Seventeen months without Michelle (#1396)

Topics/tags: Michelle

Today marks seventeen months since Michelle passed away. As is my custom, I’m marking the anniversary with a musing. These monthly anniversaries are a good time to pause and reflect, to grieve, to introspect, to help myself move forward while keeping her in my life.

I apologize to those of you who would prefer that I muse about other topics. I will. But I muse for myself, not for you [1], and you can simply skip over these musings. The titles are clear [2]. And, perhaps, my public grief can support others who feel similarly about their own losses. A friend tells me that they know two people who have recently lost spouses, including me, and she sees both of us following similar paths.

Last month, I said I was doing better. In many ways, I was and still am. I recall driving somewhere and just feeling joy at the sun and the experience. I haven’t felt that kind of basic joy in a long time. That’s not to say that I haven’t felt joy. But most joy was spurred by something, such as an update from one of my offspring or a particularly uplifting performance. It’s a nice day, and I feel happy has returned.

I’m coping with some previously painful experiences better. For example, a few weeks ago, I received a call from the spouse of one of Michelle’s old physician colleagues. The colleague was heading into the hospital and still had Michelle listed as their physician. The spouse wanted to give Michelle a heads-up. I had to explain that she’d passed away and then answer questions about what had happened. In past months, such a conversation would have involved sobbing. I got through this one.

I also managed to do more paperwork for her estate. Estate stuff always involved tears in the first six months. And I thought I was done with it. But paperwork seems never-ending. In any case, I didn’t cry, even when reading through her death certificate. And I didn’t lose my cool over stupid red tape. I suppose I didn’t at any point in the past seventeen months. At least not that I can recall.

All that makes me feel like I’m feeling better.

But I’m also feeling worse. I still miss her all the time. And I seem to more regularly identify times that I want to talk to her, to be with her. Sometimes, it’s a small thing, such as where I should put something. Sometimes, it’s something I don’t recall, something that she’d be able to tell me. Where did we get this thing? When did we go to that place? How do we know these people? Sometimes, it’s something more complex, such as giving the kids life advice [3] or figuring out how to handle difficult issues at work.

More importantly, I long for the chance at everyday conversations about whatever is happening. I suppose she’s better off not having to deal with the world today. But I’d like her here with me to make it through that world.

I still have those periods of sobbing sadness.

Today, Facebook reminded me that we’d been in Portland six months ago today. It shared photos and everything. I did less well with that sharing. She looked so happy, so vibrant in those photos. And that was such a good vacation together, even though it ended with a lockdown of the city (and the country). Seeing the photos and thinking about the trip made me cry.

Last week, our friends Danika and Jeb celebrated their 1400th show online. It was a joyful show. I sobbed the whole time, knowing how much Michelle would have loved to be there. Seeing D&tJ online together was one of our favorite remote date night activities. And I regularly played their shows for her during her final hospital stay. I mourn the shared interests we built together.

As I started writing this piece, I uncovered another piece of evidence that I’m not doing as well as I’d thought. I haven’t mused at all in the past month. Usually, I manage at least a weekly musing between the monthly maudlin mournings. This month? Nothing.

Returning to the topic of music, friends took me to see Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit last week. It was a great show. But parts made me sad. Very sad. Elephant is about death from cancer. Not a good thing for me to listen to. Isbell sings, We try to ignore the elephant somehow. I never felt like we were ignoring her illness. We just hoped things would take longer. His song, If We Were Vampires, hit me even harder.

Likely one of us will have to spend some days alone

Maybe we’ll get forty years together

But one day I’ll be gone

Or one day you’ll be gone

Michelle and I didn’t quite get forty years together, but it was close. I still wish she hadn’t had to go into the hospital on our thirty-seventh anniversary. Neither of us thought she was going in for good. We never know, do we?

Isbell also played Let Me Roll It by Paul McCartney (and Wings, I suppose). The Interweb suggests that it’s the first time Isbell has played it with the full band. As I recall, Band on the Run was an album Michelle really liked. Hearing him play that, along with those other songs, felt like she was sending some kind of message to me. Or at least like she was there with me.

I contained the tears then. I can’t contain them now.

Oh well, as Isbell sings,

It gets easier, but it never gets easy.

I realize that he’s mostly talking about staying sober, but it’s a great way to think about loss, too. It’s also a good place to end today’s musing.

At first, living without the love of your life seems impossible. It gets easier, but it never gets easy.

[1] I’ll admit that some musings and rants are also intended for others.

[2] I don’t know if anyone is bothered by these musings.

[3] It turns out that I gave the wrong advice. I know this because it was ignored, and the results were good.

Version 1.0 of 2025-03-08.