Year zero of losing a loved one

month six

You see pictures and stare at them

There used to be narration in my head. “The water park, he had just fallen asleep. I said hey, let’s take a selfie.” Now, it’s mostly blank space.

My home was a shrine to M after she passed. Over time, I began to put things away. Her clothes. A few pictures that, upon reflection, were all smiles but the behind the scenes were not.

T came to visit, and I didn’t want her to be staring at my son’s mother during her first time here. I kept most of the pictures off the piano after the she left, except one.

I go to the grave every couple of weeks with flowers. M loved yellow roses, so I bring yellow roses.

Sometimes I don’t know why I’m there. She’s somewhere else. I imagine heaven, and, if for some reason not, I’ll have a few questions (assuming I get the chance to ask them or that I get to the gates. I hope I do). She should be there. I hope everyone gets a chance to go. Ever soul deserves a chance for redemption in the afterlife, at least that’s how I see it.

I go to the grave. No headstone, apparently those take nine months and you have to time it in the midwest so the ground is not hard. For now, it is a few crosses, flowers. I went for M’s birthday on May 2nd. For the first time, I didn’t cry. I talked a little bit, then left.

I went on Mother’s day. One of her friends had been there after me on her birthday and tied a Happy Birthday balloon to the thing covering the grave to grow grass. I lost it. Borderline hyperventilating.

You slowly realize what the person was going through, and how hard just waking up must have been

M had issues. I once asked her what was actually going on, what was the problem? She said sometimes it felt like she was in the backseat of her own head, while someone else drove. I cannot imagine what that would have been like. I think she drank to self-medicate, but it spiraled from there. Coroner said when she died, no alcohol or drugs in her system. She fought until the end.

You see your son, and sometimes he looks just like her

Little Boy Kong is currently in Europe with M’s family. Some of it was necessity, some of it was her family really wanted to see him, and there are hundreds of relatives there. I gave the OK for him to go for a few months. I will be picking him up at the end of June. It is easier to work now, and I’ve slipped back into a somewhat caveman existence (don’t tell T). Dishes piling up, laundry being done but it just gets tossed on the bed instead of put away. Dinner is whatever I can find in the fridge, which is not what I’d be doing if LBK were here.

I get pictures and video every day. I facetime with LBK. He comes on the phone, and I see her.

How do you tell a four year old they will never see mommy again?

I don’t think about this as much with him there. When he’s here, it can be all consuming. Am I supposed to show him pictures of her? Then he will ask where is she. I tell him “Mommy can’t be here, but she loves you and misses you.” Eventually, when he’s older and can understand (or maybe understand, can any of us really) God and heaven, I’ll explain Mommy is in heaven. I was told to be careful, because I don’t want to tell him she is with God, because who is this God, and why is my mommy with God and not him? It keeps me up at night. I don’t sleep well. When exhausted, I crash. But otherwise, I sometimes lay there. What am I supposed to do?

Life moves on

I still have my business. I still have my son. I still have my family. A wonderful woman, T, has come into my life. T likes to talk about seasons of life. She is a great fit for the current season of life. She is similar to me, independent, works out/does martial arts. Hates libs. It’s a great fit. She is different than me in good ways - loves to build with her hands (I prefer hiring people), has an appreciation/maybe obsession with flowers and growing vegetables (something I would like to do, but probably need a kick in the ass from someone, like her).

I’m still here. I still want kids, a family, a house full of love. I am trying to build that now. I tried before, but addiction is a motherfucker. You feel like Charlie Brown, ready to kick the ball, but addiction yanks it from you. You don’t realize what addiction has done until you reflect.

The memories blur, especially the bad ones

I had a turbulent few years prior to M passing. Living as a family, having to move out. Seeing my son every day, then seeing him every other week (or sometimes less). Someone telling you they love you, buying you protein bars and shorts from Costco, then telling you that you were nothing but a sperm donor to your son. Being engaged, not being engaged, being engaged, not being engaged. The ring I bought M was one size too big. I was planning to re-size it prior to our first engagement ending. I was planning to re-size it prior to the second engagement ending. I brought the ring to the wake and put it on M’s hand. The funeral people asked if I wanted it back. Due to the swelling/the shape her body was in at the wake, the ring finally fit. I said it stays on her. In retrospect, this was stupid given my son may have wanted to see the ring one day. Grief/shock brain works in weird ways. I wanted her to have it for the irony of it finally fitting, for her to know I loved her, but also to close that chapter.

I found M dead. I knew she was dead when I broke into her house and stepped onto the floor. I felt there was no soul in that place. When I found her, I knew. Re-living this moment was a daily occurrence. Now, not so much. Even when it floods back, it is a blur, and I imagine myself re-winding out of that place, going back in time to when I would come over, she’d open the door with LBK, and invite me in. A more pleasant memory.

There’s a scene at the end of Castaway where Tom Hanks is standing in the middle of the four way intersection. He’s just standing there.

That was my first few months. Just standing somewhere. Life going on, me not knowing where the hell to go, what to do, doing nothing. I’d go to court and it felt like I was watching myself be in court. Surreal. Luckily I did not fuck anything up. Very luckily. You have to keep going. I told myself after M passed I would keep going, even if I have to slow down.

I don’t slow down for long. I’m back to trying to win every case, collect every dollar. Build. Build something for my son, build something that T can appreciate and enjoy. I am wired to keep going. My dad has woken up between 3-4:30 for as long as I can remember. He never stops. He will be starting cancer treatment soon (it’s treatable, had not spread, great prognosis). I imagine he will keep getting up early, working out, walking the dog. He has never slowed down, although work has been replaced with other things (training the dog, managing his portfolio/helping me with mine, non-stop grocery shopping). I refuse to slow down. I am like my mother in the morning - takes a couple minutes to get going, likes to enjoy that first hour. After that, and once the caffeine hits, I fly until it gets dark.

Unlike Tom Hanks, I figured out which direction to go

I assume he got in his car and drove somewhere, and so have I. There is light. There is a plan for our son. Will there be speed bumps? Of course. I try to be like Trump. “Whatever happens, happens”, doesn’t always go that way. I get obsessive, worry about my cases. Worry I am not building fast enough. Worry I am building too fast. I went too fast at the end of last year, and when M died, all my systems broke. I am trying to build them back bet……more efficiently. To last.

I’ll be at the grave this weekend. I’m out of town next weekend, don’t want to wait until June to add fresh flowers to the grave. I hate the idea of her grave not having flowers.

It is a short drive from my office. I’ll bring flowers, might cry, might not. I’ll talk to her. Sometimes looking down, then remembering to look up.

Then I’ll get in my car, back in the present, driving into my bright future.