I ran the idea past Miles, who thought it was a great idea. Then he casually added, “Why don’t you do something you would never have done with Mom?”
His words stopped me in my tracks: what a simple, powerful idea. I would never have thought of it. This boy always was wise beyond his years.
For starters, I did some research that night and found out that one of my favorite bands, Tedeschi Trucks Band, was scheduled for an upcoming gig at the Red Rocks Amphitheater, ten miles west of Denver, famous for being, among other things, the world’s only naturally occurring acoustically perfect amphitheater. Yes, please.
Then, under the heading “Something you would never have done with Mom,” I tossed out an invitation to my crew of friends to meet me in Colorado for the Red Rocks show. I hadn’t done a “boys’ trip” during my twenty-six years of marriage, preferring to be with Amy if we had any time to travel together. Why not now?
Much to my delight, five of the guys said yes, and we were off.
From the first hour we were together, I knew this decision was just what I needed. The concert itself was spectacular—an amazing show in an amphitheater you have to see to believe. It’s built into a rock structure, with a large disc-shaped rock forming a backdrop for the stage and huge rocks framing the stage, so that the almost ten thousand people in the audience feel as if they’re cradled in the most unparalleled beauty nature has to offer.
More powerful than the setting, though, was the fact that every one of those friends stepped up to encourage me to just relax and have fun, without a moment of guilt or judgment if I had an extra tequila, or let go with a long, cathartic laugh, or stood up and danced. It was the first time in a while that I didn’t feel as much like a widower as I just felt like Jason, hanging out with some old pals who knew me and wanted nothing but the best for me. I hadn’t realized how much I needed it until I was in the middle of it, felt myself taking long breaths of fresh air, and heard myself really laughing without wondering if it was too soon for it to be appropriate.
Of course, my thoughts would always drift back to Amy, but instead of getting swept up in them, I was able to acknowledge them without losing myself. The day of the concert, we were wandering around the quaint, tiny town of Morrison, Colorado, home of the Red Rocks Amphitheater, and happened to stroll into a tchotchke shop to browse around. I did a double take when I glanced at a display and saw this tile:
Was it serendipity? A sign? An affirmation from Amy somehow that this was all okay? Even if it was none of the above and I was reading something into pure coincidence, you can bet I bought that tile and brought it home.
I found out later that my friend Michael called the trip “the Heal Jason Tour,” and in a lot of ways, he was exactly right. I still had a long way to go—there’s definitely no timetable for grief and all of its complexities. But it was a huge step in the right direction. Time out with great friends, a major change of scenery, and a thrilling infusion of live music were enough to reignite my pilot light.
As my plane touched down in Chicago, I instantly recognized the impact that the trip had had on me. Not only was I proud of myself for having initiated it in the first place, I remembered all at once just how transformative leaving home can be. I promised myself I’d say yes to every possible new opportunity and let travel and music help give me the emotional nourishment I’d been missing for a long time.
After the Heal Jason Tour, the floodgates opened, and I soaked it all in. I went on a ski trip with a college buddy, where I hung out with a bunch of great guys I had never met before. Justin, Miles, and I accepted an invitation from a dear friend to his secluded home in Montana. I had been to this idyllic spot before and was aware of its healing power. I also knew that these friends made things so easy and exerted no pressure on me. There was something about that place in nature that provided serenity of mind and body. Merely sitting and watching a stream roll by, hearing the beautiful sound of flowing water, made me grateful to be there in that time and place, to appreciate what was in front of me—literally, and in the sense of how essential it was to appreciate this life and the short time we all have in it, as well as to follow Amy’s edict that I must go on.
Perhaps most affecting and important, the kids and I went on a wonderful excursion a few months later, in December. Planning this trip for the four of us came with mixed emotions. The last big adventure I’d planned for our family, for the five of us, had to be canceled due to Amy’s inability to travel. But we had a rich history of annual family trips that always included some time to be just us Rosies, and I sensed that we needed a return to this comfort, to peel away from the everyday, from the rest of the world, no one else, only us.
This was our first trip without Amy, and I was not sure how things would shake out. I was confident that all of the kids wanted to do this, to be together. I was aware that they were all incredible travelers, adventurous because we’d exposed them to travel from an early age. This was new territory, however, for all of us.
Many of the experiences we shared on this wonderful trip felt natural, like we were meant to be there together. We had fun, we did things we could not do at home (a camel ride, walking the tightly woven streets, visiting old synagogues), and we made new memories.
We were good at talking about Amy by now, but this time of reflection allowed us to check in with one another and see how we were all doing, individually and as a group. We freely and easily talked about their mom, and we laughed a lot, but there were tears as well, of course. I was the only one who got really ill on this trip. But I pressed through, realizing the beauty of enjoying these delicious children, now adults, reminiscing over a bottle of red wine and appreciating the planning their dad did to bring this trip together.
Justin has become a natural traveler. It is in his DNA now. Regardless of his physical health—okay, he did get sick while we were literally in line to check in for our flight one year—he is an enthusiastic travel companion. A pair of headphones, a good movie, and a hoodie to keep him comfortable, and he is good to go. His needs are few as well. Have you seen his suitcase? Perhaps one pair of pants and a couple of shirts is about all he needs. He has a thirst for different cultures and a yearning to immerse himself in the people and the music. The amazing thing about Justin also is that no matter where we are in the world, from Atlanta to Zagred (okay neither of us have been to Zagred, but you get the point), Justin can pick up his phone and message or Whatsapp someone and have a plan for the evening.
His passion for life stems from the experiences he shared with each of his parents one on one. Amy took Justin on a trip to Thailand at the ripe age of eleven. The exposure to this unique country cemented his goal to travel the world. He has since lived in many places, including Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. When Justin was young, I spearheaded his first foray into music, a deep passion for which he has since cultivated and made uniquely his own. On our trips to basketball practice when he was a very young boy, my car would blast tunes ranging from The Who, Live at Leeds; Rage Against the Machine, The Battle of Los Angeles; or anything by Tupac. Is the statute of limitations up for DCFS to come after me? I know. Not the best lyrics to introduce then, but the emotion and the vibe was what mattered. We had a blast jamming to that music.
Justin’s commitment to his mom at the end of her life and to me now fuel my pledge to parenting this amazing child/man/human without Amy, a job that will never have an expiration date.
Music, of course, had been one of the bedrocks of my marriage to Amy, as well as a big part of my life in high school and as a young man. I have seen some of the greatest bands in the world with my sister, Michel. Music always brought me to a specific moment in time, a memory, an experience that became a significant part of my life.
After Amy’s death, listening to music took on new meaning. It brought me toward emotions that were the essential elements in the grieving process. I listened to plenty, and I cried a lot in my car alone. Luke Sital-Singh and Manchester Orchestra were crucial to helping me
during some really dark times in those early months.
But listening to music and really engaging with it are two very different things, and the trip to Red Rocks helped me to understand that in a way I hadn’t. In my grief, music had come to represent a coping mechanism, a way to help me with sadness. To my ears it lacked the joy, the release, that it had always possessed. After Red Rocks, all that changed. Music became something I pursued with a hunger and a passion that I hadn’t possessed in years.
I sought out shows and regularly scanned venue schedules to see what new bands were being added, as I always had before Amy’s diagnosis. The Chicago music scene quickly became a part of my routine again. While it was a helpful way to get me out the door, it was clear that this was about something more. As at Red Rocks, when I was out at a show I was able to uncover a part of myself that had been hiding, let loose just a bit, dance just a bit, laugh just a bit.
Experiencing music had been so important to my life with Amy, but rather than feel sadness when I was at shows without her, it felt like I was reconnecting with her, like perhaps I was starting to understand my blank space for the first time, to understand what she’d wanted for me, and what living my best life might actually look like.
Additionally, I made new memories for myself, and rediscovered the joy of seeing the kind of live music I really loved. Live music had always been something I felt deep passion for. Seeing a good band perform live made my soul feel deeply, made my body move to the beat, and allowed me to get lost and separate from the depths of grief, except when I trended toward those feelings, to deeply emote in a way only live music allows you to do.
After losing Amy, I went to shows by myself as well as with friends. Being alone allowed me to appreciate the music and the performance. I was also able to stand wherever I wanted to, unlike Amy, who was vertically challenged and always had to stand on the side of the stage to have any chance at a view.
I was also free to combine my passions for music and travel. If there was a good show in New York, I was all in. I went to Madison Square Garden for the first time ever to see Radiohead, and then Eric Clapton. I was in Brooklyn with my brother and best friend to watch the Class of 2017 be inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. I hit all of the local venues in Chicago to see bands as varied as LP, Rhye, Bruce Hornsby, The Brian Jonestown Massacre, Amber Mark, LL Cool J, and many Manchester Orchestra shows. As you can see from the variety of artists, some were shows I could be found dancing at and others just jamming. Both of these feelings were emotional connections I could find only with live music. (I kept a list of all the shows I saw in one year.)
Obviously, it was a lot of music and a lot of travel, in between a whole lot of loss—either because of those losses or in spite of them, maybe some combination of both. There was excitement and joy in it. It made me feel alive. It saved me from spending too much time in my head, where it was too easy to get lost in all that darkness.
Besides, I had a blank page to fill.
15
Transitions
There’s nothing like a blank page
You get to start from scratch
It could be anything, man, there’s no catch
It’s a good place for a dreamer
A good place for a dreamer to dream away
A blank page.
—Scott Mulvahill
I was making my way through my grief, albeit slowly. That blank space had some outlines on it, sketches of ideas. One thing I’d come to know for certain was that I didn’t want to look back on this time in my life someday and find that I wasn’t appreciating each day I had.
But of course, it’s often just as you begin to feel your equilibrium returning that the ground shifts beneath you. Or at least that’s how it happened for me.
Early in September 2017, after a summer spent reconnecting with the man I’d been, I decided to attend the wedding of some family friends with Miles. It seemed such an obvious choice at the time—I was saying yes to everything, why wouldn’t I go?
The wedding was unique because it was one of the firsts for a friend whose child was getting married. It was also special because the mother of the groom had been one of Amy’s close friends—mine as well, but they’d had a very special bond.
Still, though, what was I thinking?
There are so many triggers at weddings, as I learned from this experience. Seeing my friends walk in the beautiful sunlight to join their big family, their many friends, the wedding party, and these young, earnest, idealistic kids was wonderful. At the same time, I felt so deeply the permanent void in my own life. Amy would not be with me to see our children marry. We would never have that joyful moment of sending our kids off to their new life, to start their own family. Ugh, did that hit me hard in the gut. Such a juxtaposition between these two completely divergent emotions.
There was also the love emanating from the young couple getting married. They radiated everything that is good about thinking of the future of this planet—beautiful, smart, successful, emotional beings joining to make an impact. Would my own kids ever be so happy at their own weddings, I wondered, should they choose to marry? Or would this albatross hover over them always, prohibiting them from experiencing real joy for themselves? The emotional pain of thinking that way was very real.
I hadn’t given much thought to the dancing part of the wedding festivities, either—obviously. I was getting used to doing many things on my own at this point—family dinners, out with friends, even live music. However, dancing with anyone at this wedding was not a proposition I had any interest in entertaining. In my previous life I’d loved to dance at weddings, at a party, at a concert—anywhere, really. Amy would always boost my confidence by telling me what a good dancer I was. She considered herself rhythmically challenged and did not think she was a good dancer at all, but we had so much fun dancing together. We would always be the last to leave the dance floor. But now the idea of dancing was unpleasant, to put it kindly. Yet another spark to remind me what I had lost.
And then there was table placement. It was hard enough that Amy was not there for me to talk to. Truth be told, even though Amy was much more extroverted than I, in a setting like this, we would have simply appreciated the time to sit together and visit, to talk and reflect. Now I was at the singles table. The first conversation I had turned out to be with a widow who looked me right in the eye and said, “I lost my husband seventeen years ago, and it doesn’t get better.” She went on to say she’d gone through phases of trying to date and had a miserable time. Thank you. That is just exactly appropriate to share with a new widower, very useful information—and so sensitive.
The culmination of all these factors prompted my early exit. Like I said, what was I thinking?
The aftermath of the wedding was tough. In many ways, it wasn’t just the event that upset me, it was the fact that I hadn’t seen my reaction coming at all; I’d been completely unprepared. Hard as I tried to put it behind me and press on, and to appreciate each day as it came, for a while it felt like all the progress I’d been making had been wiped out in a weekend.
Being emotionally overtaken by an unexpected, seemingly innocuous comment was something I became quite familiar with. When someone close to you dies, there’s an assumption that the big events will be the hardest part—and they are indeed quite brutal. The first anniversary of Amy’s death. The one-year anniversary of her memorial service. Her birthday, of course. Family gatherings. Even events honoring Amy, well-intentioned and appreciated as they were, were harsh as hell.
But the thing about these big milestones is that at least you can see them coming and brace yourself, for all the good it does; the quieter moments—ambushes, as I’ve come to think of them—are a different story. I’ve had a much harder time with these surprises, which leap out at you with no warning when you’re just going about your day and seem to reopen every deep wound you’ve been trying so hard to heal.
I’m religious about my annual checkup, and when I went to my f
irst one after losing Amy, the receptionist slid a form in front of me, as always, and asked if all the information was still accurate. Instinctively I was going to answer yes when I looked more closely at the form.
“Emergency contact.” No, that’s not still accurate. Not at all.
“Marital status.” Not that either. There’s no box for “widower,” by the way.
It was such a routine exercise, but it overwhelmed me with the sheer sadness of everything hiding beneath the surface, and the reality that I was alone now. I had a new life. A solitary life. There was even a moment of shock at the lack of tact, how thoughtless society can be when dealing with death.
Those days following that wedding were a dark time, one of the worst. Pick a random night from around then. Chances are, I was lying awake at some unreasonable hour. When people talk about the pain of grief, there’s so much that can’t be put into words, or even concrete feelings, just these flashes of emotion, powerful, gripping, blinding. Once they take hold, they are impossible to shake. Back when my insomnia used to keep me awake obsessing over little things before Amy got sick, in what felt like a previous life, it was often a snowball of anxiety. One thing I’d forgotten to do at the office became ten, building up momentum as I thought about all the other things I might have forgotten, until it was impossible to move my brain anywhere else. My sleeplessness in these days was different. Instead of having so many thoughts to juggle, I really had only two: missing Amy, and the vague fear that I wasn’t living the life that she’d want for me. I felt a renewed connection to being an insomniac.
Of course I did emerge from it.
As I moved further away from Amy’s death, that’s largely how it went. Things would be improving, I’d be feeling better; then something would come along and yank me backward. And yet I never lost my momentum completely. Arrested as I felt at times, I could feel myself moving to a different place inside, shifting my vision forward to the future in a way that I hadn’t been able to in months. That wedding with Miles had been a low point, perhaps the worst since Amy’s death, but it was just that: a single point in my healing. There would be other low points, and I would deal with them as they came. But if I’d learned one thing from my meditation practice, it was that I couldn’t spend time worrying about a future I couldn’t prevent. I would take those moments one at a time; in the meantime, I focused on where I was—for good or bad.
My Wife Said You May Want to Marry Me Page 13
