My Life After His Death

You would hate how the world has changed since I last visited you.  First, we are in the midst of a global pandemic.  Remember in Atlanta, when I went with you to the safety conference?  Remember all the masks we saw?  You could have made a killing now.  United First Aid and Safety would be making serious money.  If only you had hung in there long enough.  Every business is clamoring for masks, gloves, sterile cleaning supplies.  If you had only stayed and limped through the tough years, this would truly have been your turn around! I honestly think this might have been the year you could honestly have told people that you made a million dollars…you would have needed a warehouse to keep everything.  

Oh and Armour Gel?  If that had been a real thing, that too would have been a business worth noting….anything that kills the COVID 19 virus!  You were perhaps just a little ahead of your time.  I’ve thought about you often when I’ve read or heard something about masks and even remember throwing away hundreds left over from your failed business.  How would things be different?

One thing that would have been a challenge would be staying at home together.  You never left the house when you were alive.  And you certainly never left me alone when I was in the house.  The pandemic has forced me to work from home most of the time.  I can’t imagine the potential conflicts we would have had trying to share space and time.  I know you would have struggled with the many conversations I have with the men in my professional world.  I see you trying to catch a glimpse over my shoulder at an unfamiliar voice and I can only imagine the bizarre accusations and assumptions you would make as you listened in.  

And I would have been even more frustrated that you didn’t have a job and weren’t actively seeking one.  Which would have only resulted in more opportunities for you to lie about the job search you never actually started. I have so many memories of you and your job searches.  Where do I even start?  Perhaps I should start with Menards…you said they wouldn’t hire you because you were overqualified and would quit within a week.  What about driving trucks for the bouncy house company?  You said you went to talk to them but they thought you were more management and wouldn’t be satisfied with driving trucks and setting up birthday party entertainment. And of course, Tommy Bahamas…they wouldn’t hire you because of your tattoos.

And then there was Clear Me.  You actually got one paycheck from them!  And then you quit because “it was making your PTSD come back because you had to fingerprint people.”  I can only imagine the real reason.  I suspect it was because you couldn’t see yourself as a “lowly” salesperson after being a self-proclaimed successful business owner. I also suspect it was because you disliked taking orders from someone younger than yourself…or someone with less experience…or from ANYONE, actually.  Either way, you quit.

Right before you died, I begged you to call Grant  He had told you he frequently had openings.  You told me that you had asked him and he had nothing.  After you died, I heard differently.  Grant said he had begged you to come and work for him and had even offered a place for you to stay at the hotel. That you turned him down told me you never intended to work.  Why should you?  You had me to take care of you. And you wanted everyone to feel sorry for you.  And you wanted them to blame me.

So the pandemic would have been just another excuse for you.  You would have told me it was too risky for you to work because you had asthma, yet you wouldn’t have hesitated going out with your friends on the bike.  Would you have worn a mask?  I’m not really sure.  It depends on how much attention you wanted to draw.  If it won you sympathy, I think you would be all about masks.

The other newsworthy event was the killing of George Floyd by the white policy officer who knelt on his neck.  You would have had strong opinions about this and would love talking about all the times you did the same thing, but with obvious different results.  After all, you were a cop.  You know these things.  You would have loved responding to the rioting and looting and when John went to provide security, you might have even asked to go too. On the other hand, you would have asked, but then withdrawn your offer because of the “PTSD” it would undoubtedly trigger.  You would have watched John’s live feed and I can hear you question, “Can’t you see his eyes?  Can’t you see the PTSD?”  Again, John was one you bonded with over his likely PTSD.  As if comparing several tours in Iran and Iraq to time as a reserve officer were the same thing.  This embarrassed me to no end.

How many police officers would you have thanked?  You would have watched the riots live and criticized the police response.  You knew how to handle riots.  After all, you were a cop.  OK, time for me to go back to the real world and leave your memories on the page.  Could you stay behind this time?  I could use some time away from you.  Even with you dead, there is still too much together-time.

I’m broken today.  Yesterday was the hardest day I’ve faced in a long time.  We had another suicide yesterday.  A middle school student.  The building was heavy and everyone was wearing an extra coat of both helplessness and reflectiveness.  As staff try to come to terms with these suicides, they want to talk to someone who understands and can possibly offer them some sort of consolation or words to help them make sense of these tragedies.  They turn to me.  I am the suicide survivor. I have the suicide experience.  Kim is synonymous with Suicide.  I don’t want that title.  I didn’t want to ever be connected with this…I am having trouble both accepting and navigating this new role.

First was my conversation with Karen.  You will remember Karen because she connected with your love of all things mystical.  She was into Reiki and yoga and the two of you had many conversations during our events.  You thought she had good energy.  I walked down to the AHEF office to get my daily peanut M & Ms (yes, I know I’m not supposed to have them) and she commented on the recent bad news.  As Karen and I have a deeper relationship than many of the ESC staff, she asked me directly if this was difficult for me and how I am responding to the many inquiries.  I replied honestly. It is difficult.  I am not an expert.  I don’t like resurrecting the memories that bring back images and emotions I daily try to suppress. 

And then came Jenny and Ranae…innocently wanting to inquire out of genuine concern that this might be impacting me emotionally.  And then it was followed by a conversation with Eric.  He had heard, but not asked for any information before.  I found myself giving him the quick version, and he was nice enough to not dig deeply as others had done. I did tell him that I was angry at some of the conversations around me.  Angry that staff were considering themselves “experts” when they had NEVER experienced it personally.  Honestly, how can you be an expert if you’ve never found someone you loved dead in your garage and had to deal with the unique fallout and accusations that directly follow suicide?

I wanted to be the protester in the back of the room yelling that you can’t stop someone who is intent on killing themself.  If they want to do it, they will find a way.  It won’t be your fault, yet you will feel blame and shame the rest of your life.  I wanted them to just stop talking about it.  Stop saying the word.  Stop bringing it up.  It’s still too raw.

This reminds me of when Paul and I went to a Disturbed concert.  The concert was great…heavy, pounding, screaming music, which you know I love…but then the lead singer started to talk about depression and suicide.  And things turned dark. He made it sound like it was OUR responsibility to stop others.  I grew very defensive and felt accused. I have often clung to your therapist’s words, “If someone is going to kill themselves, they will find a way and it will not be your fault.” Everywhere I turn, someone is talking about this.  Again.  Stop saying the word.  Stop bringing it up. It’s still too raw.

I am in San Francisco, at a math conference, and suddenly, your face appears in my subconscious thoughts.  I try to erase your image, but still you persist.  Have you ever been to San Francisco?  My intuition tells me no.  I usually can feel your presence, and I hate that I have a constant sense of awareness about that.  No matter what building I walk into, my internal radar alerts me to your physical history.  It usually starts with, “Have we ever been here together?” and ends with “Has he ever been here without me?”  It’s not just buildings that send me down this line of thinking.  Everytime I turn down a street, see a different view, or even watch a show on TV…the experience ends up going through this odd filter.  I wonder when this will end?

I don’t know if I have written about one of my facebook friends who lost her husband to a heart attack in December.  She is living the aftermath of grief and loneliness online.  Daily, I read about how she misses her husband and can’t come to terms with the unexpectedness of his death.  Sometimes I identify greatly with her grief and her words bring me to tears as I experience the wisdom of her realizations.  And then there are other times when I am actually jealous because her grief is real in a way mine never will be and never can be.  

Oh, and I dreamt about you again.  Remember when you told me that when someone dreams about a person who has died, it’s actually that person’s way of coming back and communicating with you?  I remember that I used to treasure those dreams…dreams of my father holding me in the rocking chair and pulling me close to his chest, dreams of my Grandma and her house in Stephenson, or my Grandpa watching me drive that old red pedal car.  

All that ended with you.  Now I hate dreaming about dead people.  I don’t have the nice dreams of my deceased family members anymore.  The only dead person I dream about is you and those dreams leave me waking up with sweat, fear, and terror.  I don’t want you to communicate with me.  I really just want you to go away so I can heal…so I can be free.

And so I’m writing this at work.  Because even after two and half years, there are still days when I can’t tear my thoughts away from you.  Even now, there are times when the pain wraps around every thought, every word, every picture.  Today I caved in and re-read the narrative.  I didn’t realize it had gotten so long.  

I see growth, pain, anger, sadness…but I don’t see much true love.  I mentioned that to Lisa the last time.  I can’t remember what it felt like to be loved by you.  That was an epiphany for me and as I reread the letters to you, my heart sank because there were very few happy, loving memories.  Has the suicidal act completely obscured any memories of you actually loving me?  I try hard to conjure up a picture of you looking into my eyes.  There is nothing.  I try hard to pull up the feeling of your loving touch.  There is nothing.  Suddenly, I am questioning whether you loved me at all?

Made it through another Christmas and another New Year.  Made it through another family gathering in both Minnesota and Michigan.  Made it through the holidays being both smothered and protected by caring individuals who wanted to make sure that I had forgotten about you and the horrible events of July 10, 2017.  Friends and family are always extra protective of those of us who have “lost loved ones” around the holidays. Remember how you expected to be treated by your family and friends after Mary died?  

This year, I threw away more things that reminded me of you.  Threw away Christmas ornaments that were souvenirs from our vacations, (out went the little plaster cowboy boot that used to hang on the wreath) or decorations that fit your horse motif (bows with bells and burlap!)  I threw away old cards that we sent together that found their way to the bottom of the Christmas bin.  I threw away several strings of lights that you liked.  It felt good.  It felt cleansing.

Someone mentioned that it was a new year and a new decade.  This got me reflecting on the 2010 decade, largely defined by your presence in my life.  I think about how my life would be different right now if I had not met you at the vineyard that afternoon.  (We had actually gotten lost and stopped at the gas station in Delano looking for directions.)  How would the decade had played out differently?  Would I have stayed with my husband?  I started 2010 with the first back surgery.  Would there have been a second if I hadn’t met you?  I was a principal in 2010.  Would I be looking forward to retirement in six months if I hadn’t met you? The past decade brought me back surgeries, divorce, and death.  I am trying to be hopeful for the next ten years.

But all this is not why I’m writing to you today.  I had a dream last night that we were in Watertown with Kim and Paul and you weren’t dead.  In fact, you told me that you were back and I proceeded to tell you that you couldn’t come back.  I yelled at you and told you about money you owed me, the pain you caused me, lies you told me and jobs you never had.  You kept following me with that smirk I grew to fear as it eventually represented your narcissistic persona.  In my dream, I panicked, thinking I hadn’t escaped you after all.  In fact, in my dream, I was terrified to tell my family and friends that you weren’t dead.  Terrified that my life was going to return to what it was when I was with you.

Later in the dream, I dreamt I was being followed by a bear that I had to chase away.  It returned as two mountain lions, both of whom were not as easily scared and one of which lunged at me.  I woke up before I was attacked in the dream.  I’m sure you were both the lion and the bear.  What am I still fearing about you?  If I could only figure this out, perhaps I would be able to stop thinking about you constantly.  Perhaps I could finally free myself of your memories and maybe even move into this next decade with a stronger sense of purpose.  Ten years from now, I don’t want to be asking these same questions…

I’m watching the CMAs and I am transported back in time to memories of watching this show with you…at the farm…at the Buffalo house…at the townhouse.  This was one of your favorite shows and as a result, I’ve been purposely avoiding it for the past two years.  But tonight I decided to watch it.  And as usual, the memories roll across the screen like subtitles.  I see Reba and Jennifer Nettles…two women you loved because you were attracted to their “energy” and their smiles.  I wanted to be like them because then maybe you would be happy.

I remember seeing Sugarland with you at the casino.  Wonderful night.  They were fantastic and it’s one of the memories I truly cherish.  Funny though, watching awards shows with you was always a fun part of our relationship.  Remember when you and I watched the American Music Awards at our respective houses and spent all night on the phone commenting on the music, the costumes, and the drama?  I remember being a little jealous at how “hot” you thought Rihanna was.  It was only a few weeks after Mary died and I’m sure you were struggling with significant depression.  It wasn’t very long after that when you had one of your more public suicide attempts.  All those memories run together and even now, I can’t really remember the sequence of events, emotions, and drama.

Venturing away from the CMAs, today was interesting because I was asked an odd question about you at work.  Mike, from work asked if I had a hard time separating out your belongings after you died.  Not sure where that inquiry came from as no one has died recently in his life and no part of the initial conversation led to that topic.  I felt safe, however, because Mike and Tess were both at your memorial, celebration of life, funeral, whatever you call it.  I had had many conversations with Tess and she saw the angst in our relationship play out in our interactions with each other during those last six months.  For some reason, it felt good to talk about you with two people who knew you.

Sorry this letter is disjointed and unfocused.  I’m writing it from my (our?) living room and I’m usually on a plane where my thoughts are more contained.

Again I am distracted by the artists on the CMAs…the ones we saw together at Winstock – Blake Sheldon and Miranda Lambert (remember following Blake’s bus on the Goldwing?) Willie Nelson (and your stories about being on the bus when you were a member of the posse…was that even true?) and the concerts we attended – Garth, Lady Antebellum, Ronnie Dunn, Sugarland… the list could go on and on and quite honestly, I’m already emotionally spent and I really don’t want to see any other memory-inducing faces in the crowd. 
And of course, they keep referring to Nashville and we already know what memories live there.  There really isn’t a reason to bring that back up again.

So much time has passed yet you are still on my mind.  I know this isn’t a surprise to you, but YOU were a filter through which every experience during my latest trip flowed. I went to Florida.  Your state.  Fort Lauderdale, which really doesn’t host any particular memories of you, yet I can’t help but see a piece of you in every palm tree, in every wave that crashes to the shore, and even in the very sand between my toes.  This is your state.

What made this even more challenging was the trip to Vero Beach.  The last time we were there, we were pondering what it would be like to live there.  We visited builders (even then, I knew I would be the one paying for it if we did move), went to the school district office to personally make sure my resume had been received (as if I stood a chance at that superintendent’s job!), and talked for hours about being there with Jim and Susan as our best friends.

It was hard for me to be there, once again, without you.  The last time I was there, you weren’t there either.  I went with Gwen, right after I left you in Buffalo.  I really thought that I had finally broken free from you.  Although I came back to the house, you and I were still in a state of disrepair.  You knew I wanted you to leave.  You were making plans to close up your life in Minnesota.  When I told you I was going to Florida without you, you were really mad.  Florida was your place, not mine.  You couldn’t understand why I would want to go there.  My simple answer was that I wanted time with Susan and I wanted to clear my mind.  I also wanted to go on a trip without you, something I hadn’t been able to do for five years.

We did not talk about you, I know you are thinking that.  I still was embarrassed that I was being manipulated by you, ashamed to admit that even though I had left you, I really wasn’t going very far. I wanted everyone to think I was finally strong.

That was the last time I talked to Susan.  That was four years ago.  

Four years ago when you came back from your failed attempt at moving to Florida (complete with your trailer, parrot, and yellow Goldwing). 

Three years ago when the relationship became unpredictable, scary, and psychologically unnerving.  

Two years ago from when you killed yourself.  

One year from when I finally started to find my strength again. And I hadn’t told Susan any of this.  After we found their temporary home (thank goodness we did not have to go back to their old, beautiful home and all its memories) in the campground, after the greetings, hugs, a shared glass of wine, Susan and I finally had 15 minutes alone while we walked Teddy.  (Remember when he was a puppy? He was afraid of you, too!). During that 15 minutes, I shared the last four years of my life, your life, our life.  15 minutes. 

I will come back, and I will be able to share more.  I think 15 minutes was all I could handle anyway.  I dreamt about you, but I didn’t tell anyone.  I dreamt that your brother Todd picked me up and we went to a bar.  Your parents were there.  I asked them if they had spoken to you.  They said no.  I clarified, “you know he’s alive, don’t you?” And felt terrible that no one had communicated with them that you hadn’t died.  They said, of course we knew, but he hasn’t talked to us.  Then I woke up.  Once again, there was panic.  What’s real?  I sat up in bed.  Reassured that I was safe in Florida, but not with you.  You really did die.  You really aren’t there anymore.  

I have about thirty minutes until touchdown after a truly wonderful, relaxing time in Denver.  For the first time in a long time, I’m having a hard time trying to write something.  Usually the words and the emotions tied to them just flow from my fingers, but this time is different.  I want to feel something, but I can’t.  Usually being on a plane brings back memories and hence, this is why I have spent so much time writing to you when I’m on a plane.  I also have time to kill, and that forces my mind to turn itself inside out. 

Is this a turning point?  Does this mean I might be moving out of this phase of grief? Maybe I won’t need to write to you anymore.  Maybe the letters are actually counterproductive. I guess no one has ever truly written a script for getting over a “tragic” death.  I often hear people say that each person’s grief experience is different.  I believe that to be true. 

The familiar taste of poison – This might seem like a random phrase, but it’s a Halestorm song that I listen to on repeat…sometimes 10 times in a row.  I turn the words around in my head and it seems to replay our relationship.  It gives me comfort in some strange way.  Like its familiarity?  Good to know the problems that defined our relationship are common enough to appear in a popular song?

As I’ve typed the paragraph above this, I have an epiphany. I know what it is now.  I know what I need to talk to Lisa about…my inability to grieve.  My Dad’s death.  My divorce.  Your suicide. Death, whether physical or emotional, requires reflection.  I don’t think I do that very well.

On my way to Denver.  Again, no memories of you there.  Why do I feel compelled to write something?  Probably because it’s a habit now.  I am still writing, re-reading, deleting, thinking, trying to change the internal narrative.  I often wish I had used the strike out to still capture those thoughts I wanted to write down and then reconsidered.  What happens to those reconsidered thoughts?  Those erased words?  They will only live in my mind, will likely be buried with me when it’s my turn to die.

A funny thing happens when someone close to you chooses to end their own life.  It throws your own mortality in your face.  Suddenly, the end of life becomes real in a way it never was before.  That I came face to face with your dead body was both a life and a death defining moment.  Even though it was two years, two months, and two days ago, it has forced me to actually think about death daily…I wonder when it will be my time.  I wonder what I will be thinking when it gets close to that time.  I wonder what you were thinking. 

I’m going to see Lisa in a month.  I decided that she, more than anyone else, will be able to help me move through this.  (Note: I have retyped “move through” several times because I can’t help but consider the true implications of that.  Does anyone move through this?  What would that mean?  How will I know I’ve moved through it when I finally do? Do I really want to? That last question is interesting.  Although I hate to admit it, sometimes being a victim works for me. But this is probably a topic for another day.)

Regardless, I am going to see Lisa.  And I’m trying to articulate what I want to get out of my time with her.  I’m not sure what to “work on.” I know that it will feel good to be real with someone again.  

It’s been over two years now.  The only reason I haven’t been as diligent with sharing my thoughts has been that my keyboard broke on the iPad.  It isn’t that you have stopped haunting me. It isn’t that I haven’t been thinking about you every minute of every day, even after two years, 26 days.

I am at a conference and found myself suddenly looking at Renee.  Do you remember Renee and her husband Stan from Buffalo?  We used to see them at Norms.  She gave me a nice, long hug and I welcomed it as coming from someone who once knew you and could show empathy. As we talked, it became apparent to me that she didn’t know you died.

I had to share the story.

Jan, our counselor, told me to tell the story often, under the tag of, “Every time you tell the story, it loses its power.”  There were times I found that to be true.  This is not one of those times.

Telling the story made it feel like it just happened.  It was like ripping the scab off.  She, like so many others, owned positive memories of you. Not anymore, Scott.  I took care of that. I know she will (or has already) tell Stan all about it tonight.  She will likely talk to Cusey the next time she sees him.  She now knows the patch she saw on the biker vest was “in honor” of you.  I’m sure she’ll ask about it and will come to her own conclusions about you, and her own conclusions about me.

I made it past your 2nd year death anniversary.  The night before, Grant and I went out to Hanover.  I was doing OK until I started to see the bike group’s posts with your smiling face, the “I miss Scott” taglines, the poetic tributes.  It suddenly became overwhelming to me and I broke down.  First time in a long time that I shed actual tears. 

The next night, the actual anniversary, I mistakenly thought I was going out to eat with Grant.  He had been trying to tell me that he had planned on going on the “tribute” ride instead, but I didn’t hear that.  When I found out he was with the group and had left me alone, I was hurt.  Really hurt.  I spent that evening by myself in the house.  Where all the memories were.  Trying to ignore the significance of the day.  Trying to not think about what happened two years ago. 

Since that evening, I have taken another bike trip to Michigan with Paul, saw Tom in San Diego, and did a zipline in Duluth.  All these were planned to mask the pain I suspect will always be a part of my future Julys. School will be starting soon and I am already deeply immersed in planning for what will be my 34th school year.  I welcome these distractions…

Before I forget, I had dinner with your cousin Julie. She truly loved you, but wasn’t surprised at the stories I told.  She had suspected that much of how you represented yourself was a lie.  It was hard…trying to wear my “I love him, but” hat.  (A hat I wear often along with the other hats I wear: “He fucked up my life” hat, “I will always mourn his loss” hat, “Thank God he’s gone” hat) Julie filled in the blank with her own thoughts and experiences.  She shared stories about your life as a kid, your relationship with your family, and your charismatic charm.  I learned the following: 

1. You were always with a girl.  Always.  She told stories about how you always ended up with a girl, no matter where you were.
2. You always told tall tales…things no one could really believe, yet somehow, they all tried.
3. You were very close to your cousin.  Too close.  Everyone thought you were involved in a highly inappropriate physical relationship. As I think back to our conversations about her, I have to admit that I had those exact same thoughts.
4. Teenage girls always thought you were creepy and avoided your hugs. 

I feel  you smirking as you read this over my shoulder.  I hear you deny every accusation, and then imagine how you would twist the stories so that somehow you are the victim.  Please remember how I started this story, Julie loved you.  Yet, even Julie knew something wasn’t right.

In July, I toyed with the idea of trying to see one of the counselors from our past who knew you.  I stopped going to counseling about six months ago, but found I needed a sounding board who was already familiar with my story.  The last counselor I went to didn’t know you and simply wanted to fix me.  I think I learned there is no fixing me without talking about you.  The question is who do I return to?

Lisa?  She knew you, she knew your counselor, she knew me.  She probably has the most complete, realistic picture of us as a couple.  Marc? Nope. Wouldn’t work even for me.  No compassion. Lewis? I considered him, but he was too easily manipulated by you.  I’m afraid I would have to take steps backwards before I moved forward. Linda? Your counselor…she couldn’t say anything about you to me anyway and I suspect that she was even more manipulated by your charms than Lewis.  I would like to hear her words on why you choose suicide, however.  On second thought, I’ve probably over analyzed that question already.  Maybe it’s just time to move on.

I am getting another tattoo on Friday.  Time to change the energy on the mandala.  Do you remember when I got that?  We thought it was going to mark the start of a new life together.  That I chose the mandala guy who just happened to be next to Armor Gel table surely wasn’t a coincidence, was it?  That tattoo is a bookmark to another painful part of our history and I believe how it ended was probably instrumental to your depression.

I remember that day so well.  Probably because one of the Armor Gel guys was really good looking and I wasn’t actually that sad that you paused to chat.  Usually that would have bugged me, but looking at the Armor Gel president was a good way to waste time.  And I found a tattoo that I wanted…the mandala.  You approved, of course, because it was all about “the energy.” 

That encounter started an interesting chain of events.  Somehow, you convinced Armor Gel that you could be instrumental in their company’s success.  You loved the notion of helping them and thought this partnership might be your ticket to financial success.  I remember asking you multiple times how you envisioned this relationship playing out.  Would they hire you to represent their product? It seemed you wanted a cut in their profit if they developed a product that could be put in the first aid boxes.  Remember the conference in Atlanta? 

In Atlanta, I actually thought that maybe you were on to something.  You worked their booth with confidence and I remember hoping it would lead to something big.  You came home and bragged about it to your parents, to your friends, to me….as the months went by without any firm commitment from the company, my doubts grew.  I wish I had access to the emails from them.  I suspect that they eventually cut you off and that you were never able to admit that to me.When Amber gave me back your computer, I used it to go into your accounts and notify friends and business partners of your death.  I did let Armour Gel know.  I’m not sure if they ever responded because Amber and I shut the account down soon afterwards.  I still look for the company at tattoo shows and there is a part of me that really wants to know the truth.  Even now, two years later.