example of a 100% successful back surgery. I remember being so impressed at her diligence with rehab and physical therapy. Her dedication to the best recovery possible was incredible. Similarly, years later, when she was first diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma, her work to understand the disease, treatment options, clinical trials, and, in particular, how diet and healthy living could potentially slow or prevent disease progression was inspiring. I’m sure we got a few more good years together than the averages from her admirable discipline. 

Twelve years ago, Beth and I took a trip we called the 125 Year Celebration. We went to the Bolivian rainforest and to Peru to see the Sacred Valley and Machu Picchu. 125 years because we celebrated our respective 50th years on the planet and 25 years of marriage. It was a great trip, far exceeding our expectations. I look at the photos and am still in awe of what we saw and experienced. The first time we walked among the ruins of Machu Picchu, our Quechua guide told us that there was a unique energy in this place on the planet. Being of the science and fact sort, Beth and I dismissed this as travel lore. My face must have revealed something to our guide. He told us to put our hands over the rocks that form the citadel high up on the mountain. Beth and I did this and said nothing. But over the hours, I noticed Beth kept putting her hand near the rocks, and I, too, was doing the same.

“Did you feel that?” we asked each other. “Yes.” We both felt a tingling of energy that ran up from our hands into our forearms. It didn’t happen everywhere, and it didn’t happen all the time. But we both felt it happen. Inexplicable. Machu Picchu truly is a special place on the planet. 

In Beth’s family, 100% of the arts and crafts abilities went to her sister. This resulted in significant family lore as Beth occasionally attempted to create something with typically hilarious outcomes. Beth made Curtis a birthday cake for his first birthday. It was to resemble a child’s wooden block from a recipe she saw in a magazine. It ended up looking like something from the kitchen of Salvador Dali:

After we all had a good laugh, I casually mentioned that I knew how to decorate cakes. Beth, unable to resist, said, “Okay then, you give it a try next year.”

And from that point forward, I made our kids their birthday cakes.

But perhaps our favorite story about “Crafty Bethie” was The Bat. Beth saw in a magazine how to turn an empty soda bottle into a body and coat hangers wrapped in black crepe paper into wings to make a creative Halloween decoration. I wish I had a picture of it, but it is seared into our minds in technicolor. We didn’t have soda bottles, but in her mind, a bottle is a bottle is a bottle, so she found a mostly empty 1 gallon Windex refill bottle. That’s more pig-shaped than bat-shaped. She turned the coat hangers into two asymmetric, random black things that were supposed to be bat wings, a pipe cleaner tail, and so on. It looked like something a blind person might make if they had never seen a bat but heard it described by someone in a foreign language. As Crafty Bethie proudly showed us her latest creation, we all laughed so hard we cried. This did not make Beth particularly happy right then. As the years passed and we would rib Crafty Bethie about The Bat, she would laugh alongside us. One of the things I love most about Beth is her ability to laugh about her foibles so easily and honestly.

As I thought about Ghostie Bethie, I imagined she’d hold The Bat proudly as part of her ghoulish image. This made me laugh more. “Boo! Now, who has the last laugh about The Bat!” 

After the Trick or Treaters went home to listen to their parents admonish them from eating all their candy in one night, we had Halloween burritos at C/R’s home. I told the story about Ghostie Bethie. We all had another good laugh about The Bat. As I poured salsa into my burrito, it uncharacteristically spilled all over my hand. I think Ghostie Bethie nudged The Bat into my hand and is having the last laugh at my expense now. Payback is going to be tough over the next decades.

I’ve hit a good stride over the past few weeks (30 so far, still counting). When I think about Beth, I laugh and smile far more often than cry. I’ve begun to have the occasional conversation, albeit one-sided, with Beth. Some of it is reflective. Especially after I chat with one of our kids. I’ll say, “We did so good, Beth. What interesting, nice people they are. I’m so proud of them.” Other times, I let her know that while I’m sad she’s not here to enjoy whatever, I know she’d be happy with how I’m progressing. How I've embraced and am enjoying life 2.0.

Last night I cooked. Just for me. I took the time to shop, to prep, to Mise en Place, and made vegetable soup that will last for a few meals as the season changes. Music filled our Home, and wine filled my glass as I stirred the soup and danced in my kitchen. And I felt genuine joy. And it felt good. 

Up at the lake, I have new routines that are feeling normal. As I walk through our empty home, I’m still struck by the incongruency, the abject surrealism that she’s not here. It’s still odd to be alone. But I think Ghostie Bethie might be around sometimes, keeping me company or nudging me to spill the salsa. With The Bat, no doubt.

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald

Boo!