2 year anniversary, and words that brought me to tears

Today marks the two year anniversary of Aimee's death. While I had planned on posting Part 3 of the series I wrote on Aimee's death, I'm going to postpone that until tomorrow.

Instead, I am going to share with you these words, written last night by a friend of mine (and Aimee's), and one of the first things I saw this morning. If you read only part of this, read the third paragraph (in italics). It's so beautiful, and so dead-on, it brought me to tears.

From Kristi:

"Two years ago tomorrow as I was getting ready to head to St. Joseph's Hospital for my 10th surgery of this humbling medical journey [blood disorder], I learned of the passing of my dear friend, Aimee. 

Filled with grief, when the Chaplain came in to pray for my surgery, we instead spent the time praying for Aimee and her family, especially her husband (also a dear friend) and daughter. Goosebumps resulted when I thought of how Aimee would have also been full of the same comforting words, much like the Chaplain's. Her joyful spirit and sweet smile often gave all of those she knew a wonderful sense of peace. I felt her with me that day and knew the surgery would be complication free.

It's the last operation I had and although the recovery was a long road, and this wacky blood of mine continues to humble me and to teach me my limits, it also has provided me with a renewed commitment to embrace each day as a gift. I now live life for today, with a much more open heart and a tender forgiving spirit, trying to learn, to love, and to journey down the path that God is constantly revealing. I take more risks now. I attempt things I wouldn't have dreamed of two years ago. In the blink of an eye, after all, inexplicable tragedies or a medical issue or unexpected news, can quickly change everything.

So on this day, a day not promised that also marks the two year anniversary of her passing, do what Aimee would have done. Provide comforting words to a friend. Be a joyful spirit to someone who is hurting. Offer a genuine smile to a stranger. Buy someone a cup of coffee. And never stop trying to find peace, both in your own heart and through the friends and family in your circle. In these small ways and more, we can honor an amazing wife, daughter, sister, mother, and friend.
God bless you and keep you, precious Aimee. Thank you for the beautiful lessons you taught us while you were on this Earth. And thank you for the peace you provide as you watch over all of us from heaven."


Thank you, Kristi, for amazing and beautiful about an amazing and beautiful woman.

A few Mother's Day thoughts, and a few tears courtesy of Rowan

Influences

I have been significantly influenced by two mothers during my life: my mom and Rowan's mom (Aimee). My own mom, who will tell you that going to kindergarten saved my life, was an incredible mentor to me growing up. She was also an example of monumental patience. She knew what kind of adults she wanted her children to grow up to be, and she stayed the course of getting us there through our childhoods (despite some SERIOUS setbacks along the way). And like all good mothers, she is still very much a mom to this day, a point so beautifully illustrated to me after Aimee died. I 'wanted my mommy', but I didn't necessarily want to say so. Turns out I didn't have to, as my mom showed up the morning after we arrived home from Florida, and stayed with me for the next five days.

I could not begin to list all of the things I learned from my mom in one place, but if you know me and think I'm even remotely likable, you can thank my mom for that.

Aimee's influence on me was over a much shorter period of time, but still extremely significant. She had rock-solid ideas about how she wanted to parent (and she expected me to agree with her, whether I did or not!), and she held true to her convictions. She also displayed amazing patience - not as much with Rowan, who was and is a great kid, but with me, who was a slow learner as a father. Just a few of the things Aimee taught me about parenting:

• How to interpret different behaviors from children.
• How to effectively redirect undesirable behavior.
• How to effectively use rewards to modify behavior, without turning it into a system of constant and escalating bribery.
• Build a solid relationship with her now, so that she'll be far more likely to listen to what I have to say when she's older and trying to find her own way.
• And perhaps most important in the aftermath of her death, she had shared with me some pointers she learned when she'd gone through a class on helping young children deal with trauma and loss. A couple of times, these tips helped me tremendously with helping Rowan process her feelings, and I still use some of them today.

For many reasons, I owe Aimee a serious debt of gratitude.

The Rowan Effect

Rowan got to me twice today (Mother's Day), once at the beginning, and once at the end.

Normal weekend practice is for me to try and squeeze as much time in bed as possible, so I'm always still in bed when Rowan gets up. As always, she climbed into bed with me this morning to cuddle, then needled at me until I agreed to get up and make breakfast. But just as I started to move, she dropped me with a question out of the blue:

"Daddy, when you're in bed at night, do you get lonely with Mommy gone?"

Immediately I recalled in my mind how I got into this horrible sleep pattern that I have now: staying up til 3-4 am until I simply could not keep my eyes open anymore, because I could not stand going to bed and thinking about Aimee. I missed her terribly all the time, but it was most acute in the still quiet of bedtime. I missed our gentle teasing of each other, the long talks, and the incredible intimacy we shared. It was, in a word, agony.

"I used to miss her a great deal, but it's better now, " I said. "It's like a lot of things in life, sweetheart. It might be hard at first, but after a while-"

"You get used to it," she finished for me, sounding much older than her now five years of age.

"Yes, sweetie, you get used to it."

With that, she turned and went downstairs.

Fast forward to her bedtime. As I was tucking her in, I asked her "Rowan, with all the Mother's Day stuff, have you been thinking about Mommy today?"

"Yeah," she answered. "I've been missing her all day."

"Yeah, me too."

"Hey," she said, handing me one of her laminated photos of Aimee, "Will you make Mommy talk?"

"Sure."

"Mommy!"

Me, as Aimee: "Hi Rowan!"

"Guess how old I am!"

"Are you still 4?"

"Nope, I'm FIVE!"

"Wow, you're getting bigger all the time."

"And Mommy?" Voice much softer now.

"Yes, sweetie?"

"I miss you. I wish you could come back and visit sometimes."

"Oh, sweetie, I wish I could do that for you."

Rowan, voice now cracking, "It's just that I miss you so much, and I wish you were still here."

Luckily, she chose this moment to hug the photo, because I couldn't speak. I was choked up, and tears were in my eyes. And once again, I battled against hating the people whose collective negligence led us down this road of pain, especially for the sake of my precious and innocent little girl.

Please, value the mothers in your life, be they your own, the mother of your children, or what have you. Don't just appreciate them or thank them, but really pay attention to the strength and wisdom they share, because you never know when you may need to call upon it in your own life for yourself or those around you.

Girlfriend

So, I've decided to share the news... I am seeing someone.

For now, I plan to protect her privacy by not sharing a lot about her, including her name. For now, let's call her "Sandra". But here's what I will tell you:

It's going well.

Sandra is beautiful, smart, and funny. She is a very warm-hearted person doing speech therapy work in an elementary school. Sandra is fully aware of my situation: of how I lost Aimee, that I write this blog (she doesn't read it), and that I still have very close relationships with Aimee's surviving family members. In fact, she's very supportive of that. We've been together about six months now, and although it's still early, I am cautiously optimistic about where this might go.

I have also started to slowly introduce her and Rowan, with the three of us occasionally doing activities together. That part is really weird, because although I am used to being with her when it's just to two of us, adding Rowan into the dynamic feels like I'm betraying Aimee just a little somehow. Intellectually I know better, but it's still weird.

You see, when we're all together, I sometimes try to imagine a possible future where we're a family. And I see this analogy where our family was a three-piece puzzle, with each person - Aimee, Rowan, and I - were each one of the pieces. Together, our three pieces created an image of our family. Then one of those pieces was suddenly gone, and our family looked a lot different. It took some time, but I was able to reach a point of acceptance of how this new family image appeared. But now if I imagine Sandra's piece fitted in where Aimee's used to be, well now that's a whole new family image, and that one will take some getting used to (if we get to that point).

For now, I am enjoying getting to know her, and beginning to watch her and Rowan get to know each other. It's all a bit surreal, and weird, and fun, and sad, and many other things as well. But one thing I feel very sure about:

Aimee would want this. I have not a second's hesitation about that. Aimee would want us to move on, build new relationships, find love, and round out our beautiful family. Maybe Sandra is that piece, maybe not. But I know I am doing the right thing.

Aimee's Missing...

The big news in the Rhoads household this week - Rowan lost her first tooth! She'd been excited about it ever since it first started to wiggle, and on Sunday, in the middle of eating her cereal, it came out (and was immediately swallowed, causing no small amount of consternation on her part). I had to assure her the tooth fairy would still reward her for the tooth, even if it was M.I.A.

Rowan showing off her missing tooth

But this event, like many others, deeply underscores Aimee's absence. Every single time Rowan does something really cool or passes another key milestone in her life, I miss Aimee all the more. "She should be here for this" is the common refrain running through my mind. Aimee would be so proud of all the things Rowan has accomplished in the last 15 months:

• Moving from crib/trundle bed to 'big girl' bed
• Being weaned from using pacifiers
• Finishing her first year of preschool
• Starting ballet classes
• Starting to learn to read and write

And more I'm sure I'm forgetting at the moment.

And that's just the beginning. Rowan turns five years old soon. For some reason, that number seems like an especially big deal to me. I wish Aimee was going to be here for it. Next fall she starts Kindergarten. In the next year or so she'll read her first book, learn to ride a bike, and so many, many more things.

Aimee will miss every single one of them. And that is just not fair, for any of us. 

Grief for guys - the toughest stretch...

Note: This post took me MONTHS to write, rewrite, rewrite, etc. I'm finally only somewhat happy with what it expresses. If it seems a bit disjointed, that's why. But I'm tired of working on it, so here it is.

So it's well known that men and women process grief differently. I mean, men and women pretty much do everything differently, right? So what I'm about to relate will probably have some truth ring to it for men (at least, if they're honest), and maybe not so much for women.

For me, the hardest stretch since Aimee died started in about February of last year, roughly 2-3 months after her death. The shock and numbness had worn off. A new routine had kind of settled in, requiring less deliberate thought.

And I got lonely.

I mean, really lonely. "Desperate" is the word that comes to mind.

My response to this was to decide that I wanted to begin dating again. As in right now, if not yesterday. I even joined a dating site to begin meeting people. I didn't care that it had only been 2-3 months. I didn't care that I was still in a lot of pain over Aimee's death. I needed companionship, and I needed it now.

Let's just say, it didn't go very well.

In all, I only ended up meeting two women for coffee, and I didn't see either of them a second time. I quickly realized that being with someone else might make me feel better on the surface, temporarily, but that if I pursued anything more serious, people were probably going to get hurt. I just couldn't do that.

The bottom line is, these experiences did nothing to make me feel better about my loss. It was a horrible few months, and it only got better slowly. I missed Aimee so badly, but her being with me wasn't an option, so I wanted someone, anyone, else. Luckily, I suppose, that really didn't work out. But that doesn't mean I didn't want it to work out. Like I said, I was desperate, and in a lot of pain.

By June, I had begun to feel a little better. I was still terribly lonely, but I was getting more used to living with it. Plus, summer was starting, and more sunshine always improves my mood. I put the idea of dating out of my head for a while, and focused on trying to enjoy the summer and the activities Rowan and I could do now that it wasn't raining so much.

I began this post describing the difference between men and women in grief. I did so because over the last year I've checked out a number of other blogs by those who've lost spouses, and they're all by women. And they pretty much all seemed to have had absolutely zero desire to begin seeing other people during the first year (or even several years). Or at least, I didn't see where any of them talked about it. They did express loneliness, but not a desire to alleviate it by getting back into dating. These women seemed to prefer to stay focused on the grieving process without getting involved in a new relationship, and do so for quite a bit longer. Men? Well, to be blunt, we're weaker and we want another woman in our lives because they'll comfort us and make us feel better. And let's face it, some men can't really take care of themselves or their kids nearly as well as their wives, either. I'm not being critical, it's just a fact in many families.

(Gladly, I take GREAT pride in being able to function at a high level on my own in regards to running the Rhoads household. A partner to help me would be awesome, but I don't need a wife to help me.)

For some of the guys who do move on quickly, it doesn't always necessarily turn out to be a bad thing. I have two good friends who lost their wives, and my mom is friends with another. All three were remarried within a year. And by all accounts, all three seem to be happy and have good marriages with the women they married following their spouse's passing. Before Aimee's death, I might have been a bit surprised that someone might move on so fast. Now, I totally get it. If things had gone a little differently for me, that might have been my road as well.

I am thankful now that it wasn't.

PS. I think this fundamental difference leads women to often be very disapproving of men who do jump right back into dating after losing their spouse. I think they see it as tremendously disrespectful to the late wife. Trust me, it's not our intent. We're just in unbearable pain, and only know one way to address it. I'm not saying we're right or that women are wrong - I'm just explaining the difference.

The end of Missing Aimee?

I started this blog on December 19, 2011, the day after Aimee's tragic death. At first it served two distinct purposes:

1. Share information about what happened and what was happening to anyone who was interested, without me having to repeat myself constantly, and
2. Give me a way to express what I was going through and feeling in a way that was helpful (therapeutic) to me.

As time went on and the readership of the blog seemed to take on a life of its own (over 82,000 page views of this blog to date), I realized I was connecting to people who didn't know Aimee or me, but who were finding something here that they needed. It has been an incredible honor to think I may have somehow helped other people in their dark times with my own pain. And that in itself was wonderfully therapeutic as well.

I haven't shared everything I've wanted to. Legal issues have kept me from writing about certain topics that I would have liked to have covered. Specifically, I wish I could have shared more about what I know and think I know about what happened on December 18 and what led up to it. I'd love to name parties involved, and talk about who I think should be held accountable, and why.

But I can't.

So with about thirteen months having passed since Aimee's death, I'm left with less and less to say that's new, or in my estimation, useful to anyone else. I continue to miss Aimee, sometimes with so much pain that I even now still cry (that has never gotten easier to admit publicly, but I try to keep this blog as honest as I can). Rowan still has, and probably always will have, pain and loss from the death of her mommy. It's a long journey for her, because as she grows and understands her world in different ways, she'll feel her loss in new and ever more painful ways. I believe there will always be a 'primal hole' in her life from now on. Nothing I or anyone else can ever do will fix that. She'll have to learn to live with it.

As for me, my own journey is changing. Dating and 'finding a new mommy' are part of the next phase of my life. I miss being married, and hope to have that magic again someday. And I would love to find someone with whom I can share life's joys and pains, as well as someone who can share in Rowan's accomplishments and milestones. I want someone in Rowan's life as a role model, and with whom we can model a healthy, happy relationship for her so she knows what she should be able to expect/demand when it's her turn.

I suppose I could write about the adventures of dating as a widower with a child. Possibly there might be some use in that for some readers navigating (or thinking about) that way themselves. But it doesn't feel right to me to share that type of stuff, especially as it involves another person. Dating should be private, so I think I'll keep it that way. I could also write about single parenting, but I suspect there are a great many blogs out there that do so already, and probably better than I could.

I do have two more posts I've been working on for a long, long time. They've both been extremely hard to write, and they're still not quite done. The topics are pretty raw, as are the emotions they bring out in me. But I hope to publish them both within the next week or so. After that...

I may continue to add posts from time to time as new information becomes available about events of December 18 that I can share. Or if new feelings, emotions, or other pitfalls come to me that I feel the need to share in this forum. But otherwise, I think the time has nearly come for me to begin to close this chapter.

Stay tuned for my last couple of posts...

Go On

I recently discovered a new TV show: Go On. I'll get to why I bring this up in just a moment.

First, basic info: It's on NBC, Tuesday nights at 9. But of course I don't watch it then. I DVR it, and then watch episodes when I get to them. The main star is Matthew Perry (of "Friends" fame), a cocky sports radio show host who - get this - lost his wife, and he's in a therapy/support group to help him through it. The show is a sitcom, but there are certainly some poignant moments.

And by now you probably have guessed why I've decided to write about it here.

As a sitcom, it's not bad. And clearly their audience is not widowers - that's not a big enough audience to make a prime time sitcom successful. But there are moments, sweet moments, where Ryan (Matthew Perry's character) remembers things or shares things about his wife, and it really resonates with me. There was an episode where he imagines she's there, and he talks with her for just a few moments, and I wished so hard (for not the first time) that I could do that - make Aimee appear in my head and just... talk to her.

The episode I watched tonight showed another member of the group, who'd lost several members of her family, at her teen daughter's birthday party. Someone asks her how she remains so happy, despite all of her loss. I forget already exactly the quote, but it goes something like this, "You can laugh, or you can cry. I choose to laugh." I know how she feels, but I also know how brutally hard it is to make that choice to laugh, especially early on. In fact, it was impossible for quite some time.

Anyway, I think it's a decent show, and I recommend it. And if you've ever lost someone, you might find a few gems thrown in.

Rough week

It's been a rough week.

I came down with my first bout with the flu a week ago. Of course, that coincided with Donna being out of town for two weeks, so I didn't have the backup I would normally have available. So that left me feeling like hell and trying to take care of Rowan.

Then on Thursday, it was Rowan's turn to get sick.

Luckily for both of us, Rowan's bout of sickness hasn't been as bad as mine. As of this moment, she's in bed coughing up a storm, but overall she's been doing better than me (who's currently on the couch coughing up a storm). Regardless, taking care of a sick kid when you yourself are sick stinks.

After a week of being sick,
I FINALLY got the dishes done

But that's not all of it, really. Earlier tonight I gave her a bath. While she was in the tub, I got some work done that's been LONG over due in our extra bedroom/office. After I got her out of the tub and dried her off, I sent her off to get her her PJ's on. And then I just sat there in the bathroom, towel in my hand, head bowed, and felt so, so tired. Not just from being sick and taking care of Rowan, but from doing this by myself for the last year. I know I shouldn't complain, but man, sometimes it's hard.

In fact, it's damn hard.

It's hard doing all the work. It's hard being responsible all the time. It's hard taking care of Rowan emotionally and physically. It's hard working a full time job. It's hard not having someone take care of me for a while. It's hard doing the laundry, fixing the food, shopping for groceries, cold medicine, toilet paper, dog food, blah, blah, blah.

Don't misunderstand me. The hard part isn't really the doing of all the work. I can do it all, and I have. And I think overall I'm doing it pretty damn well.

But doing it alone is tiring, and lonely, and sad. I liked the companionship of running a family with Aimee. I liked the teamwork we had. I liked how we gave each other breaks, encouraged each other, supported each other. Loved each other.

That's the part that's hard. Missing that partnership, that camaraderie.

Missing Aimee.

Observations after one year of Missing Aimee

Here are just some random observations after a year without Aimee. These are in no particular order.

I can do this single dad stuff. It took a long time to accept that I was a good solo father, but I did get there. I seriously doubted myself so much the first 8-9 months. But I eventually came to see that Rowan was as happy as a child could be in her circumstances (though she obviously carries a lot of pain), and that she she clearly felt loved, safe, and secure. Additionally, she is well behaved, well-mannered, and sweet. No matter what a child's parenting situation, you absolutely can not ask for more than that.

That being said, I can see seeds of the challenges I may face with her. I already see her questioning things about her mothers' death, and I know that some of the worst of her pain is still likely ahead of her, as she gets older and learns more about the circumstances of her mother's death and how needless it was.

Speaking of single parenting... I've known single moms throughout my life (including both of my sisters and my mom for at least some stretches of time), and across the board I've admired them for all they manage to accomplish. This year I learned firsthand just how difficult that is, especially if it happens suddenly and you're hell-bent on continuing to do everything well. I learned how to let go of some things, and how to get by on a lot less sleep.

All you need is love? The Beatles once sang that "All you need is love". Well, I'm not sure I completely believe that, but it sure as hell goes a long way. Aimee's love made my life a truly wonderful experience, even when life was far less than wonderful. And after her death, the love of so many friends and family members was just amazingly huge, I still can't fully wrap my head around it. Meals, gifts, free child care, words of support and encouragement, prayers, and so much more.

But please take this to heart: people can't truly love you in practical ways unless you let them. That means if you ever find yourself in a situation like the one I was in a year ago, when people offer to help, let them! I know it's not easy. Our culture idolizes the strong, and in some ways, that's OK. But when you're down, people want to help you, and you hurt them when you don't let them. You're not imposing on them by accepting their offer, you're recognizing their love for you, and returning it by allowing them to feel like they're alleviating your pain or worry in some small (or big) way. I know. I was exactly like that once, always one to say "Thanks, but I got it" when someone  wanted to help me in my times of trouble. But after I read "90 Minutes in Heaven" by Don Piper in the summer of 2011, I realized just how wrong this mentality is. And it was a lesson learned just in time for when I'd really need it. Now I'm passing it on to you. If you're going through struggles, don't be an ass and try to shoulder the burden yourself when someone offers to help. Let them help.

Choose to live. After Aimee died, I didn't feel like living anymore. Not that I was suicidal - I wasn't. But my joy for life was gone, as was my joy in all things (yes, even Rowan to some extent). But very early on, I decided, largely for the sake of my daughter, to choose to live every day. Not just to physically live, but to actually re-learn to find the beauty in life, to find enjoyment in things, and to feel happy again. It was damn difficult, especially the first six months. "Fake it 'til you make it" the saying goes. That's what I did. And slowly but surely, I found some joy again. Far more importantly I showed Rowan, by my example, that life does go on, and that it can be good if you choose to make it good.

Many days I still have to consciously choose to have a good day and find happiness and joy. It's often still difficult. But it's easier than it was, and it's a far better way to go through life than being miserable and taking those around you with you.

No one else is you.  No two people's grief is the same, and you can't compare your own grief process to that of others and wonder if you're 'doing it right.' There is no right or wrong way to grieve. There is no right or wrong amount of time before you can laugh again. There is no right or wrong way to remember your lost loved one. There is no right or wrong time before you can find joy. There is no right or wrong amount of time before you can fall in love again. You get the idea. You have to walk your own path, at your own pace, and do what you know in your own heart is truly the best way for you to go. Just keep in mind that this is never an excuse for being callous to the needs of others grieving with you.

Finally, let go of fear. I have had many fears this first year, some of which are still with me to some degree or another. Early on, I was afraid that most of my friends would move on from this tragedy and get on with their lives, and I'd be alone in my grief. And while slowly most of my friends have moved on from this, they haven't done so and left me behind. They've stayed by my side, checking in and just being available when I've needed them. I have not felt alone.

I have also feared for my own safety a lot more. Before, in the back of my mind, I knew that if something happened to me, Rowan would have Aimee. Now I'm it. I am more cautious than I used to be. More paranoid in dark parking lots, that sort of thing. I don't know if that will change. Perhaps it shouldn't.

There have been others. Fear about being a terrible parent. Fear that I won't find love again. Fear that our household won't be able to get by on one income. And so on and so forth. I have had to either learn that the fear was unfounded (I'm not a terrible parent), or that I'll just have to do what I can to address it, such as simply being more careful with my health and well-being.

I have chosen to live, but I will not do so enveloped in fear.

Collision course

I'm on a path. It leads me through a wide plain, nothing worth notice as far as I can see to the right or left. The walk is nice - sunny, warm but not hot. I feel pretty good. But I know it's not going to last.

Ahead of me is a wall. I can't see it yet, but I know it's there. When I reach it, I'll have to crash through it, and on the other side the sun will be gone. The nice temperature will be gone. I'll be in a storm. I don't know how bad that storm will be, or how long it will last, but I'll be in it, and I have to ride it out.

I can't turn around and go back. I can't turn to one side or another. And I can't stop where I am, for the path I'm on is Time, and Time is ultimately immovable, unstoppable. As nice as this walk is right now, I know where it's leading, and I wish I didn't have to go.

But I do.

Now the wall is within sight. In fact, I can see that I'll be there in about two day's time.

Two days.


That illustration is exactly how I feel right now. Despite continuing to battle my grief, the summer was actually not terrible. I'm a happier person when the sun is out, and between a great second half of the summer and fantastic early fall (weather-wise), I've been in as good a mood as I could have hoped. Additionally, other aspects of my personal and professional life have been going well, which has added to the "sunny" feeling of the last several months.

But October 25 is two days away. The upcoming hike up Mt. Pilchuck to scatter Aimee's ashes and say my goodbye is looming like a storm, and God only knows what emotions that is going to unleash in me. During a conversation with my therapist, she mentioned that this goodbye is incredibly important, as it's the one I have control over. I didn't have control over my parting from Aimee, no foreknowledge of it, so I wasn't able to really say goodbye to her.

But I do have control over it this time, and I've been holding onto my goodbye for the last ten months.

I've spent the last ten months facing what happened as pragmatically as possible. Aimee died, I can't reverse that or bring her back. Process grief, process letting go, process moving on. Live life, keep going, keep moving, keep living, move on.

Move on.

Move on, dammit.

Well, in order to keep moving on, I have to do this. I have to say goodbye and literally let go of Aimee, flinging those ashes out into the sky on top of that mountain and let them fall where they may. Separate, away from me, ultimately free as she has been now for ten months.

I've been looking ahead to this day with some level of dread since last December, when I first decided this was what I wanted to do with Aimee's ashes.

It's here in two days.

Moving forward, marching on

In one week from today, I will scatter Aimee's ashes, saying a final goodbye to the woman I loved so much, built a life with, and had a child with. I never, ever wanted this to be how our life together ended. I still wish, every single day, that it hadn't.

In pictures like this, you can
see how much Rowan loved
her mommy

But of the many things I learned from Aimee, one of them was to live your life. It would be so easy for me to stay focused on what I've lost, and try and hold on to feelings, scents, objects, and never let go and never move on. But that's not living. In fact, living that way indefinitely would be a kind of living death in its own way.

My goal has been to learn how to live, and to move on, without trying to forget Aimee or do anything to dishonor her memory. It hasn't been easy to move on, because many days I have wanted to just sit at home and stare at photos or videos of Aimee for hours on end. And sometimes, I do in fact indulge that for an hour or two here and there. It feels good to remember how much fun we had and how much love we had for each other. But, to quote someone near and dear to me, "Life should be lived for the living." To me that includes first and foremost Rowan, but also family and friends, as well as new people who come into my life.

So as I look back over the last ten months, and at how these posts that I've written have progressed, I can see that my efforts are paying off. It was extremely difficult at first. In fact, I had to pretend I was getting on with my life, because I didn't feel it at all. But now, I do feel it. Things are different. Not happy-go-lucky all the time or without pain, but that crushing weight of grief is no longer ever-present on my shoulders.

I honestly believe that would make Aimee happy.

My return to dating

One weekend, when Rowan was just a toddler (I can't recall exactly how old she was), I took her to a local park. She was just at the cusp of learning to walk, pulling herself up on furniture, and walking around while holding on to things. This day at the park, I held her hands and walked backwards while she walked towards me, holding on for dear life. After I felt like she had it down, I slipped my hands out of hers and eased backwards. She immediately got nervous and toddled after me, reaching for the safety of my hands.

I stayed just out of her reach.

She walked, on her own, for about 10-12 steps before she started getting really mad that I wouldn't hold still, so I finally let her grab my hands again. But she'd walked, on her own, and within another day or two, she was doing it regularly.

Baby steps.

In some ways, I feel like that now.

It's a less then a month until the anniversary of my and Aimee's first 'official' date. That was almost nine years ago, and I got to a point, when Aimee and I were engaged, that I realized that was probably going to be the last first date I ever had.

But I was wrong.

In a post I published back in August (Dating again), I wrote about feeling ready to begin dating again. Well it took almost another two months, but I have finally crept out of the shadows and made the bold leap forward. Well maybe not a leap. Maybe a step. I sat down at my laptop and set up a profile on one of the popular online dating sites, and sat back to see what would happen.

This is how people meet now, right?

Baby step.

On a side note, I've found it to be really clinical and unromantic. I mean, reading profiles of people the site sends me and deciding which ones I want to contact feels EXACTLY like screening job applicants. "Yes, I've read over your resume- er, profile, and looked over your qualifications- er characteristics, and I'd like to bring you in for an interview- er, date." Yuck.

But the process was also a little cathartic. I don't like stagnation - I like progress. Moving forward. Setting up that profiles and getting started was a step in that direction.

Then it went further.

Baby step.

So far, I have been on two dates, each with a different person. It was surreal, being out with someone other than Aimee, but it was also nice to get out of the house, talk to someone new, and daydream about the possibilities. And while both of the gals I went out with were tremendously nice, I felt enough of a connection with the second one that there will be a second date some time in the future. Other than that? Well, I'm not going to think too far ahead right now. I'll just see where things go, and take it nice and slow.

Baby steps... Baby steps...

Nine long months, Part 2

Through his blog, I have tended more to write about the hard parts of loss and grief, with much less space dedicated to the recovery from it. Well in this post, written nine months to the day after Aimee's death, I want to write about where I am after going through nine months of grief, sadness, and above all, healing.

First, let's be clear about something: I miss Aimee. I really do. She was an amazing, special, incredible woman to everyone who knew her, and I had the honor and pleasure of knowing her more intimately than nearly anyone else. But as much as I loved her and still miss her, Aimee is not and was not my entire life, especially since Rowan was born.

Over the past nine months, I have worked on healing the gigantic hole her death left in my life. And I've done so by focusing on creating new memories, and strengthening the bond I have with my daughter. I also never tried to bottle up or push down or drown my grief, but just took deep breaths and dealt with it. And slowly but surely, I am coming into a new place of being able to find joy in life again. Joy not just in Rowan, but in my own life as well.

I know that the next few months are going to present me with some potentially horrific days. Scattering Aimee's ashes on October 25. The anniversary of her death on December 18. And, well, that entire roughly two weeks from then until the end of the year.

So as I stand here today, I am not "fully healed", whatever that might mean. I am not done feeling grief, or sadness, or loss. I will probably feel those in moments now and then for the rest of my life. Most especially when it comes to Rowan's milestones, I know I will wish that Aimee had had the chance to see them, knowing how much she absolutely adored her little one, just as I do.

But I am moving forward.

I can do so because I am strong. Not on my own, but through God who strengthens me, through the love, prayers, and support of countless people from family to strangers.. Acts of friendship and kindness of endless magnitude and tiniest measure, all held me up and gave me hope. My mental state today is the end product of all the people who have loved me and cared for me since last December 18. I owe so much that I can never hope to repay.

I am still recovering, and I still have weak moments. I sometimes struggle with loneliness, especially after having had such a wonderful marriage. I miss that fulfillment in my life. But more and more firmly each day, I place one foot in front of the other, and I walk through life.

And as I do so, I hold the hand of my little angel and bring her with me, showing her the beauty that still exists in this world, as I myself learn to see it again.

Nine long months

It's been nine months.

Winter, spring, and now summer have passed.

Christmas, New Years, Valentine's Day, Saint Patrick's Day, Easter, Aimee's birthday, Rowan's birthday, our wedding anniversary, Memorial Day, Mothers Day, Fathers Day, 4th of July, my birthday, Justin's birthday, Donna's birthday, and Labor Day have all passed.

Rowan turned 4. And she got glasses. She also got a big-girl bed and doesn't use a pacifier anymore.

The house has closet doors and air conditioning.

My grandmother Rose passed away.

I started this blog, and to date, have written just over 100 posts. It's been visited more than 62,000 times.

Aimee's car is gone. Her clothes are in the garage, her books have been donated to Goodwill, and a few important keepsakes have been put into a memory chest for Rowan.

And her ashes, those are in a box in my room. At least until October 25.

It's been nine long months.

Most of the time, it feels like a lot longer.

Rowan's meltdown tonight

It is so hard being a parent sometimes. And I think it's hardest when your little ones are hurting, and you can't take it away and bear it yourself. That's how I felt tonight.

Leading up to Rowan's bedtime, she started getting, for lack of a better word, fussy. She was whimpering, crying about little things, or even nothing, scared of everything. It was weird, but it's also becoming more common. Finally she was getting into bed, on the verge of tears, and then she grabbed a picture of Aimee and clutched it and started sobbing. Her little face had so much pain on it, more than I've ever seen before. And she kept holding the picture, sometimes looking at it ad sometimes holding to the side of her face, and she cried and cried. And I held her and stroked her hair and kissed her teary cheeks, but I couldn't really make her feel any better. It was so hard.

It went on for several minutes before she finally started to calm down a bit, and I continued to just hold her, occasionally telling her I was sorry her mommy was gone, and that I missed her too. I so badly wanted to promise her I'd always be there for her, but I know I can't make that promise, because I know that some day, out of the blue, something might happen to me as well. I don't want Rowan to be filled with anger at me for breaking that promise.

This is a picture Rowan recently
drew of her and Aimee. Rowan
is in the pink (big surprise).

Like I said, this is becoming more common for her, although tonight's meltdown was the worst yet. I did re-start her visits with a childhood grief counselor, and I think we'll continue with those visits again for some time. It's amazing in a way, because Aimee has now already been gone for nearly a quarter of Rowan's life, but that bond between mother and child is so strong, that I know that decades from now, Rowan will still have moments where she wishes her mother was still alive.

Lately I've been having thoughts like maybe I don't want to get remarried again, at least not for a long time. I think to myself, "I got this. I can raise Rowan without anyone's help." And the fact is I could. I mean c'mon, LOTS of single parents raise kids and do it well. Even dads. It's not like I'm a pioneer here. And when I think about how hard it might be to find someone that fits in all the ways we need them to in this family, it feels daunting, and I think "To hell with it, I'll do it myself."

But then Rowan has a night like this, and I think that even though she will ALWAYS miss her mommy, it would be great for her of she had someone in that role she could look up to, and be comforted by, and then I completely turn around and feel like I want to go out right now and start interviewing candidates like I'm hiring for a job or something.

I know, I'm a bit insane at time. Loving your child does that to you. A healthy dose of loneliness doesn't help.

At the point I do date again (I haven't yet), I hope to be able to push all of this out of my head, and just get to know the women I'm out with. As badly as I want Rowan to have a mother at times like this - and I won't lie to you, I sure wouldn't mind having someone in my life again as well - I know full well the cost of getting this wrong is far too high for the benefit of just having 'someone'  here. I want Rowan to have the 'right' mom, and for me, the 'right' wife. And of course, I want to be a great husband and continue trying to be a great father.

And as we go, I'll keep holding Rowan and wishing I could take the pain away that seems so big for such a little girl to have to bear.

Journey to Tragedy

I don't know why, but over the last couple of months I've thought a lot about the series of events that ultimately led to Aimee's death. I don't mean just the decision to go scuba diving that day and the series of things that happened on the boat, I mean over the course of months or even longer. Many of those events have no direct bearing on Aimee's actual death, yet they all led to it. Here's what I mean.

May, 2006: Aimee and I are on our honeymoon, a Caribbean cruise. Among the stops and excursions we enjoy, one of the offerings is your choice of a snorkeling outing or scuba diving. Aimee tells me she'd love to go scuba diving, but the cost is pretty high, and the location doesn't seem to offer much, so we both opt for the snorkeling instead (I would have picked that anyway, as I had no desire to go scuba diving at that point).

November 2010: Donna's father Don dies. She inherits, among many other things, his car. She doesn't need it or want it, and both my and Aimee's cars were getting up there in miles, so she gives it to us.

December 19, 2010: Aimee's father Terry dies after a battle with cancer. Although he'd lived most of his life in Indiana, we had moved him and Donna close to us during the last few months of his life so that Aimee could be a better support to them during this time.

Spring, 2011: Conversations begin between Aimee, Donna, and Justin about how to recognize the anniversary of Terry's death when it comes around in December 2011. If I remember correctly, Florida is offered as an option because the family had vacationed there during Aimee's childhood, and it held good memories for them. It was also a place Terry had enjoyed visiting. And most importantly, it wasn't here, as the family had decided the last place they wanted to be on that sad anniversary was in the town where he passed away.

July 2011: After a long battle of finding documents and filling out paperwork, the car inherited from Aimee's grandfather is finally in our ownership. We decide to keep Aimee's car and sell mine. The timing means that I can use the proceeds from the sale of my car to purchase plane tickets for us to go to Florida in December, which I do soon after the car is sold.

Summer 2011: A vacation house in the Florida Keys is selected as the place where we'll stay during our time there. Divided amongst the three households, the cost is relatively affordable for the eight day stay. Excitement about the trip begins to build.

Aimee on a date night the night
before we left for Florida. When
I took this, I had no idea she'd
be dead eight days later.

December 11, 2011: Late in the evening, Aimee, Rowan, and I arrive at Donna's house to pick her up to go to the airport for our red-eye flight to Miami. Not surprisingly, Donna is not ready. What is surprising is that Aimee and I completely switched our typical roles, with me patiently helping her finish packing while Aimee fumed. It was surreal, until you realized that Aimee was hungry and she didn't do especially well when she hadn't eaten.

December 12, 2011: We arrive in Miami, tired as hell but otherwise none the worse for the wear. After breakfast at IHOP we begin the drive down to the Keys. Everyone falls asleep except me (I was driving). We spend part of the time listening to the CD I had bought Aimee as an early Christmas present, Adele's "21". The songs on this CD are now forever linked to this trip.

Throughout this week, Justin and Caroline go scuba diving several times, including on Saturday, December 17. Aimee discusses her desire to go, and they encourage her to consider giving it a try. She and I also discuss it, with me also encouraging her. Additionally, we talk about me also going, since I'd somewhat warmed up to the idea after five and half years. However, I hadn't gotten to the point of really wanting to go, and then there was the matter of cost, so we remained undecided, ultimately, until the morning of December 18.

December 18, 2011: If you want a full account of this day, as seen from my point of view, you can read this post. Let me just say here that I decided to stay with Rowan while Aimee went diving, and that probably was the one saving grace in that horrible day.

She died at roughly 3:15 in the afternoon.

So many events and details, seemingly unrelated, but which all in one way or another were part of the road to the tragedy we experienced on December 18. Like I said at the beginning: I don't know why this has been on my mind, but it has.

What I prayed tonight

Earlier tonight was rough. Rowan was having tummy pain and I had a hard time finding something that made her feel better enough to go to sleep. I was finally successful at about half past 10.

A couple of hours later I was getting ready to go to bed myself (trying to get more than 3-4 hours of sleep these days). As I let the dog out to do her business, I decided I needed to spend a few minutes outside under the stars, talking to God. Here is what I said.

"God, thanks for Rowan going to sleep. I pray whatever was wrong with her tummy is gone now, and she gets a good night's sleep (so I can too). I really love that little girl.

It's in moments like these when I miss Aimee, not only because she would have handled this, but because she would have known how to. If she's up there with You right now, please tell her I love her and I miss her. Tell her that I always think about all those times when she said she felt confident that I could raise Rowan if anything ever happened to her, and that I try to prove her right, no mater how lost I sometimes feel.

I hope I appreciated her enough when she was here. I think I did, I know I thanked You for her frequently and I worked to show Aimee by words and actions how much she meant to me. But if I fell short, please also tell her that too. She was an incredible gift from You.

I never wanted You to take her away from me.

And Lord, please tell her I hope she understands that I'm starting to look for someone else who can come into our lives. It's not that I didn't love her that much. In fact, in some ways it's because of my great love for her that I want to move on. She showed me what a wonderful, amazing thing a great marriage was, and I miss that. She taught me about the importance of each parent to a child, and I want a mother for Rowan. She opened my eyes to all the ways I could be a good husband and father, and she did it without saying much, but through her great example, and I really long to have a partner like that again, but as a wife and as a fellow parent. I miss loving someone like that.

Tell Aimee that Rowan misses her too. She says it a lot more now than she used to, and she cries more often. But she also seems to know that she can come to me and cry to me and that she's safe with me. Let Aimee know that as much as Rowan can be right now, she is happy, even in her grief.

So Lord, help me be a great father, especially now. And when I go up to Rowan's room in a few minutes and lean over and kiss the top of her head as she sleeps, I'll pray to You again soon, this time for her health and well-being and her future.

Thank You for listening to me.

In Jesus' name,
Amen."

The biggest piece of Aimee to go is gone tomorrow

Goodbye, old maroon Toyota Corolla.

Aimee's car has been the biggest tangible object of hers still around. It caused some tears when Rowan and I first arrived home from Florida. Justin and Caroline used for the month they stayed here after Aimee's death. Then is sat in front of Donna's house, a constant, silent reminder, for the next seven months after that. A couple of weeks ago, Donna finally brought it to my place, so I could clean it up and sell it.


A potential buyer came by yesterday, decided to take it, and is picking it up tomorrow.

The somewhat infamous maroon Toyota will be gone. (Infamous because the interior of Aimee's car looked like she was homeless and living in that car. With a hairy dog that shed a lot. The exterior wasn't much better.)

I never was much attached to that car. I used to tease Aimee about it and she's give me the evil eye and say that her car was a "right par-ful drivin' m'chine" in a mock redneck accent (she was from rural Indiana, after all). But Donna, who expresses her feelings more through tangible objects, cries every time she thinks about Aimee's car being gone (I jokingly offered to sell it to her to leave in front of her house, but she laughed and said her neighbors wanted that eyesore out of the neighborhood). And Rowan is attached to it as well. Until Aimee's death, Rowan spent much more of her first 3 1/2 years riding in that car with her mommy than she did in mine. Several times in the last couple of weeks, she's wanted to just go sit in Aimee's car. And since I took it to get the oil changed today, I took Rowan to school in it. Her voice broke this morning as she told me she was going to be sad when mommy's car was gone.

I consoled her as best as I could, and tried to shift her attention to things of Aimee's were keeping, like her wedding dress (which Rowan LOVES). That seemed to significantly improve her outlook, but I suspect there may be a few more tears between now and tomorrow.

No matter what, that car is one of the last, and certainly the biggest piece of Aimee that we still have.

And soon, it too will be gone.

Dating again

OK, so you had to know this topic was going to come up sooner or later...

As time has passed, I have begun to look to the future, and focus less on the past. And one way that I'm looking forward is thinking about beginning to date again.

First, let's cover something very important. Most members of my and Aimee's immediate family, especially Aimee's mother, are supportive of me getting on with my life (in a dating sense of the word). In fact Donna has been encouraging me to begin dating again for some time, although she hasn't been pushy about it.



Aimee and I were often silly together. It
was one of the best parts of our relationship.

So back to that weird place I'm in. On the one hand, I am and have been quite lonely since Aimee's death. A normal reaction, I'm certain. Furthermore, I LOVED being married. I'm certain having the wife I did had a lot to do with that, but I miss terribly that level of love, affection, play and so on that made such an intimate relationship so special. And I have no doubt that there is someone else out there with whom I can share that again.

There is also Rowan (lest anyone foolishly thought this was all about me). She has steadfastly expressed, repeatedly over time, that she wants a mommy. She said as much to me again the day before yesterday. (In her Disney Princess level knowledge of life and 'love', she doesn't understand why this request can't be filled in the fairly immediate future. Don't I just go to the Royal Ball and dance with Cinderella or find some random sleeping princess and kiss her?) I want Rowan to have a mother, and not just any mother, but a great one. Further, Aimee and I were so adamant about treating each other with love, kindness, and respect at all times, but especially in front of Rowan. Why? We knew that we would set up her expectations for what her own marriage should look like. Without the right partner to model that with for her, I feel like some valuable lessons may get missed (though I admit this is a little bit less of a concern, as I feel there are some lessons along these lines I can teach her in other ways).

And finally, I can honestly say that I do have the capacity to have feelings for someone else, though growth of any relationship will have to take time.

But then there's the other side of things. I'm worried that getting into a relationship with me any time in the near future might be something like dating someone with a serious illness. You know they'll probably recover someday, but you also know that you're probably not getting them at their best, fullest ability right now. That doesn't seem completely fair. How do I balance being available to someone, and being open with them about who I am and how I feel, but not burden them with someone else I used to love (and in many ways always will) when I have tough days? And trust me, I'm not self-delusional enough to think that tough days are over (ha!) or will end after a few more months or after the one year anniversary or any other marker. I'm guessing tough days will appear, though with less frequency over time, for many years to come.

All that to say, I'm thinking about it. I haven't been on a first date in almost nine years. Of course, dating back then was a lot simpler, since I was just looking for someone for me. Now I'm looking for someone for both me and Rowan (at least eventually). And marriage, if and when that day comes again, is a long way off no matter what. I want to make sure that I'm pretty certain about a potential spouse before I really begin to get them much involved in Rowan's life. The last thing I want is for Rowan to get attached to someone and have it not work out. Another significant loss in her life, especially of a person she might see in a mother role, is something I'd really like to avoid. She took it hard enough when her first post-Aimee babysitter took another job. Daddy life and dating life will stay separated for quite some time.

There's one more thing I consider. Life is short and unpredictable. I now know that all too well. What if in fact I do only have weeks or months left? Is it good for me to stay alone, unhappily so, just because some people might think I should? Should the opinions of others even be importnat? I think not. I need to live my own life, and I can't worry about what people who aren't living my life think about how I'm doing so.

So, I don't know exactly when, but I do plan on moving into this next phase of life again soon. For my sake and ultimately for Rowan's as well.

The dreaded church picnic

Today (8/5) is our annual church picnic. Typically I really enjoy these. There's a ton of really good food, lots of great people from the church, and it has been sunny every time I've gone (supposed to be near 90 tomorrow).

But these "family" gatherings are tough. Like birthday parties for Rowan's classmates. It's impossible for me not to notice other families, especially at a church like ours, where the majority (or so it seems) are two-parent families with a happy mom and a happy dad and happy kids. I certainly don't begrudge them. And the people in my church are among the most sincere and genuine people I've ever met, and so it's not some big sham. Which makes it harder. I'm surrounded by lots of happy (whole) families.

It's really hard for me to see these families and not REALLY feel, down to my bones, that which I am missing. The hole in our family feels magnified significantly in these settings. My loneliness wells to the surface too, normally kept predominantly quiet until after Rowan goes to bed each night. In other words, it's depressing.

I'm seriously considering skipping it.

The things is, this is unlikely to change much until I start dating again. Other aspects of this loss will (hopefully, probably) get easier over time, but I don't think this one will as long as I'm single.

Oh, and one other thing. Unlike the last few years, when Aimee and I would trde off watching/playing with Rowan so the other could eat, relax, and spend time chatting with friends, I'm flying solo, which means ALL I will do is watch and play with Rowan. And I can do that in my air-conditioned house.