The Widower’s Rant: Descaling

It was time to descale the coffee maker this morning. I know this because the instructions tell me to use it every 100 brew cycles, and I just finished another box of 100 filters. That’s unexpected coordination between the filter people and the descaling powder people, and stands in direct contrast to the collusion between the hot dog (packages of 10) and hot dog bun companies (bags of 8). This is my fourth box of filters at the lakehouse. 400 brew cycles. Just over 15 months of full-time life at the lake, less travel days. 

I’m so lucky, and so grateful to be able to have a life here. 

After my last houseguests left, I settled back into my daily “me-centric” routines. More hikes. But the lake was beckoning me. It’s an untapped dimension, and my dabbling nature means it’s time for a new sport–preferably one that needs cool equipment. 

So I resolved to get a stand up paddleboard (SUP) to plow the lake waters. Previously, I wrote about how water has been central to our family. Water was Beth’s domain. She was always eager to go. To the beach, the lake, a pond, a pool. I found reasons not to go. I didn’t like sand. Wind. Algae. Other people. I regret being a perpetual pool-party-pooper. 

This summer, I’ve focused on hikes and bikes. The bike put a hole in my knee that kept me out of the water for more than a month. I walked down to the shore a few times, but for a guy that lives next to an alpine lake, most of my lake exposure has been in the background of a selfie from a trail above the basin. 

Spending the day on the water with our friends from Japan, and taking the rental SUP out for a quick spin, I decided I needed to embrace my lake. My previous SUP attempts were tense, not at all the smooth, relaxing paddles I see others taking on the lake. I figured that what I needed was more time on a SUP, and to make that time on a good one. My mantra is not to let the equipment be the limiting factor. I looked at various used boards on Facebook Marketplace, but I have no idea what I’d be buying. I found a board designed specifically for Lake Tahoe by the last local SUP company (SUP Tahoe's Dax Boards). 

Everything was falling into place. For days, I felt content and at peace. You know what's coming next. Grief is an asshole. I should write a letter to his manager. I wonder if the warranty’s still good.

I was in Reno running errands and started my drive back up the hill to the lake. Then it hit me. Like a growing tsunami, the wave of grief crests on top of me. No triggers. I just started to miss Beth in dimensions I can’t explain. I had a weepy drive up the twisty roads. Seeing the basin and the blue lake didn’t lift my spirits as they usually do. I love my lake life, and the more I thought about it and the fun I’m having, the more I focused on just how much Beth would have loved living here and doing the fun stuff (and living, too, right?). Anyway, this was our dream. I’m living it. I’m doing the fun stuff. She’s not. 

I walked around the house, feeling particularly alone. Despondent. 

Get out! Get out! Go Outside!, the voice inside my head ordered. 

I made a sandwich, grabbed my beach chair, and walked down to the beach to enjoy the early evening on the shores of the lake. My sunglasses hid my tears. She would have loved to do this, too. I’m surrounded by couples enjoying the view. I texted a few friends to let them know I was missing Beth. The replies helped for a moment, but they didn’t change the fact that she wasn’t there. I was still sitting by the lake without her.

Why do I get to be the one in the sun? She’s the lake girl, the water woman. She was the one who pulled the kids out of school to spend a day at the beach, playing in the sand and the waves. Later, she was the one who rounded up the kayak and the water toys to take them out on the lake. She loved being on the water. I’m an imposter.

It wasn’t a great night.

The next morning, it was time to enjoy the lake by being on the lake—not in the background of my selfie, not below my feet on the rocks. I waved my magic wand, well, in this case, my credit card, over the machine, and bought my first boat. A SUP is considered a vessel by the U.S. Coast Guard, so you have to carry a life jacket and a whistle. Lake Tahoe is under the jurisdiction of the USCG. Since that didn’t immediately make sense to me, I looked it up. Lake Tahoe falls under the jurisdiction of the USCG because it spans two states (California and Nevada), making it a navigable waterway that no single state can solely govern. But I digress.

Later in the day, I grabbed my new SUP, my new paddle, my new lifejacket, and my old whistle (seriously, I knew where I kept a whistle from Curtis’ Boy Scout days, just in case). I set out on the lake. Comfortable. Relaxed. Soaking up the late afternoon sun, views of blue skies, clear blue water, the Sierras rimming the lake with endless views. Then a speedboat decided that what I needed right then was a big wave to surf over. My confidence was drenched. But not my resolve. I kept going, and bit by bit, I started to feel more confident on the board. 

Back at the beach, my chair was waiting, holding a cold victory beer in its pouch. I watched the sun start down towards the mountains to the west. This lake, this water, was Beth’s domain. Hikes up steep hills on unstable ground? That’s me. EMTB on narrow trails, over rocks, and down steep, sandy pitches? That’s me. But SUP? That’s Beth, and frankly, it made me feel guilty and miss her even more. 

The next mornings I got up early and put my board in the calm, clear water before 7. Before the pot of coffee was made, one day closer to the next descaling. So peaceful and quiet. And no speedboats to upset the apple cart. It felt a bit like meditation. The sound of the paddle, the rhythm of the stroke. It was peaceful.

Inside my head, it’s been anything but peaceful. 

I’m out having fun. I’m enjoying stuff as I do stuff. But in the interstitial time, I’m driving the struggle bus.

We’ve had an unusual late-day Monsoon pattern earlier in the week. Then our typically scheduled program of late summer warm days and clear skies returned. Glorious. I hiked up to the top of a local peak I’ve been wanting to bag. It was a decently hard hike up. As soon as I came back, I tossed the board on my car and headed back to the lake for a late afternoon paddle. It was like mania. I had to be outside. In motion.

But something is off. I’ve been in a funk for over a week now. That’s not happened before that I can remember. I find myself questioning, “What is the point?” What is the point of all this fun? What is the point of loving my life at the lake when I’m missing my love so terribly? What’s the point of it all?

I can be happy while I’m sad. Being outside, in motion, having fun, makes me happy. I had friends over for dinner, that made me happy. I went down to watch a concert at Sand Harbor (Morgan James covering Nina Simone with the Reno Jazz Orchestra), that made me happy. Once again, I sat there alone, surrounded by couples enjoying the show. I brought a split of sparkling, and imagined how nice it would have been to watch a concert under the stars by the lake with Beth. The music made me happy. Later in the week, Curtis had me over for Sunday Supper. Being with him, Robyn, and our doggies was so lovely. This makes me happy (and proud). Lauren is doing well in her career and is out enjoying life with close friends. That makes me happy (and proud). 

I think I’m happy most of the time. But underneath, I’m sad. And if I’m not doing something that makes me happy, well, all that’s left is the sad.

I have such a nice life. Can I be so greedy as to want more? I just don’t know what I want. Instead, I’m chasing dopamine hits like a junkie. 

What’s the point? Another 100 filters and time to descale the coffee maker. If I live for another 30 years, I’ll make about 10,000 more pots of coffee. I’ll descale it 100 more times. What’s the point of doing something 100 more times if the hole, the ache, the sadness, repeat along with it?

It’s been 16 months and 3 weeks (still counting). I feel like I’m missing Beth more this week than any before. Maybe that’s recency bias. It could be that as the normal continues to sink in, the pain is duller, but the reality is increasingly sharp.

She would have been so happy up at the lake. I’m just an imposter splashing in her domain. 

Paddling the SUP, you keep ending up right back where you started. On the beach. Alone. Missing her.

Beth is gone

The planet keeps spinning

The seasons move on

Life goes forward

My beat is broken

I can’t find the groove

I’ll be gone one day

The cycle repeats

What’s the point?

Beth, I’m sorry. I feel like I’m letting you down. On one hand, when I’m out having fun, being outside, challenging myself, I know you’re with me. On the other, I can’t help the way I feel. The missing is always there. I still say it out loud sometimes. But this long stretch of dullness is new. It’s not despair, but it feels heavier than usual. Intellectually, I know paddling is the point. Emotionally, I’m missing the map. You’re the one who would help me plot the course. But you can’t. It’s on me.

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald

Author’s Note: Yeah, I know, this sounds pretty bleak. Usually, I end my rants with an optimistic tone. Not feeling it. I have fun stuff to look forward to, and I’m looking forward to doing the fun stuff. I’m reasonably sure this funk will run its course. Writing this down helped. If it doesn’t, I have a therapist and close friends to call. And I can always go out for a paddle.