Marlon Brando probably dies in the end

Marlon Brando. Sweetest cat ever. He's probably got diabetes. Which I can't commit to treating. This sucks. I've had him for a million years,.. We thought he was going to die as a kitten.. his leg expanded like crazy, and it was nothing... I'm not sure what to do or what to think. He's probably got cat diabetes, and I can't commit to caring for him, because I'm the worst... Which means I have to put him to sleep...

Update: I had to say goodbye to Marlon today. It was awful. He lived for bedtime and rubbing his nose on me... 

How are you?

I can't take credit for this; it was posted by a widow in an online support group I'm in (for those of you concerned with plagiarism; sharing was okayed...):

How are you?

Today I am here to tell you a secret. Never ask a widow “How are you?” And if you wonder the reason, let the sage of my anguish and grieving tell you why. A widow does not think in the same language as she once may have. Her self has taken leave and been replaced by a powerful being. A widow is suddenly a being of introspection. A widow is not busy and so the ways of the world do not distract her, nor will she care to describe them to you.

A widow is not given to tidying up the truth. A widow is the truth manifest.

I became very good at protecting all who would ask.
How are you?
I’m all right. I’m fine. I’m hanging in there. I’m feeling O.K. Thanks for asking. I’m good. I’m doing well. I’m a little tired. I’m handling things. I’m fine, thanks to all of you. I’m getting better. I’m keeping busy. I’m making progress.

Fine, better, well, good and “thank you for asking.”

If you have told these lies, which I am sure you have, over and over and over again, I know you.
And if you have heard these lies, and nodded with humble approval,
and felt set-free by the relief they have given you, I know you too.

Rest assured when you are tucking yourselves in at night,
that she is lying awake,
and you cannot hear her answers.

How are you?
I don’t know. I am numb. I am filled with terror. I am a shadow now. I am lost. I am aching. I am nothing. I am, at this moment, no longer your daughter, your mother, your sister, your friend. I am no longer a lover.
How are you?
Please step back, you are standing on my guts which have just spilled onto the floor at my feet.
How are you?
I’m terrible. I’m not doing well. I think I’m going crazy. I have no desires. I can’t see, hear, taste or touch. I have no feelings. I am torn apart. I can’t breathe. I am standing still while a tornado is ripping through my body tearing my blood vessels away from my organs.
How are you?
I am old. I am ugly. I am a monster inside a body that you once knew. I am exhausted.
How are you?
I am alone. I am afraid. I am filled with doubt. I am consumed by chaos. I am paralyzed.
I am humbled. I am repentant. I am living in a nightmare. Please shake me. Please wake me. Please hold me.

How are you?
I see you have two heads. I wish you really cared.
If I tell you, will you run?
How do you think I am? Please, take a crack at it.
You tell me how I am.
Can you believe you just ran into me? If only you had gone to the other market.
If I tell you, what will you say? Will it be sympathetic? Will it be appropriate? Will it make it better?
Here come those slings and arrows.

I know how you feel. I hope you’re keeping busy. You look good. You will see the gift in this tragedy. Time will heal. The holidays will be tough. It will get easier. I’m glad to hear you’re doing well. You’re a strong person. Have you gone away at all? How are the kids? How’s his mother doing? Call me if you need anything, anything at all.



How are you?
I’m shattered, thanks, how are you?
I walk aimlessly through the rooms of my house, what have you been up to?
I have woken up in the middle of the last 240 nights in a heart pounding sweat, what’s new with you?
I sometimes wish I would never wake up, have you been on vacation this year? I ache for the arms of my sweetheart to hold me tight, how’s your family?
I feel barren and useless and creepy and mundane, seen any good movies lately?
I’m terrified that I’ll feel this way forever, I like that sweater you’re wearing. I keep seeing his body on the hospital gurney, don’t you love this weather.
My broken heart is in my throat, let’s do lunch.
I’m so completely and utterly tired of being sad, thanks,
how are YOU ?

Breaking grammar

I've changed the way I try to speak, things are "mine" now rather than "ours". I only remember to make the adjustment after I've initially misspoken. It's awkward as horrible. I bumble through basic pronouns and possessives.


My house. No longer out house.


My dog. Not our dog.


Andrew's things are still Andrew's. They remain his. Always. His chef's knife is sitting, dirty, in the sink, getting duller with each passing day. Andrew's books, movies, chair.


We watch zombie movies on Easter. No. Now no one watches zombie movies on Easter.


Turning normal phrases into past-tense phrases is humiliating. There's a duty of shame in getting it wrong.


It feels taboo to tell non-poignant stories about Andrew now. Should I tell people about his love of Siggi's yogurt? Is that awkward for them? Do I care of it's awkward for them?

Not Valhalla, but with Hel instead

I try not to count the months, weeks, days, hours, and minutes since Andrew died. I could still easily say, but I try not to think in terms of how long I've been without him. I don't know how to organize, functionally, this timeline. It's always awkward and never pleasant to say it or think it.  But, for you, the reader, as a point of reference, it's been 94 days since Andrew died, and 199 days since his bone marrow transplant.

In September, before the transplant, Andrew and I were laying in bed, talking about Greek Mythology, and how much we loved it. We discussed always being fascinated by tales off Zeus' antics and transformations into animals over lust. We laughed at how awful it must be for Hera, married to such a god. Eventually our conversation turned to Norse mythology. Something I confessed to loving, but being generally unfamiliar with its intricacies.  (To give a point of reference, If I were a better person, I wouldn't say that Andrew could be a blowhard, lecturing, know-it-all sometimes) To my surprise, Andrew wasn't as familiar either. We layed in the dark sharing what we each knew about the stories of Odin; talking about our limited knowledge of Valkyries, Valhalla, and Yggdrasil.  That was one of our last "normal" nights. The next day, he sent links for D'aulaire's Greek and Norse mythology books, we didn't order either then.  Sometime after Andrew's bone marrow transplant he read that Neil Gaiman was releasing his own renditions of Norse Mythology in 2017. We planned to read it together.

After Andrew died, I ordered  D'aulaire's Greek Mythology and Gaiman's Norse Mythology. when they arrived, I poured through the D'aulaire book in an afternoon and evening. This felt safe. I was already familiar; I grew up with my father reading each of the stories to me over and over and over- they were my favorites. I left Norse Mythology on the counter. I walked by it dozens of times each day; it wasn't safe, or comforting.

My friend posted online that she was going to get it, but wasn't sure about whether it would be hardcover or eBook. I convinced her to go with a physical copy. For my own brain; knowing someone I know and love is holding a copy of the same book and enjoying it immensely made me feel somehow closer to Andrew, or to people in general. When I got home, I picked up the book. It felt lighter now, but also slightly gritty with dust. I'm finally reading Norse Mythology. It's beautiful. And I'm devastated.

Things I do in bed now

Yes. The subject of this post is going to be basically a bait and switch. Sorry. But here's a lovely photograph taken by my not husband in of bed years ago.

I've always had an unbalanced relationship with sleep. Either too much of not enough. Before Andrew I was a not ever enough sleep person. Prescribed all sorts of amazing drugs to help me sleep. None did their job.

Andrew and I met in college. Smoking. That's basically how I met nearly everyone that mattered to me at that point. He kept bad sleeping hours, and I kept no sleeping hours. This meant that we had all the time in the world together. Playmates to fill each other's dark and lonely nights. Just companions. He learned everything about me as I'm an open and ever-talkative book. I learned some about him, as he was a talkative but cautious book. The metaphor doesn't hold. He was my confidant, and he kept his emotions and lusts to himself.

We watched countless movies, curled on his bed together, into the night while his roommate, Mama Joe, slept in the next bed. We smoked thousands of hand-rolled cigarettes. I never had enough money for my own, so I traded things for his: my expired Phoenix Zoo membership, my Mesa library card, my food handler's card, an old ID from high school.  In the beginning I kept a list of the movies: La Jettee, Alice, Arizona Dream, all sorts of foreign and art house films; after about a dozen, I stopped keeping track.

Andrew and I spent over two years just being friends. Just best friends. Two years of art projects, movies, Easter egg hunts, chain-smoking, Cuba Libre drinking, wingman-ing.  At some point during this, I realized I like him, and I think he realized he liked me. But the bigger surprise was that I could finally sleep. I didn't sleep, because that would have limited our time together, but I could sleep!

When Andrew left school, I wasn't able to sleep anymore. I drank too much, and never passed out. I just didn't get back to sleep.  I went to visit him while he was housesitting. He made me watch Uncle Buck. I'd never seen it. It was cheesy and dumb and sweet; one of his favorites, he said. We watched the whole thing. Rapt.

Weeks later, I was flipping through the channels on TV and saw Uncle Buck was just starting. I stayed there; watched three quarters of it, then found myself awake at 5am. I had just gotten 8 hours of sleep. The first time in years.

Since then, I have watched Uncle Buck hundreds of times. It's put me to sleep hundreds of times. Because it's familiar, because it's safe, because it reminds me of a beautiful day with Andrew.  Since he's died, I can't bring myself to watch it. I'm afraid I won't have that comfort anymore.

So now, in bed, I watch House and Golden Girls and Voltron and She-Ra. This is so I can fall asleep without regret. I wear my old glasses so I can see the TV and not ruin my new glasses when they inevitably get squashed or warped in bed. I encourage my dog to sleep on the bed next to me. Because my life is so void of physical contact. I lay down on Andrew's side of the bed, but I never feel like I sleep. Zoltan (dog face) snores. Marlon Brando (cat face 1) visits every night, tries to put his nose on me. Spidercat (car face 2) visits a couple times a week, and crushes my ribs with his 27 pounds of pressure in one paw.

I also cry a lot in bed. But it scares dog face, so I try not to.

Here's a not as lovely photo I took of myself in my bed.

The Dentist and Tattoos

The last time I went to my dentist's office was with Andrew. When he needed to have a referral for his wisdom teeth to be pulled. Tooth Doctor has always been amazing to me, and she was just as kind to Andrew, though he didn't recognize it. Tooth Coordinator was always sweet to me, but was an absolute angel to have on our side when coordinating Oral Surgeons, insurance, and life.

Tooth Coordinator wasn't there when I called to schedule my appointment. I almost panicked because MY Tooth Coordinator is better than any other potential Tooth Coordinator. I went to the appointment; MY Tooth Coordinator was there- she had just been on vacation. I was relieved. Things here were right. At least order is maintained at the dentist.

Tooth Assistant was the one who x-rayed Andrew's teeth. She was always weird, and kept jabbering about not catching my hair on the lead vest Velcro.  Tooth Hygienist wasn't ever Andrew's; small favors.

Tooth Doctor told me all about my beautiful teeth and not as amazing gums. Tooth Doctor says she's always wanted a tattoo, but never knew what to get. Then tooth doctor pets the Cthupid tattoo on my forearm. Tooth Doctor gently prods me into telling her about Andrew. She says she had wanted to call a hundred times since August, but was terrified that I would tell her that he had died. Tooth Doctor was the most intimate human contact I've had in weeks.

Tooth Coordinator comes in to the dental nook. Tooth Coordinator sees Tooth Doctor add I chatting, laughing, Tooth Coordinator asks if we've been friends for years. We say no. Tooth Coordinator also asks about Andrew, but starts saying he's in a better place, so I cut her off. Tooth Coordinator is shaken, and rushes through the coordination of my teeth and insurance. Tooth Coordinator cries, and I cry. Crying in the dentist's office is strange. Regular doctors have Kleenex everywhere, dentists don't.

I'm not a widow.

I'm not a widow. I never married. I refused several requests early on in our relationship.  Like an asshole. I call myself a widow though. A wife, then a widow, in spirit alone. Nothing to document this. No papers, no rings, no children. But here I am, alone with the weight of 12 years of us. It became us versus the world at one point. A ridiculously boring version of Bonnie and Clyde. I'd love to say not boring to us, but that would be untrue, but mostly it was still okay being boring. Domesticated bliss = boredom. A friend dubbed me "The Widow Schonberger" which is equal parts badass and horrifying. The name, in itself, is both a lie and the truth. It's perfectly fitting of me.