The Widower’s Rant: Two Orbits

Two orbits around the sun. Eight seasons. 24 months. 730 days. Infinite minutes.

Two years ago, Beth’s life ended, frozen forever in time on April 5, 2024. Mine, our children, our families, our friends… Their lives changed too. The unthinkable became reality. The familiar became unfamiliar. The smile that lit up a room, the satisfied grin holding an ice cream cone. They are only in our memories and photographs now. 

Two years ago, I didn’t understand what grief is. I’m not sure I fully understand it today, but I know I experience it on a level I wish nobody else would know. I’m deeply intimate with grief and grieving. Grief is an asshole. Just when you think you are done with the thunderstorms of crying, grief taps you on the shoulder to say, “Hey, remember me?” 

Being widowed isn’t something you prepare for. One day, your life is intact, and the next, there’s a hole that doesn’t close. You don’t fix it. You learn to live around it. If you’re lucky enough to have found a life partner, one of you will face this. I always thought that day would come much later for us. It didn’t. And the only way I’ve found through it is to feel it.

Over the two years, I’ve had far more happy times than sad, more sunny days than rain, and bushels of joy instead of sadness. I’m lucky. I found resilience I did not know I had. But I learned far more about myself.

For most of my adult years, I’ve been a stoic. Born of a Japanese mother and a puritanical-raised father, I was taught that expressing emotions that cause discomfort in others was to be avoided. I learned this lesson well. But deep inside, I knew I felt emotions that needed to surface. The result was that the touching moment on a TV program, or when soldiers saluted our flag during the anthem, I choked up hard and shoved the emotions down. I became weepy at inopportune times. The lava of my emotions was welling up deep inside. Grief has allowed the lava to flow freely. Mount St. Helens has nothing on me now. Sure, I’d rather cry alone, or in the company of a very few people in my life. I still avoid causing discomfort in others. But I cry easily and often now. And I’m glad I do. I regret not showing our children how to express sadness the way we showed them to communicate joy. So, I try now.

I wish I had watched Pixar’s Inside Out years ago, not just a week ago. Joy has always led my life, and Beth’s. We were lucky that way. But I’m starting to see that Sadness isn’t something to push aside. It has a purpose. It’s part of how we process what we’re going through.

Looking back over the last 24 months, and in particular those first weeks and months after Beth died, I was often so happy that I felt guilty. Shouldn’t I be more sad? I often asked myself. I think that shock was protecting me. Keeping me alive and moving forward. Joy ran the controls and put Sadness in a box. Sadness began to surface in July, about three months after Beth died. The frequency of my initial blog posts in that era correlated with the extremes of emotions I was experiencing. At first, Sadness was really uncomfortable. Now, she’s a trusted friend. I remain Joy dominant, but Sadness has helped me to understand pain and grief, so I can heal and grow.

Beth is the most joyful person I’ve known. Disarmingly so. I’ve started to believe the excess Joy in my life is the unused Joy Beth gave me. There’s enough Joy in me for another lifetime, and then some. I intend to deploy it well. 

Like the other milestones I’ve traversed in the past 24 months, I was overconfident that my calm, peaceful manner lately meant that this milestone would pass as mere ripples on the pond. Once again, I was wrong. About a week ago, I started to feel a bit off. Nothing alarming, but my brain started to become preoccupied. I had trouble focusing, remembering what I was about to do. A week ago, my logical, scheduling brain started to think about what I was going to do this weekend. Then, without warning, I went numb. 

It was like walking in the thick London fog. Nothing was sharp, clear, or bright. I was grocery shopping, forgetting things I meant to get. I walked out of the store in a daze and wandered around the parking lot, unsure of where I had left my car. I sat at a coffee shop, where task brain took over on autopilot for an hour, answering emails. Then I went back to my car and, once again, walked past it as if the fog obscured my peripheral vision. I felt disconnected, no active emotions, thoughts, or feelings. Just…numb.

Nature! That’s my routine prescription. Go forest bathing, smell the trees, sit under the Sierra sky. I found a nearby trail and started uphill. My spirits began to lift slightly when I spotted a big pile of logs, as if it were inviting me to sit. I sat on the topmost log and pondered my surroundings. What am I feeling? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I lay down on the log and scanned the sky for a clue. 

Suddenly, the tsunami broke over me. Without warning, I began sobbing. I didn’t know why. What am I crying about? I knew it was Beth-related, but what? That’s she’s gone? That I miss her? That I miss our life? That I feel cheated out of the years we were to enjoy together? That we were supposed to grow old together?

No, it was none of that. My brain was exhausted. Sadness took the controls and shook me with all its might. The classic “ugly cry.” Snot drained from my nose like a faucet. I had to wipe it on the log (sorry, log). 

It was time to get back to my car at the trailhead. Good thing I didn’t go too far, as I missed the first path back, and luckily Fear took the controls and said, “Woah, this doesn’t look familiar. Wrong way.” I regrouped and found my car waiting for me. 

The fog lifted a bit. The rest of the week was like a low-grade fever. Just a half-step off. 

To add to the smoldering fire, Beth’s beloved doggies are showing their age. Holly has a neck problem affecting her mobility a bit, but there’s no real diagnostic or intervention that makes sense. She’s still happy being a dog, running about, napping, and being surrounded by love. Unexpectedly, we learned that Ronin has lymphoma, and the prognosis is not good. That was a gut punch, since he’s the “healthy” one. He seems unaffected for now, so we watch for the inevitable decline, a few years earlier than we expected. This feels familiar. 

What to do on this unwanted anniversary weekend remained unanswered. I resolved to make no plans. To let each day unfold as it might, depending on my mood, the weather, and where my spirit took me. 

A sorely needed late-season storm and colder weather made Friday perfect for a day on the slopes. I woke and grieved deeply, my plan for an early ski day drained down my cheeks. Turns out Beth must have been looking out for me. The morning crowds were apparently bad. The early afternoon was perfect. Unbroken blue skies, great snow, light crowds. It was pure Joy. I skied with flow down the mountain with my arms outstretched as if I were flying back to Beth. I wept openly as I thanked her for our life together and for having this perfect day to enjoy. Well, as openly as one can do behind ski goggles. It was cathartic, healing, and badly needed. Our son joined me in the afternoon, and we skied great laps together, both of us enjoying the weather, the snow, and the open runs. We topped it off with pizza and beer, and there’s no better feeling, as a parent, than sitting shoulder to shoulder with the amazing man we launched into the world.

That Friday aligned with the picture-perfect day Beth and I enjoyed in Geyserville two years ago. The day she talked with friends, played with her doggies in the sunshine, and the two of us sat in our backyard, reminiscing about the life we built together. It was a joyful day then. It was a joyful day now. 

I woke on Saturday, two years to the day that I found Beth unconscious on our couch. As I revisited those seconds, minutes, and hours, I grieved deeply. The shock, the pain, the realization that the unimaginable was unfolding in real time. I resolved to visit the location of our first date, nearly 43 years ago. I drove around the lake, the lake we saw together so many times. The lake we dreamed of having a home by one day. The lake where we created so many precious memories. As familiar landmarks passed through my eyes, I cried, less with grief than with happiness for this special place on the planet. Beth sat beside me. Her ashes taking a ride, safely under the seatbelt. 

I told our daughter about my pain as I drove around the lake. Back on the log, I thought about doing so. But the parenting gene kicked in, and I held back. Why? It’s real, it’s real-time. If I can’t share openly and honestly what’s going on in my life with our adult children, who can I share it with? So I promised to do it differently this time, and I did. Lauren just accepted a great job in New York City. I’m so proud of her, and I know Beth is, too. You never stop being a parent, but it’s a gift to be friends with your adult kids.

I drove past Emerald Bay, through South Lake, and to Sierra at Tahoe (called Sierra Ski Ranch when we were in college). It was a favorite spot for day skiing from Davis. They had a sub-$20 student lift ticket. This was our first solo date. And our first car accident. And where I made the spontaneous decision to stick with the plan to go skiing rather than worry about the cosmetic damage to my car. Beth later told me this was the moment she knew I was the man for her. Our journey together began.

In January 2024, just four months before Beth’s death, we skied at our local mountain, Diamond Peak. On the first anniversary of her death, I placed some of her ashes on the run with the forever view. On the second anniversary of her death, I scattered her ashes where we started our adventure. I’ve come full circle in two years. Two orbits. Eight seasons. And I’m finding peace. My spirits began to lift all day. 

April 2025

April 2026

It’s Easter Sunday. A day of renewal and growth. Looking forward to Spring and sunnier days. I woke up genuinely happy. Filled with joy. I miss Beth. I love her forever. I’m still grieving, and I always will. Beth and I built an amazing life together. It has given me the resilience and happiness that I’m so grateful to have lived. This has enabled me to take huge strides forward in my own growth. I’m learning to stop internalizing my feelings, to openly share when I’m sad. I’m building on the foundation that Beth created for me to go forward and enjoy each day, each moment. I’ve found the ability to be present and keep my mind from pondering the unanswered emails and the unfinished plans. To live each day with purpose and joy.

Looking back, if I plot the last two years, year one started with shock. Fortunately, mine was a highly-functioning shock. I moved through the rhythms of a new life, finding joy and grace. As the months wore on, grief began to surface more regularity. I learned to stop resisting the tsunami to let the waves wash over me until the undertow released me back into the sunshine. It’s not pleasant being held down on the rocks when you can see the surface above, but the more you resist, the longer grief holds you down. 

In year two, I focused on my growth and discovery. I learned that while I’d prefer to have Beth alongside me, I could do okay on my own. Better than okay. I traveled alone and pushed myself physically and mentally further than I ever had. It was great fun. But something was missing.

When I finished my Antarctic adventure this past November, I accomplished something I couldn’t have imagined possible. But when I walked back into my cabin after the last day on the ice, I wanted so badly to tell Beth. Tell someone what I’d done. Yes, I proudly shared it with family and friends. But it rang a bit hollow. 

When I got back to Tahoe, there was someone I wanted to tell. 

I met K at the gym back in October when I started training in earnest for the trip. When I first saw her electric blue eyes, wisps of blonde hair peeking from her hat, and a smile that lit up the room, my knees got weak. Then we talked and found common interests. I remember thinking to myself, “Wow, there might be someone out there for me. Might not be her, but I could imagine it.” 

When I got back from Antarctica, reflecting on the year of growth, I knew it was time to start dating. To live life, and maybe find someone to help make the next chapter complete. I knew I could do this on my own. I’d be happy. But given a choice, I’d rather welcome someone into my life, so I can live that life fully, with Joy. And Sadness.

There’s an 80s band I like, the Pet Shop Boys. Their song, “Love Comes Quickly” has a verse that plays over and over in my head.

You can fly away to the end of the world

but where does it get you to?

'cause just when you least expect it

just what you least expect

So I took my shot and asked her out. To my delight, the interest was mutual. And from that, we grow. It’s been good. Really good. I didn’t expect this. I’m grateful for it. She’s already been a meaningful part of my growth these past few months. To be as lucky as I was with Beth is lottery ticket odds. To be lucky twice…

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald