The Spy Who Loved Me.

This evening the boys and I went out to dinner. After cooking for two days in a row with family, I was ready for a good old fashion dinner out at a restaurant. There is nothing like it.


We went into Old Town, which we often drive by, but never actually take the turn off to. It is a little tourist area that has some historical importance I'm sure, but mostly a little taste Mexico, with lots of street vendors selling souvenirs at astronomical prices. It was actually kind of cute, and gave us something new to do. They boys and I were commenting on how we have always lived in tourist areas, so being among tourists, but not necessarily one of them, was a familiar feeling.


We settled into a busy Mexican restaurant, and ordered our drinks and food. Some mariachis came by the table to ask if we would like to make a request. I said no thank you, but then joked as they left that I should have asked for a nice good luck starting the new school year song. After they left I began singing along to the song that was playing in the background in Spanish. My son Dante looked up to me and asked what the song was about. I told him I didn't know, which seemed to confuse him. "How can you sing the song without knowing that the words mean?" I said that if they were written down I might be able to tell him, but in song I get lost in the feeling, and rarely really think about what the translation actually is. He then turned back to me to ask if Mike knew Spanish. (Michael was Mike to everyone else except him mother and to me.) I explained to Dante that no, Michael didn't speak Spanish.


But he knew all those other languages, are you sure he didn't know Spanish?


Yes, I'm quite sure.


"Have you ever wondered if Mike worked for the CIA?"


What? Why would you ask that?


"Well, he spoke so many languages, lived in so many countries, worked for the government, and knew people all over the world. Are you suspicious?"


At this point I'm having a bit of fun here. Well Dante, if he did work for the CIA I wouldn't be able to tell you, right?


"That's right. But because you were married, he would probably trust you. Right Dad? He could trust you more than anything or anyone."


Yes Dante, he could trust me with everything. And let me tell you Dante, Michael was many wonderful things, and I will to continue to hold on to his many secrets. You know, I did come across many copies of his passport.


"I knew it. He was a spy, and he worked for the CIA."


Kids need their heroes. They need a sense of adventure to their lives. People often comment about the dead becoming bigger than life postmortem. It's true, we tend to put our deceased loved one's up on a pedestal, and quite often forget about some of their prior annoying human qualities. But do we really need to challenge these thoughts and ideas? What's wrong with giving our loved one's some mysterious, or mythical, nuance to their time here on earth. When they leave us in death they can feel so far away. Yes, at times they can also feel so near us, but in general we are constantly trying to understand, and incorporate into our thinking, where exactly they are, what they have become, and how do we now relate to them.


For my kids the urban legend that is Michael Lowrie has begun. He was a quiet, smart, and well traveled man. He loved the good life. He liked to collect nice things. This gave him an air of sophistication, and to the kids, an other worldliness. And perhaps deep in their imaginations, he is still out there, secretly working behind the scenes to keep us safe and sound.


The spy who loved me.

0-60

The time it takes to accelerate from 0 to 60 mph is a commonly used performance measure for automotive acceleration.

0-60 in 5 seconds.

No, it's not a new car.

No, it is not a new turbo engine.

It didn't take a mechanical engineer to design this.

It's not something that was tested on the road.



I had a great day. In fact yesterday was as well. I had visitors both days. We cooked, we ate, we laughed, and we shared stories. Most of my guests left this early evening. My cousin and I enjoyed a movie on television, then said goodnight. I came up to my bedroom and decided to enjoy a nice warm shower. I shaved off the weekends growth from my face. I looked in the mirror and smiled. I felt good. I came back into my room, sat in my chair, and thought, I feel good. I'm okay. Then without warning it started pouring.

In the time it took for the thought to register that seven days from now will be that night, that night before, probably 5 seconds, I sank.

It is scary to realize how fast the human body can react to the realization of something so powerful, something so painful, that in 5 seconds flat you can go from 0-60.

One minute you are sighing with contentment, and within seconds you are brought to your knees.

It keeps happening. I find my breath, and then it's back. This extreme sorrow. This painful realization. I am brought to tears, sobbing uncontrollably all over again, trying with all my might not to cry out loud and wake up, or alarm, the kids. Oh how I wish I could just disappear for the next week.

Oh how I wish I could just disappear.

0-60 again.

Left Side of Bed for Rent.

Earlier I sent an email to a new Internet friend, sharing with him about a real restlessness that I am feeling. I get this way every night lately. I am back to where I don't go to sleep any earlier than two in the morning. I'm not doing anything of particular interest, just wasting time, and not wanting to sleep. I am actually feeling quite tired after several of these nights, yet as before, sleep holds little value to me once again.

I think my bed has returned to being that place where I am unpleasantly reminded that Michael is not here, and that I am alone. For awhile there I was doing better in this area. I had kind of hit my stride in finding my bed more relaxing, and beginning to enjoy having the added space. I was using both sides of the bed for sleep, and not relying on that pile of pillows to occupy that Michael-less space.

So now it's time to stop whining about this sleeping alone problem, and finally do something about it. I have decided to post a personal ad in order to once, and for all, fill the vacancy.


Personal Ad:

Are you tired of sleeping alone?

Do you find that there is more than enough space next to you for someone else?

Did someone once occupy that space, and leave you?

Not to worry, it happens. I know that you are likely feeling alone in this, and I'm sorry to have to confirm this, because if you are reading this, and nodding you head, well, you are alone.

You are not likely the only person to be alone in their bed right now. Many people sleep alone. Some even prefer it. Remember Ricky and Lucy? They were happily married, but for many years we saw them get into separate beds. Why you may ask? Well, I suspect that Lucy needed her beauty rest, and being married to a hot Latin lover can have it's downsides. Well, a downside if he is keeping you up all night and you need to be up early in the morning.

What? You don't like to sleep alone? You are a victim of being left alone in your bed? Well, I sympathize with you. It can't be easy to suddenly stop sharing your bed with someone you loved. It also can't be easily to stop sharing your bed with someone you just kind of liked.

Now, ask yourself, what am I looking for in someone to share my bed at night? This is not necessarily an easy question to answer. Imagine that you were in a difficult relationship, one where you often went to be angry. It couldn't have been easy, or very pleasant, to have to share your bed under these circumstances. What about if you shared your bed with someone you really loved? Under this circumstance you would likely be looking to share your bed for very specific reasons. Right?

Can we be candid here? Of course we can, this is just between you and I. Nobody else is reading, which I'd like you to keep in mind when you respond to this ad. Let's talk about what exactly went on in that bed that might have been pleasant. What? There were things that happened there that you would describe as beyond pleasant? Well, can I just say that you now have me blushing. Let's just make a quick reference list of the top 10 most memorable things that occurred in that bed. Would that be okay?

Top 10 events that occurred in our bed.

1. Slept together for the first time as a married couple. How wonderful. I have a little confession to make. My husband and I slept in that bed together long before that wedding night. I'd like to keep that a secret between close friends though. I can trust you right?

2. Had sex together for the first time. Okay, maybe we jumped the gun, and didn't quite make it to the house that first time, but you know what I mean. When ever that first time happened in the bed, well, it was certainly special.

3. Conceived our first child. Maybe this happened for you, but try as we may, over and over again, we were never able to conceive. We never quite figured out what the problem was. Who can be bothered with such questions when you are so busy enjoying yourself, right?

4. Waking up next to the person you love. Because I had kids at home, nobody shared my bed unless I knew it was a serious relationship. And, nobody shared my bed unless my kids knew it was a serious relationship.

5. Breakfast in bed. No, my husband Michael never made me breakfast in bed. The sweet little fucker liked to sleep in too much, but I'm not bitter. I remember one morning, probably Father's Day, my youngest son decided to make breakfast for Michael and I. He had seen us cook pancakes on a black griddle we placed on top of the stove many times. Unfortunately, the griddle was kept right next to the plastic cutting board, which was also black, and Remy didn't know the difference. He also didn't quite measure the batter correctly because he used the coffee pot, with it's measurements of cups, while following the directions on the pancake box. Anyway, he didn't burn down the house, and we had a wonderful first, and only, breakfast in bed.

6. First Major fight unresolved at bedtime. I only mention this here because it happens, not too often, but let's be honest, sometimes we go to bed angry. And sometimes when your spouse falls asleep, forgetting to beg for your forgiveness for being completely wrong, they accidentally lose their pillow, get stabbed in the side with your elbow, find that the blankets have kind of moved to your side of the bed, and they are somehow shaken until they wake the hell up. Now this is all theoretical of course. Just keep in mind that when you wake up in the middle of the night, and you finally resolve those angry feelings, there is still lots of pent up energy that can only be carefully processed with steamy hot make up sex.

7. Morning headaches in bed which are unexplained. This can be confusing for some. We are often accustomed to hearing about headaches the night before, be in the morning? Your spouse complains every morning for several weeks about increasing headaches, and not feeling well. You initially wish he would stop complaining, and get his ass out of bed so that he can be the first one in the shower. You later learn that something might be wrong with him, and he soon finds himself going to doctor appointment after doctor appointment trying to find a reason for all these headaches.

8. Holding your spouse in bed when he is falling apart with the news that he has a brain tumor, and that he needs emergency surgery. Okay, so maybe this isn't going to be on every one's top 10 list of events in bed, but it was a significant one in ours. It was that pivotal moment that our life changed, and that my role changed. Our bed was never the same.

9. The last time you sleep in the same bed with your spouse. Now in most of the movies that I have watched the dying spouse dies in their bed, and that is certainly how we expected it to happen. He did die at home, and in our bedroom, but in the weeks that preceded his death our life became far too complicated, and his safety prevented us from keeping him in our bed. One of the most difficult things I have ever had to do was to take apart our bed so that I could replace it with a hospital bed. Our bed is not this simple bed that can be quickly taken apart and moved. It is an enormous double chest bed, with many different parts that take a considerable amount of time to take apart or put together. It was agonizing to make the decision that was going to be in his best interest, but heartbreaking when he didn't understand why there were metal bars between the new bed, and the small day bed that was pushed up next to it. He still stretched across at an angle to lay his head on my pillow. This is one of those memories that cuts me deep, and I am in agony just describing it.

10. Sleeping alone in your bed for the first time without your spouse. I did this gradually. At first I slept in the hospital bed that remained in our bedroom. Then when the medical supply company was taking too long to pick it up, I couldn't stand it any longer. I completely took apart that hospital bed, piece by piece, and laid it in a corner. I then brought in our mattress, and slept on the floor next to the dismantled hospital bed. Then my brothers came to help me put my bed frame back together, so that I wouldn't have to do it alone. Then I laid in that bed, and the wailing began. It has now been almost a year, and that bed has absorbed so many tears, and continues to both bring me comfort, and yet keep reminding me that something, or someone, is missing.

So now, where were we? Oh yes, an empty spot in your bed that is keeping you from adequately sleeping.

Single, (obviously}, gay, Latino, middle aged, Catholic-Buddhist, lifelong insomniac, widower seeks bedfellow, or bed-gal, to take up some space laying prone on the left side on one double height, full-size, bed. Sexual favors would not be expected, but certainly not completely out of the picture. After all a guy has needs, well, unmet needs.

Not looking for any long term commitment. Would be willing to offer trade, you sleep in my bed, I sleep in your bed, and so on. Multiple parties welcome to apply, as a rotating schedule of shared bed time is certainly possible. Perhaps an arrangement of shared bed time, with built in times alone, can be agreed upon. Hey, apply as a group. See how many in your bereavement group might be interested in participating together.

Oh, and only serious spooners need apply.

Imitation of Life

Lately I feel like I am leading two lives. There is my public life, which sounds really good on paper, Facebook or during short phone conversations with family members. I made this big move to San Diego, I have weathered the difficult beginnings here at this house, I am semi-retired, hanging out at the beach a few afternoons a week, going to yoga three days a week, getting the boys involved here in our new community, and making time to write. Wow, now I am impressed with myself.

While all those things are true, the reality is that being in early retirement just means that I have been unemployed for a couple of months. I'm not drawing on my retirement, so I don't have any extra money coming in. In fact, I have no money coming in, and way to much going out. I have my home in San Francisco, that is still on the market without one single offer. And while from a distance it may appear that I am out really enjoying life to it's fullest, the majority of the time I am just up here in my bedroom, writing, or staring out the window.

I tell you, I wouldn't change any of the choices I have made for an instance. Yes, I walked away from a very well paid job, and will now begin one that pays half of what I used to make, but I don't really care. My focus in not on being as financially well off, or stable, as I used to be. In fact, there is no way I can be. I have spent the past three years with Michael and I not really working our full schedules, and making a lot less than our salaries would suggest. I made that transition from two salaries to one a long time ago. Now I have gone from one salary to none, and thanks to Michael, have had a cushion for this transition. But none of this is the flip side to my life.

The other life that I am referring to is the one that I share with all of you. This life here on my blog, and through our communication, is far more satisfying, and more real than the rest. Is that sad? I'm not really sure.

What I am talking about is the side to grief that most people either don't realize is there, or don't bring up with me. It's funny, I moved here partly to be closer to my family, but I don't think they see, or I show them, anything different than when I lived 400 miles away. And it's not like I see them, or friends, very often, but maybe this is just how things are, and it's more about me getting used to it.

This chasm that has developed in my life is actually okay for the most part. Given the circumstances of my life, I do like it. I am happy with the choices I am making, and feel good about the direction it is going, even when it feels like it isn't going anywhere. It's just that I am going through a lot.

This whole blogging thing is kind of strange. I never really know who is reading it. Well, I know those who comment, but other than them I don't. I also know that there is an ever increasing number of people who visit my blog each day, so I never feel completely alone. It's quite a blessing. Yet with family and friends around here, where ever 'here' happens to be, I really have no idea who knows what.

My life is an open book, which you have to open to read. I don't really expect everyone to read it everyday, or to even keep up with it. But I tell you, I have been tempted to throw in some completely outrageous things just to see if anyone around here is in the loop. Up till now I have made the art of my writing imitate my life. But wouldn't it be great if we could make our life imitate art? I could create a whole new world here on the page, then let my life follow suit.

Maybe that is what I am doing.

Message to Michael

Dearest Michael,

I have been feeling the need to talk to you all day. The past few days, especially today, I have felt that I am just biding my time, allowing the hours to pass without any real focus. I am back to where I don't see the point in doing much.

In all honesty I can't say that I have been unproductive, as I got both boys enrolled in school, and have them both ready for school to begin next week. I am looking forward for them to begin school, as they both could use the opportunity to begin making new friends here in our new community.

I too will be making a new start in a couple of weeks. I was offered, and accepted, a new job today. I'm feeling really good about this opportunity, as it gives me the complete break from the type of social work I used to do, and brings me back full circle to what I was doing prior to moving to San Francisco 25 years ago. I will be working for the Regional Center Program, providing services for the developmentally delayed. It feels good coming back to this type of work with now so many years of added experience. The agency is very excited about my joining them, and have a plan in place for how they can best utilize my skills. I won't be making anywhere near the amount of money I used to, but I am hoping that the new work environment will help to continue creating a lifestyle where I feel calmer, and at peace.

Arianne is doing very well in her program. I feel like she is making the needed adjustments to not living at home, and is becoming more and more open to the new experiences that living in a community of women can bring to her. I think you would be very pleased with the progress she is making. In fact, I know you would be very proud of her. As I write this I can picture the way you would be looking at her, and telling her how proud you are. It brings me to tears thinking about this.

Michael, I miss you so much. My body is hurting right now, needing some part of you to hold onto. Tonight at yoga I arrived a bit late, and didn't have the time to greet anyone, or to look around the room at the guys that were present. Once we were all moving in sync I realized that there were many new faces in the group. I was trying to stay focused on myself, and focus on my breathing. As I moved into the various poses I began to sense that the person to my left was having some kind of effect on me. At one point we were instructed to turn our gaze to our left, and I immediately understood why I was feeling pulled toward this person. He didn't look anything like you, but he had your build and skin color. As he moved, I could see your movements. When he flexed I could see your muscles stretching and relaxing. I tried to distance myself from this observation, but I was weak, and kept finding my gaze returning to him.

This made me ache for you all the more. I'm finding that as time goes forward I am able to intellectualize what has happened to us. I understand death, and know that it touches all of us at some point. In a way understand that you had to die. We knew that it was coming for two years. We talked about it, and we prepared for it. During those years we loved each other madly. We held each other close every night. We made love as often as we could, and when your health took that away from us, we made sure that each touch was purposeful. I loved the touch of your skin, and how all the little hairs would stand up when my hand grazed across you. I loved your furry chest, and smoothness of your shaved head. I loved your scent, even when you put on far too much cologne. I loved the devilish look in your eyes, and the desire that spoke through them.

Michael, I know this is leading me to a dark place. I know that giving in to these thoughts, and acknowledging my own desires will only bring me pain. I know that I cannot seem to stop myself from wanting you. It goes beyond logic, and enters into the memories that are imprinted on my skin. Nothing really gives me pleasure any more. I desire to be touched, but know that it is the touch of your hands that I need. What do I do? Where do I turn?

I often worry that these needs will eventually cause me to either implode or explode. Do I close myself off from the world, and learn to not need, or desire, anyone else? Do I go off searching for someone else to fill that need? I sometimes worry that my depth of pain and desire will lead me to such extremes. Do I isolate myself, or do I become completely promiscuous? I know that most will say I don't have to go in one way or the other, but life has felt so extreme these past few years, so why change that now?

I wonder where you are, and what you are doing. I wonder if there is a place, or if there is a state of being for you. I wonder if you see me, or even still have a connection to me and this world. I know that I will never know, and will likely come to a point of just defining that which brings me the most peace of mind. It's crazy how we that are left behind are each inventing our own sense of afterlife. We each are out here trying to define what will work for us, creating our own individual reality.

I feel like I could keep writing to you, talking to you, way into the night. After all, isn't that what I do every night anyway? I sit, I stare, I wait. I can call it whatever suits me at each moment, but I know that it is always you. I sit with you. I stare into what used to be our reality, and I wait for a sign that the wind is changing.

Could I have one moment back? Could I have one visit? It could be as simple as feeling your breath against my face. It could be as quiet as hearing the air move in and out of your lungs. It could be as gentle as your heartbeat resounding with mine. Am I asking for too much? Probably.

I shouldn't be asking you for these things. If you are hearing my requests then I am only causing you distress. I don't mean to do this. I don't want you hurting because you cannot deliver upon my requests. I'm sorry.

Michael you gave me plenty in the short time that we had. Perhaps I should stop referring to our time as short, as that seems to minimze all that we had, and all that you gave me. I know that I was fortunate. I was blessed. Don't worry about me. I'll adjust. You were a wonderful husband, and a beautiful lover. Remember how you used to look at me and say, "I'm a lucky man." Well, Michael, the truth is, I was the lucky man.

I am yours.

Dan

Nightmare before...moving forward.

Oops!


I mistakenly published a post that I wrote for another site, so I need to get something out here to take it's place. It may be a sign that I am stretching myself a bit too thin, or that my mind is somewhere else these days. Whatever the case, I removed the post, which you can read later in the month on Widow's Voice.


Now, to get myself back on track, thinking about where I am today, on my own blog. As many of you read, last night, or into the wee early morning of today, September 1st, I had a bit of an emotional fall out. I'm feeling much better today, thanks to so many encouraging words that came my way. So thank you all.


One thing that has been on my mind today is a dream I had a couple of nights ago. I dreamed that two of my ex boyfriends died within days of each other. It was a complete fluke that this happened. These were guys that I hadn't seen in years. One of the guys in the dream was actually a real guy that I dated many years ago, and the other was part of my imaginary dream world. By coincidence both funerals were planned for the same day, and at the same chapel. It was out of town, so I rented a car, which for some reason I didn't know how to drive very well.


The whole dream had a very dark animated look, something like a Tim Burton film. After many false starts in finding my way to the chapel, I finally arrived. When I got there the minister informed me that I had just missed the first funeral, but that if I hurried I could make it to the burial at the cemetery. The next funeral wasn't due to start for awhile, so I jumped into the car and started following the cars in the distance. As dreams can do, this one became quite surreal. The closer that I should have come to the group of cars, the further the distance, and the more winding the road became. When I finally arrived at the cemetery it appeared that I missed the burial as well. I thought I would minimally be able to sit by the place where he was buried, but it turned out the he was buried at sea, and I couldn't get there by car.


This dream was crazy to be a part of, and most of it didn't make much sense to me. During the dream I remember feeling like I should have been considered a central part of the service since I had had a relationship with these men. I remember feeling like nobody understood that I was feeling widowed by them. It just never occurred to them.


When I woke up I realized how absurd this all was. How could I be considered a widower to every guy I ever dated? And if I was, that would bring me up to three times a widower, and any future prospects for dating would be finished. Right?


I suppose all this was to express my anxiety around past and future relationships. I am struggling to understand who I will be in any future relationships. I am wondering how I will be perceived, or how I will present myself. If I start adding new tattoos for every deceased lover, then my body will likely become a road map to Death. I suppose all these thoughts and worries are converging inside my head, and when I sleep they are creating a chaotic mess.


I'm going to take it for what it is, a silly dream. But if I get word that past boyfriends are dropping like flies, I'll let you know.

September Morn

Here it is, 1:54 am, and I can't sleep. I have been tossing and turning, feeling frustrated that once again, I don't see the point of sleeping. My days and nights are all the same. I can make them pleasant, and I can either busy myself, or just sit. Either way there is no escaping my reality.

As I laid here in bed it dawned on me that it was now September, a month I didn't want to come around. The moment I realized this I broke down, heaving a groan of despair. I feel like my heart is being pulled under, or that I am being sucked into a big black hole. I desperately want to escape this. September is bringing back so much pain. Pain I don't want to feel.

I am starting to doubt my own words of optimism. I feel like I want to run and hide. I don't really want to think about how difficult this time was last year. I don't want to think about Michael's suffering. I don't want to picture him so helpless.

Night time often feels like hell to me. I can occupy my thoughts by writing, reading or watching something on television, but eventually I have to lay down in our bed alone. I have to turn out the lights and experience the empty darkness around me. I have to lay here needing a comfort that will not be mine.

Nothing is going to help. I need him. It's him that I want.

I sound like a broken record. I'm tired of hearing myself think or say this. I want to smack my own head and tell myself to snap out of it. Michael is dead! Deal with it.

This is the time, that in the past I would start going through everything of Michael's in the room. I would go for all the cards he gave me. I would read all of his words. I would start touching all of his clothing, and hold them near to me, hoping to smell his scent, or to grab hold of his DNA. Next I might even make the mistake of getting out the DVD of our wedding so I can hear him recite his vows to me. I would sit here in tears, looking at the way he looks at me. I would get to experience that wonderful smile, and those glorious eyes.

Broken record. Broken record.

Get over it. Get a grip. Get on with life.

I hate the night. I hate September.

I'm up late every night. It's getting worse and worse. I want peace. I want acceptance. I want to stop feeling so victimized by life. I want to wake up and realize it was all a fucking dream. I'm still so damn mad.

This is stupid. It feels like it's getting me no where. I spend all of my time with my computer attached to my hip. It is like a lifeline for me, but one person's lifeline can be another persons addiction. Am I addicted to this cyber world where I can just throw out my thoughts to the Internet, and sometimes within minutes have some kind of response?

Even now, at 2:29 am, I am keenly aware that once I stop typing, and put away my computer, I will once again be alone in my room, and alone in my grief. I am so tired of telling myself to just relax and sleep.

Sleep, what for?