Remembering Chris

Sleepless in Malibu

It’s Friday night and I am at home.  After stopping at Subway for dinner (glamorous, huh?) and topping it off with some infamous Malibu Yogurt (affectionately called “Malibu Yo” by Malibuites), I came back to the house intent on going through the mounds of accumulated mail on the dining room table.  Believing in the power of multi-tasking, I turned on the television and scrolled through the channels and landed on a station that was showing “Sleepless in

Seattle

.”  I haven’t seen the movie in years and decided to watch. 

 

You know the story.  Tom Hanks (Sam) has lost his wife and moves to

Seattle

to start over so that he “doesn’t have to run into images of his wife around every corner.  What I didn’t remember is that it is a year and a half later and he still hasn’t started dating and he is having trouble sleeping.  His son, Jonah, is worried about his dad and calls a national radio talk show on Christmas Eve and the “therapist” talks Jonah into putting his father on the phone for all the world to hear. 

 

The radio host says, “People who truly loved once are far more likely to love again,” and then she asks Tom “do you think that there is someone out there that you could love as much as your wife?”    Tom Hanks says, “…Well, that is hard to imagine.”  The follow-up question is “[Tom}, what are you going to do?” Tom Hank’s response is what struck me, “Well, I am going to get out bed, breathe in and out.  Then after awhile I won’t have to remind myself, to get out of bed or breathe in and out.  And then after awhile, I won’t have to think about how I had it great and perfect for awhile.”

 

You guessed it--I lost it.  The screenwriter nailed it—it is just how I feel. “Sleepless in

Malibu

” is my moniker for the time being.  And, I was thankful that the screenwriter was realistic in the timeframe—it had been a year and a half, not mere months--and  Tom still felt this intense pain that could take his breath away even after that period of time.  Validation of feelings--even if it is only from a movie--is somehow comforting and affirming that I am not losing my mind. 

 

The movie has a lovely ending.  It is the kind of movie that gives one hope that love can and will come again.  But not every story has that ending and I  must learn to cope with the “singleness” that has been forced upon me. This is the first time in my life that I have lived alone—I went straight from the dormitory to marriage and this is another “first” for me.  Adapting is not easy, but it is required.  One day at a time. 

The Second Year

This has been a rough week.  They come and go and I am always shaken at the intensity of my emotions--how I slip backwards in time to experience the rawness of grief.  I thought the second year would bring some relief but I am finding that such is not the case.  A few friends sent me a short article by Virgil Fry whose "business" is to minister to others experiencing grief and loss through his Chaplains Ministry at MD Anderson Hospital in Houston, Texas.  If anyone understands these issues, it is Virgil Fry.  However, intellectual understanding is is no substitute for experiencing grief and I think Virgil would be the first one to admit that.  Virgil's story is below.  His comments--much more eloquently and succinctly made--are a perfect match for how I feel this second year.  If you just substituted Chris' name for Caryl and changed the pronouns from "her" to "him" or "she" to "he" this would be my own journey put in words. 

"Difficult Questions for the Second Year of Grief

By Virgil Fry

Almost 1 ½ years ago, Caryl, my wife of 34 years, passed from this life.  My task since then has been to slowly learn how to re-enter life, to re-identify myself.  What once was us is now me, though her spirit permeates everything I do and see.  Multitudes of caring companions support me, journey with me, encourage me, and allow my emotions to be given words.   I offer reflections on three penetrating questions that frequently come to me in conversation.

1. Q: Does it get any easier?  A:  No, “it” doesn’t get easier.  “It” sometimes moves to the back burner of my mind, but my loss is ever before me.  I still experience shock wave reminders of her death…I still call her name…I still weep in the silent times and in worship services.  Easier—no.  Even so, I am not without hope. Dealing with an empty house full of her precious handiworks, praying for wisdom in making big decisions without her input, having no “cuddle partner” after so many years, enduring holidays and birthdays and anniversaries without her—these are the markers of a grieving spouse.  For me, time alone has not made the process easier.  Supportive people have.  But the word easy never describes my grief.
2. Q.  How was your holiday?  A: Holidays emphasize joyful group gatherings.  Decorations and food are intended to encourage warm conversations and joyful reunions.  And I do enjoy those gatherings.  But then there’s always the family photo shoot, and I stand spouseless.  There’s the empty chair at the table, and some of her favorite foods being served, and my heart’s ears strain to hear her gratefully compliment the meal or join in the friendly banter.  For me, the second round of holidays is more painful, for the brutal reality of the permanence of this death-induced separation is unavoidable.  I mistakenly assumed the first holiday season is the worst.  Not so.
3. Q.  Are you moving on?  A:  In spite of the somber tone of the preceding paragraphs, the answer is yes.  But it’s an arduously slow process, with lots of forward and backwards movement.  Breakthrough flashes of future thinking and planning are followed by backward glances that yearn for the companionship now gone.  My faith in a loving, caring God is sorely tested, then affirmed in unexpected tangible ways.  In my darkest despair, God occasionally flashes streaking rays of light through the clouds, assuring my broken spirit of this:  “There is light behind the dark clouds.  That light will never be taken from you, even if you cannot always see it.”

 So, with faith in God’s promised presence, my journey towards wholeness continues."

 

Virgil says it so well.  So there you are.  Our anniversary is coming up at the end of the month.  It would mark our 33rd year of marriage.  Maybe that is why I feel so bereft.  Maybe it's because I passed a kiosk at the Mall behind my office this week and I automatically stopped momentarily to look for orange and blue neck ties on display because that has always been my habit--Chris was always looking for more "Pepperdine" ties to add to his burgeoning collection.  Maybe it's because I went to a marvelous choral concert this week with some new friends and couldn't help but wish that Chris was there because he loved choral music so much.  Maybe it's because each night I go home and can only hug a pillow instead of him.  Maybe it's because each day is still infused with his presence either physically or in my mind.  I miss him, that is all I know.