The Widower’s Rant: Independence Day

Yesterday we celebrated Independence Day. I’m reminded of King George in Hamilton, coyly singing, “You’ll be back.” Who knew I’d end up envying a powerless monarch and a semi-functional British government? Honestly, if the UK Parliament is my new benchmark for a reasonably functional government, something’s off. But I digress. Independence Day also makes me think of the movie—the one we both loved. Will Smith’s character punches out an alien and becomes a global hero. The irony isn’t lost on me that decades later, his most infamous hit was at the Oscars, not outside of Area 51.

July 4th is supposed to be a celebration of freedom, independence, and self-determination. Or, depending on your zip code, a reason to blow things up and hope no one starts a wildfire. Our dogs don’t like fireworks—what dog does? Their world explodes in noise and vibration, and no one can explain the inexplicable to them. I know how that feels every day. It's inexplicable to me that Beth is not here.

Today, July 5th, marks fifteen months (still counting) of unwilling, unwanted independence from a life I loved. I was perfectly content being interdependent.

But it’s a new chapter. I’m having a great time up here at the lake. What’s not to love? Trees, sun, blue skies, a lake, hikes, and the omnipresent natural beauty that catches in your chest and makes you realize, ‘I’m so lucky to be here.’

The other day, I was back on my bike on the Incline Flume trail. It was a glorious day. Looking out over the lake, catching a glimpse of the bike path by the shore where Beth’s fish watches over the shimmering waves, I said aloud, “Thank you, Beth. Thank you for unleashing the fun I’m able to have today. I’m grateful.”

Then I smugly noted to myself how clever it was to ride in the heat of mid-afternoon, when there’d be fewer hikers to dodge. Never say that part out loud. Right around the next corner—on a steep, sandy downhill—was a group of hikers stretched across the trail. I rang my bell and passed safely, slowing my speed. Good thing. I quickly came upon another group. Reaching to ring the bell again, my front wheel dug into the sand, and there I was: cartwheeling over the bars, doing a barrel roll to avoid landing on a boulder. Ass over Teakettle is the technical term, I’m told.

I popped right to my feet, pride badly wounded. The look of shock on the young hikers’ faces was priceless.

They kept asking, “Are you okay!?! Are you okay?!?” again and again.

I was fine. Or at least, adrenaline said I was. I replied, “I’m fine, I’m okay. But tell me, was it spectacular?” They assured me it was. So I set off back down the trail, pride still aching. Eventually, I realized my leg was scraped up pretty badly. Owie.

Back home, a closer inspection revealed the damage wasn’t superficial. Not life-threatening, but definitely past the simple Band-Aid stage. Two proper wounds: a missing patch of skin by my knee, and a long scrape down my calf, presumably from that boulder I so gracefully avoided (or maybe the bear-claw pedal on my bike). The kind of injury that makes you mutter “nice” while wincing.

It looks like my leg was mauled by a baby bear. I’ll spare you the photos. That noise you might have heard in the late afternoon was me washing the gravel out of my leg.

Honestly, I’m relieved to have my first real crash behind me. At least one without long-term damage. And for the record, I was at least 5 MPH below my usual speed on that stretch. I have the data. It’s easy to spot. The trace goes from 20 to 0 in about one pixel. Having an audience for my unplanned aerial ballet almost made the crash worthwhile.

Lesson learned? Don’t ring the bell on a sandy downhill. Yell. And move the bell so you don’t have to shift your hand.

Moron.

Aside from some skin, what I find myself missing more and more are the little moments. The kind that only 40 years of constant companionship, of building a life and raising a family together, can create. The quick glance and smile that says everything in a moment. The inside jokes, the eye rolls, the smirks no one else would notice. The one-liners and single words that meant nothing to anyone but us. The quiet feeling of completeness.

As time marches forward, I find I miss these small moments just as much as the big ones: the long hug, sharing our day over a glass of wine, planning our next adventure. Either way, it’s still about the missing.

I understand that not all relationships endure the changes of time. People change. Some change apart. We changed, too, but we changed in a similar direction. We were so lucky, we knew it, and I am so grateful.

Who would willingly choose independence from loving interdependence? From a bond where the sum was greater than the parts. And now my part walks on, independent. Free from the life that was, released from a bond that no one was meant to break.

So I continue to change. To grow. Mostly for the better. I hope Beth can see me enjoying being outside at every opportunity, swapping work for play without hesitation, going on hikes with our son, sitting on the beach with our daughter. I laugh a hundred times more than I cry.

Although I walk alone (another Green Day reference for those keeping score at home), I still have, and will always have, my relationship with Beth. She’s in everything I do. Okay, except the flying over the handlebars bit. But my newfound, unrelenting desire to play comes from her. My pride in our children is rooted in her. My deep gratitude for all I have and can still do are things she instilled in me from the day we met.

I still have a few “meh” days, but they’re growing less frequent. Images and places still trigger memories, but the intensity of the pain is slowly giving way to warmth.

In the Declaration of Independence, the idea of natural rights is core and foundational. That all people are born with certain unalienable rights, including life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. I wrote about my badly damaged pursuit of happiness thirteen months ago. How ironic that my pursuit of happiness ended up damaging me. But it was my choice. My decision. And I’d do it again.

A few days after the aerobatics, I got back on the horse to ride down to see Beth’s fish on the bike path by the lake with the forever view. Once again, the twinge is there. The heartstring plucked by a claw deep inside my chest. I muttered, “How can you not be here?” And once again, no answer came to the unanswerable question I’ll never stop asking.

On Thursday, my calendar was free. I thought to myself, “Self, let’s go on a long hike.” So I set off on a trail that was new to me, leading to a place we had visited together. It was glorious. I took a longer hike instead of the common route, and I rarely saw anyone. The trees, the view, the solitude—it was cleansing.

I mulled over the gift of making a spontaneous decision to go out and have fun. And it hit me: I’ve become independent of needing to check my plans with someone else. I’ve inadvertently declared independence from having someone know where I’m going, what I’m doing, and when I’ll be back. And I’m independent of knowing where my partner is and when I’ll see them again.

These are unwanted, unexpected freedoms.

As a slowly recovering self-centered only child, I’m used to doing what I want, when I want, and getting my way. Our children often chide me about this. Our running inside joke is that whenever I hear a conversation, I assume it’s about me, and if it isn’t, I know it should be. Given this context, how can I be missing the loving constraint of being partnered compared to my new, only-child, do what I want when I want, paradise?

On this hike, I carried Beth’s ashes for the next episode of crop dusting—visiting places we’d loved together and giving her another forever view. When I took her favorite Lululemon backpack down from the closet (not far from Eileen) to portion out the next dose, I cradled it under my chin and began to sob.

How can the incredible life force you were be reduced to this? A black cardboard tube containing a plastic bag, inside the Lululemon backpack you once carried everywhere? So small. So little.

You called yourself a “wifelet” because you were too small to be a normal-sized spouse. But now you’ve been reduced to an inert form, smaller than an infant. The incongruity leaves me stunned.

I walked a section of the Tahoe Rim Trail. The trees surrounded me, embraced me. I looked up between them to see a deep blue, pristine sky. Then, around a bend, I saw a wisp of cloud that, in that moment, reminded me of a dragon.

When you first learned you had smoldering Multiple Myeloma, you called it your “sleeping dragon.” In 2018, a few months after the diagnosis, as we entered the wait-and-see years, I made you an anniversary card with the caption, “I’ll always be a dragon alongside you” and this image:

In January 2024, just before you began chemo, I reprised the image and updated the caption: “There’s nobody else I want to be dragon on adventures together.” The photos were of us skiing in Incline, you in your Tahoe home with your doggies, and our most recent concert together (Garbage, Santa Barbara!). When I made that card, we had no idea there would be no more adventures. Eleven weeks later, you died.

Our next adventures together? I’m dragon you along inside your favorite Tupperware container. What the fuck, right?

Yet somehow, the dragon appeared above me as I approached the peak.

I made it to Picnic Rock and took you out to see the view alongside me.

Here we are in July 2019. Of course, you’re carrying your Lululemon backpack. The irony of you being in that backpack this morning has left me in a puddle.

Still, bringing and leaving your ashes here is a powerful reminder of your spirit. You are too much to be constrained to one location.

This leaves me questioning the metaphysical dimension of spirit. We never believed in heaven or hell. Yet it’s hard to imagine a life force so strong being unceremoniously extinguished by nothing more than a lack of oxygen in an organ too complex to understand fully.

Does the life force drift away, leave the mortal coil to float about the room? Boo! Or is spirit something larger? Not observing, not intervening, but just...there?

Once again, I’m looking for the goddamn manual. The instruction book that no one gives you. Isn’t there a Michelin Guide for this sort of question?

For millennia, humankind has tried to answer unanswerable questions. It’s in our nature. When the likely answer is unfathomable or unsatisfying, we try to comfort ourselves by creating a reality that can’t be proven. I can’t disprove that Beth’s spirit infuses this room, watches over me as I hover momentarily upside down on the Incline Flume Trail, shares my joy over lake vistas and forest calm. Maybe it’s the belief in the unknowable that helps soften the cold finality of biology.

Beth left an indelible mark on my heart, my life, and on the lives of so many others. Her spirit. Her joy. Her unrelenting pursuit of happiness.

Now, thanks to the collaboration of a skilled artist, a family friend who’s known her since she was two, Beth has left an indelible mark on my forearm:

The initials are hers, scanned from an old contract. The infinity loop connected to the heart echoes the mantra I said to her a thousand times while holding her hand in the hospital: I love you forever. The ink is infused with her ashes. She finally got under my skin.

Now, I catch glimpses of this imprint of the girl who was my everything. Most times, I smile. And when I need comfort, I can touch it, and touch her. She’ll always be part of me, with or without the ink. But I love seeing it. It takes the memories out of my head and back into the physical world. Even if just for a moment.

I never drafted my Declaration of Independence. There was no need. Instead, in a quiet hospital room, surrounded by our children and decades of love, independence was wordlessly thrust upon me. No fireworks.

It was a sunny day. And each sunny day from Unwanted Independence Day forward brings me closer to you, and to how grateful I am for the journey we took together.

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald

Editorial Note:

I wrote my first rant just about a year ago. What a journey. One I never asked for, and one that never ends. I'm not sure if I should keep writing. What’s the point? It makes me sad. It makes me happy.

It’s a bit like the tree falling in the forest. If no one hears it, does it still make a sound? The tree falls. The sound rings out. She’s still gone. I’m still a widower. Whether it’s read or not, it still happened.

But writing and wandering through our photos leads me to remember things I didn’t realize I misplaced. It helps me keep her close, to preserve the image I have of her in my mind—the one I’m terrified will fade with time.

If someone reads this and sees even a fraction of who Beth was, then maybe that’s reason enough. And maybe, over time, that helps my healing too. Unlike the wounds on my leg, which will scab and heal, this one is an indelible scar. Kinda like a tattoo.