The Widower’s Rant: Memories–Pain, Pleasure, and Permanence

Longtime friends came to visit me at our lakehouse. We’ve known them for over 30 years. M is the reason we started taking our kids on trips. He made an offhand comment that shaped our lives. He said, “Don, we could have fancier cars or nicer things, but we don’t. Instead, we go on big trips with our kids, because we’ll remember them forever.”

So we began to take the kids on adventures. I had the miles to fly us anywhere. We barely had enough money for a modest one room condo, on the other side of the main road in Napili Beach, Maui. It was the best of times. Maui became Tasmania. Tasmania became France. France became the Greek Isles. Each trip captured in photos and etched in our memories.

Beth and I thought we’d travel with our friends one day. I learned they thought the same. That conversation brought joy and sadness at once—memories we had hoped to make together, but never will.

As our friends left to see their kids, I too left the lakehouse for our Geyserville home to see photos of our trips. That’s not the reason I went. I needed to move some stuff around to make the house ready for the next renters. The stuff of a life together. George Carlin riffed about “stuff,” and I’ve been on a mission to have less stuff. But some stuff carries more weight than the scales indicate, and is harder to relocate.

“It was only one hour ago

It was all so different then

Nothing yet has really sunk in

Looks like it always did”

The house is familiar, but becoming unfamiliar. The garage door didn’t recognize the new car. At least the WiFi is still buddies with my phone. I don’t have any meaningful personal stuff in the G’Ville house anymore. The drawers are empty, the closet bare. Except up at the very top. I spot a couple of opaque storage containers. I climb the ladder up to the top of our unreasonably tall closet. A new storage bin, its lid tightly snapped in place to make sure the contents don’t escape. I see Beth’s wraps and pashminas. Why didn’t I donate those as I did with all of her other clothes? Next are two smaller bins. Her stuffed animals. Her childhood teddy bear.

The wave hits. I’m reduced to a puddle. Clinging to the top of the ladder, I think to myself what a terrible place to break down. Hold tight. Suspended in the air, crying over stuff inside of boxes.

Beth told me about this teddy bear. She planned to take it on an adventure with her family. The Seychelles or Tahiti. I don’t remember. Her father was an amazing adventurer, scouring the world for oil, and when he could, bringing his family along to create memories. Beth’s sister warned her that the customs people would slice her precious bear open to search for smuggled drugs. Using a six year old as a drug mule must have been more common in the late 60’s. So Beth left her loyal bear behind.

The boxes are full of memories. The Gund Bear I gave her for our first Christmas together. The Bear Couple that she wanted to put on top of our wedding cake. So much bear.

The memories are in boxes. Lids sealed tight, to keep the memories from leaking out. Bins today are translucent, so you can catch a glimpse at the memories inside. The bins full of memories come down from the top of the closet, to be taken to another home, another closet.

The wraps, the bears, have waited silently, patiently for their owner to return. Patiently. Forever. Just like her dogs. They wait for the homecoming that will never happen. No wondering why, just when. Patiently. Forever.

They don’t know that their owner will never hold them again. Wear them to a restaurant. Sing them a lullaby.

I’m envious of the bears and the wraps.

“You leave, me

So hard to move on

Still loving what's gone

They say life carries on”

My car is packed. Full of wine, more tools, and boxes of memories. The wine might be enjoyed with others one day. The tools will be used to fix and to build. They will be unpacked, put away in their places. But the boxes of memories, what purpose do they serve? Do the memories need to be unpacked? On what kind of shelves do memories reside? I hold the memories forever in my heart. In my mind. Isn’t that enough?

I drive away from G’Ville, back to my treehouse by the lake. I’m suddenly, unexpectedly (it’s almost always unexpectedly) overcome by grief, again. I blink through the tears to stay in my lane. And then I realize, I’ve just passed the hospital where Beth died.

Where I sat in a room and held her hand gently, until it was time to let go.

Fifteen months and 3 weeks (still counting). Why won’t this memory dim? The agonal breath. The nurse slipping quietly out of the room, leaving the four of us to form the final memory of the family together.

Thankfully, there are no photos from this trip.

Still, I want to put it into a dark box and seal the lid shut. But instead, it sits right behind my eyes. At times, when I look in the mirror, the sadness bleeds through the reflection.

“Life carries on and on and on

Just the car that we ride in

The home we reside in

The face that we hide in”

Through the windshield, I see vineyards passing by. Vineyards where we sourced grapes and carefully turned them into wine. Wine that sits in bottles, patiently waiting to be uncorked. They’ll help form new memories around the dinner table (finally got the table back!).

I brought two frames that hung in our last two homes. Six photos from our trip to the BVIs in 2005. An unforgettable trip. “Best vacation, ever,” our kids told us then, and still do. As soon as I got home, I hung them in their new house, eager to keep that happy memory in the present.

A few days later, I learned a close friend has lost her husband. And then another friend’s mother has lost hers. I’m not alone in this journey. They are not alone in theirs. Yet the pain of the memories and their journeys are uniquely theirs.

When I say, “I know how you feel,” it’s heartbreakingly genuine.

My biggest lesson is simple: Make great memories together. You’ll have those forever.

This new home holds memories from our life together. There are boxes of photos. Now there is a box of wraps and bears. The new home begins to hold new memories of this new chapter. An unwanted chapter, but one full of unexpected joy and delights too.

I know I’ve been cheated out of the best decade or two of our story. I could focus on what was lost. It would be easy.

Instead, I’ve been given a new gift. The opportunity to focus on what might be. What’s possible? The chance to make new memories. Like flying over handlebars or cutting fresh tracks down a backcountry bowl—messy, exhilarating, alive. The new memories won’t crowd out the old, or make them any less bright. It’s an infinitely large closet, with an inexhaustible supply of new bins. And this closet never needs to be unpacked or moved. It's always inside me.

“Did I dream this belief Or did I believe this dream? Now I will find relief I grieve”*

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald

*Lyric excerpts from “I Grieve” by Peter Gabriel. © /Peter Gabriel, Ltd./Real World/EMI. Used here for commentary and reflection.