The Widower’s Rant: Life, Interrupted

If it makes you happy

Then why the hell are you so sad

Sheryl Crow

I returned from a quick solo backcountry ski session the other afternoon. After putting my gear away and feeling a smug sense of accomplishment, I made dinner and sat at my counter (our dining room table rework is still not done, but I’ve seen it!). Unexpectedly, the weight of reality pressed on my shoulders: “So this is my life. I'm so lucky. But why am I suddenly so sad?” Beth and I both like Sheryl Crow. She loved singer-songwriters. And I could imagine Beth saying to me, “You had a great day, why the hell are you so sad?” 

Before I dig in deeper, I’d like to revisit the first anniversary of Beth’s death. In short, it was a lovely day filled with joy and fun. I started early, skinning up our ski area to greet the sunrise over the Washoe Valley. On my way down, I paused in the middle of the ski run with the prettiest view in North America, if not the world. I have dozens of photos on this run with various combinations of Beth, me, and the kids. This photo was taken 364 days before Beth died:

Near this spot, I spread some of Beth’s ashes (shhhh). She has a forever view of the lake and our favorite ski run. The run we had planned to ski together for decades. The run that I uphilled that morning alone. I mentally rehearsed this and the day in my mind dozens of times. After the climb, I felt at peace, and I didn’t shed a tear. I skied down, switched to alpine gear, and met Curtis to ski together for a couple of hours. Diamond Peak held its annual Dummy Downhill, and we laughed with delight as various ski-borne contraptions were launched into the blue Tahoe sky and then exploded as gravity took control. After a short break, I rode my bike along the Eastshore trail of Lake Tahoe to Beth’s fish, another spot with a forever view, and spread a few more ashes. 

Beth didn’t have a strong opinion about what to do with her ashes, aside from not having a service or memorial. She was very clear about that. My Uncle’s ashes are at Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery in Point Loma. My Parents are in a Niche in a wall in a mausoleum in Palo Alto. Beth’s mom’s ashes are in my closet. That’s deserving of further explanation.

Beth’s mother, Eileen, passed away in 2008. Her husband, Ken, survived her by several years. Over time, we lost touch. One day, Ken’s daughter contacted Beth to let her know that he had died, and that her mother’s closet was untouched. She offered to send Beth whatever might be of sentimental value to her daughters. One evening, two huge boxes were delivered. As we sorted through an eclectic (that’s a polite term) collection of stuff, Beth asked, “I wonder why she kept a bag of sand in the closet?”

I peered into the bag. Not just any bag, but a “Big Lots” disposable plastic bag. You know, the discount store, Big Lots. That store. That bag. Inside was a large, well-sealed clear plastic bag containing what I immediately recognized as ashes. “I think that’s Eileen,” I said. 

My confidence in identifying cremation ashes is founded on an indelible childhood memory. When I was six, my mom took me to Japan. It was her first trip back since she left eight years prior. In that time, her father passed, and her mother was unwell. In the time from when we landed in Tokyo and made our way down to Beppu, her mom passed too. Tragic. I remember it being a confusing time because people were sad, yet they were happy to see their sister and nephew. Anyway, one vignette etched into my brain was the Japanese cremation ceremony called Kotsuage. My aunts all wore kimonos. The men wore dark suits. We were in a place, and I remember a long tray was pulled out of a wall. My family worked together to remove the ashes into the urn, and then used chopsticks to carefully remove the larger bone fragments from the tray and place them in the urn. This is done in order from foot to head to ensure the decedent isn’t put into the urn upside down. I have not found any photos of this event. Some things you just don’t forget. But I digress.

Beth didn’t buy my confidence. She’s used to me asserting something as a fact when I’m simply being confident without cause. “It must be Countess (their German Shepherd),” she said thoughtfully. “I wonder why she would keep Countess’ ashes all those years?” Must have been an enormous dog, I thought to myself. “I think that’s Eileen,” I said a few more times, each time louder, and trying to avoid breaking out in laughter. Digging down further in the box, I found the empty Cremains container with Eileen’s name on it. I had my proof. “That’s Eileen!” and started to roll around on the floor, tears streaming from my eyes, stomach aching from laughter. Beth quickly joined me, laughing at the absurdity of her mom’s ashes, in a Big Lots bag, in a large UPS box, showing up at our door. We called the kids and attempted to retell this story in between the laughter and my screeching in the background, “I think that’s Eileen!”

The ashes, now back in the cremains box, were placed in our closet. Ken was supposed to scatter her ashes in Hawaii. But he didn’t do it. Beth and her sister discussed taking a trip to Hawaii one day to fulfill her mother’s wishes. But life got in the way. When I cleaned out our closet shortly after Beth died, I rediscovered Eileen’s ashes. I screeched, “I think that’s Eileen!” to no one in particular. I found Chip’s ashes, too. He promptly went to the family vineyard. 

I brought Eileen and Beth up with me to the Tahoe house. It felt wrong to leave them there, alone. Beth is in her favorite Lululemon backpack. I will take care of Eileen’s ashes in Hawaii one way or another. Because it’s what she asked for.

Beth didn’t give us instructions. She probably figured we would find a Big Lots bag and laugh a lot. Over the past year, I’ve been thinking a fair bit about what to do with Beth’s ashes. There was no one perfect spot. There are many. All of the places she loved, that we spent time at together. For me, Beth is too much for just one spot on the planet. So I’ll be spreading a little bit of Beth around our favorite spots over the following months and years. That feels right.

Back to the anniversary day. After location 2 of operation crop dust, I went over to Curtis’ house to play with our doggies, walk Ronin, have great Mexican food, and watch the Japanese Grand Prix late at night. It was a perfect day. And it was a good day for our children as well. To love someone so much, to miss someone so much, was to know the only way we could honor a life so strong was to be outside, to be at play. To be happy on a beautiful, sunny day. 

The day after, there was a bit of a rebound for me as the rhythms of the new normal returned. Groceries, laundry, a bit of cleaning, then dinner alone. A deep sigh. “How can you be gone?” I ask, to no one in particular. My shoulders press down under the weight. 

Two weeks have passed, and they were all wonderful with days of skiing, sunshine, and spring weather. I’m back from a short trip to Geyserville. I have not been in G’Ville since the first week of December. 19 weeks. When I last was at our home, I finished setting it up as a furnished rental. At least that was the plan before the heating system failed. That took 16 weeks to replace. Anyway, as I started my journey to G’Ville, I was so grateful for all the fun I had in the last couple of weeks. The first two weeks of Season Two of “Without Beth.” And I got so sad. Then, on cue, Sheryl Crow comes on the mix. Grief is an asshole. I’m having so much fun, how the hell can I be so sad? 

As I drove the familiar roads back to Sonoma County, our life together once again played out in front of me. By Sierra at Tahoe, where we had our first solo date, first car accident, and started our life journey. Sacramento, where we saw the Foo Fighters. UC Davis, where we met, dated, and fell in love. Petaluma, where our children became teenagers and young adults. Healdsburg and so many fun times. And our Geyserville Farmhouse. 

I put my overnight bag into the empty closet, and take my toiletries bag into the empty bathroom. I put a sleeping bag and pillow from home on my bed so I wouldn’t have to wash the “renter-ready” linens. I’m a stranger in my own home. It’s an oddly familiar but unwelcoming Airbnb. 

I went to grab something from the attic, and I saw the neatly stacked dog beds, bowls, and toys, waiting quietly for their doggies to use them. Their bin in the garage is still full of dog food, waiting to be devoured. The packed-up memories from when I thought I’d be going back and forth. It’s all evidence of a life, interrupted. Put on hold. On hold for what?

It’s debilitating. Wave after wave breaks over me. I’m drowning, thrown repeatedly on the rocks. The wave that didn’t hit on April 5 grew into a tsunami as it crossed the planet. The waves hit me now. Hard. 

Sleep spares me. I wake, expecting my typical bounce back. But grief has different plans. I stumble through the nicely warmed, “renter-ready” house. The personal bits are hidden away, stored in the attic, behind a locked door, or in another home. A life, interrupted. For 54 weeks. For forever. 

The overcast morning gives way to brilliant sunshine, and my mood begins to lift as the temperature rises. My view of vineyards and Geyser Peak returns. I sit quietly in the backyard. In the chair where I last sat next to Beth on the last day of her life. The spot where we reflected and celebrated what we built together. A life journey that hours later would be suddenly and forever changed. As I sat there, I pleaded to no one in particular to return me to that day, that time, this house. Please.

But it can’t happen. 

Our beloved Geyserville Farmhouse has become an unexpected weight. As I continue my stumble around, I’m overwhelmed at what I’m supposed to do with the remains of a life, interrupted. I pick out a few more personal items to take back with me to the Lakehouse. I put them carefully into boxes; if I had strong enough chopsticks, that would have been appropriate. But I can’t take everything. Her favorite children’s novels sit unread on the bookshelves. Christmas decorations that may never be hung by the chimney with care stay in their boxes. Her few stuffed animals are safely inside containers, high up in the closet, waiting for the day when they can come back out to play.

I mutter out loud, to no one in particular, that selling Beth’s favorite home might kill me, but keeping it might kill me too. Perhaps this is why I punted by setting it up as a furnished rental. I’m delaying any decision, postponing the task of going through our lifetime memories again to decide what to keep and what to consign to the past. While I’m pleasantly surprised by my strength and resilience over the past year, I’m equally surprised by how weak I feel in the face of this task. I’m overwhelmed, nearly kneecapped, simply walking around this happy place, contemplating how I'm supposed to go through the boxes of stupid stuff and the significant bits too. No wonder the Self-Storage industry is booming. 

In “You Can’t Go Home Again,” Thomas Wolfe writes about his longing for simplicity and certainty that may never have existed. Looking back to the afternoon of April 3, 2024, when we sat together in our backyard, there was no certainty, and life was not that simple. We were going through an unknown period with chemo, and had an open but deferred question of whether Beth was going to recover cardiac function. But we were going through it together. That’s the past I long for. To face this new set of challenges and changes alone is a drive I haven't taken in forty-plus years. My adult life. While the view through the windshield is terrific, and new adventures await around every corner, the empty passenger seat is a constant reminder of what once was, until life was interrupted.

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald