Ann and I shared long, open, honest conversations about end-of-life issues and wished we weren’t getting so good at them. “Talk about it,” I told people at speaking engagements. Confront the reality that death will surely come. Exactly when, who knows?
I was much less fearful of the home hospice experience we were going through with Paul because of what Amy and I and our family had to endure. In a way, I was hyperaware of the beauty in the room when Paul, the patriarch, was surrounded by his family and his devoted spouse. I was able to talk to him even when it was unclear what he processed. I was able to touch him lovingly, even when there was no physical response. I was able to observe the sheer beauty of seeing this loyal pack experiencing yet another devastation together.
Then I’d go home at night, climb into bed, and try to fall asleep while wondering if I’d ever see Paul again. I distinctly remember springing up one morning at 3:00 a.m., knowing exactly what I would say to him and feeling compelled to write it in my journal:
Can I talk to you about something?
I know you have not been feeling good/yourself and I am so sorry.
I want you to know that I understand if it is too uncomfortable, too overwhelming.
If it is too much, I get it.
I want you to know a couple of things:
You are a role model to me;
The way you are as a husband, as a businessman, as a father to me and especially to Amy and a grandfather to our children is so incredible and inspiring;
Thank you for making me so much a part of the Krouse family.
If you are too overwhelmed and too tired and you sometime leave this physical world, please give Amy a big hug and kiss—tell her I love her every day so much.
I quietly read it to him in a private moment. He only nodded, but I knew he got it.
I would not have known how to convey such specific feelings before I discovered how to do it myself after Amy’s death. That is part of why I take on that mission in my life now. But Paul and I shared many, many private moments in my twenty-eight or so years of knowing this spectacular man.
I remember clearly sitting outside at the Krouses’ Florida home when the kids were quite young. At the time, Paul had a propensity to enjoy a cigar on occasion. It took a special moment to break one out together. The moment I am thinking about, Paul broke out a stogie and we simultaneously enjoyed a nice scotch. It was a quiet moment I never had with my own father. Our conversation covered topics from raising kids, to the importance of family, to what it would take for the Cubs to compete. It was one of many moments I will never forget about Paul.
We were all together, surrounding our patriarch, when his final moments came. The scene was stunningly beautiful, if you can call such finality beautiful. Truly, though, the fact that the last thing this sensational human being, this leader of his family, saw in this lifetime were the many faces of those who absolutely treasured him seemed like the way we should all aspire to leave this world someday.
I’d managed to be stoic and present for my kids throughout Paul’s time in hospice. When he was officially gone, my sense of serenity cracked, my pent-up sorrow boiled over, and it was my kids who were comforting me through my uncontrollable sobs, a tidal wave of grief catching up to me.
At the time of Paul’s passing, I had endured the loss of my wife, my dad, and our sweet family pet Cougar. Paul absolutely adored his firstborn, and he was crazy about Cougar. (I can hear him say “Cougs” or “Cougie” even now.) Each new loss was like a body blow from Mike Tyson, physically and emotionally. Compounding my own experiences with loss, at this point I had been talking a great deal about navigating through grief and loss to throngs of others in public forums.
In a profound way, my own experiences of loss made me a better messenger to discuss this issue. Having these personal experiences absolutely made me a better listener. I connected with and appreciated in a deeper way so many around the world who shared their stories with me—not just about death, but about all of the types of loss people experience in this world that I have written about thus far in these pages. In addition, I became a better student about all aspects of the grieving process. Reading what others experience, observing the ways people deal with grief, and being inspired by how resilient people can be permitted me to move forward both personally and in my new path as a public speaker.
All of which, I’m sure, contributed to the fact that, a few days after Paul’s death, I somehow managed to get through delivering my third eulogy in less than two years:
There are two essential life lessons I learned from Paul Krouse. The first is a commitment to fitness and taking care of your body. And, of course, the second is a lifelong dedication to healthy eating choices. [Pause for laughter.]
While it is fun to joke about Paul—he was a very funny man—the truth is that he was, far and away, my biggest role model in life.
…
As you all know, our family has had their fair share of loss over the last few years. I have delved extensively into the subject of death and dying. I can promise you that the end of Paul’s life was extraordinarily beautiful, and his grandkids will always remember that death is a part of life.
Now, I am also here as a representative of Paul’s oldest daughter Amy. Amy LOVED her daddy. At the point in Amy’s life when she started to become known as an accomplished author, Paul would always remind people (anyone who would listen, really) that before any fame—and way more important than her literary and speaking accomplishments—Amy was a genuinely good person. I know that even with all of Paul’s own success, we can agree that the same is true about him.
I would like to conclude with some of Amy’s own words. These are from her memoir, so the “she” Amy writes about is her:
1970—Practices swimming in pool with father. She starts on stairs, he stands waiting a few feet away. Just as she approaches him, he takes a step back. He keeps doing this. He is encouraging about it, but she is nervous, out of breath. Doesn’t want to keep going . . . just wants to be swept up in his arms when she reaches him. The relief, the snugness, the glory of finally being in Dad’s safe arms.
If you believe in such things, I hope you envision Amy’s number-one cheerleader joining her now for a magnificent safe embrace.
Paul’s loss was hard. In many ways it was harder than the loss of my own father.
By December 2018, my journey through loss and grief had taken many twists and turns. I was asked, for example, to return to the Matter gathering, this one in Los Angeles. However, this time I was one of the presenters, delivering a talk on love, grief, loss, and resilience. My mother was in the audience. At that point, a large component of my message was to talk candidly about end-of-life issues, home hospice, and how we humans deal with such intense loss yet carry on with our lives.
Once again, I had to face all those questions from a personal perspective. Certainly, I was much more self-aware of the effects deep loss had on me and my family. I was also quite familiar with the hospice experience. I answered the very questions I pose to audiences: “How much can the human condition handle? What makes us capable of dealing with these intense losses and yet carry on?” The answer: It is a lifelong mission. I, however, had Amy’s express permission to absorb the most intense loss imaginable and be told clearly that I had to go on with making a new life. I feel obligated to share that mission with the universe, both here and in my speaking life. It is so, so hard. I wish none of these losses formed my own story, but they do. My personal experiences have allowed me to appreciate what I have and permit me to share what I have learned with you.
19
Have You Remarried Yet?
I wanna show you, how I’ve grown in this place
In this place, I’m not alone and I know I’ll be okay
—Luke Sital-Singh
It’s a hard thing for me to talk about, let alone write about, but I promised myself that I’d be as open and honest about everything as my inherently private nature allows. I tell
people to talk about loss and about end-of-life issues, yes . . . In other words, this is a topic I have never talked about, but I feel it is important to lend permission to others in my position. Not talking about dating feels dishonest.
I’ve talked to a lot of widows and widowers since Amy died, and there’s no doubt about it, we each have our own timetable and our own unique path toward healing and moving on. There’s no rulebook, no right or wrong, no should or shouldn’t, no too soon or not soon enough. I have a family friend who lost his wife more than six years ago and still shudders at the thought of dating. I’ve met men and women who were married within months of losing a spouse, and others who have no intention of it.
I slowly became aware that I was missing the companionship of a woman, which I hadn’t had in a good couple of years. My sole purpose, my life’s mission for the two years before Amy died, had been taking care of Amy and getting her healthy again. That turned into being her caretaker, which was intense and laser-focused and all that mattered to me. I couldn’t deny that now there was something appealing about the idea of sharing a meal, a good cocktail, and some music with a woman who’d enjoy them as much as I do.
Amy hadn’t just given me her blessing to find love again, she’d actually encouraged it. I talked to each of my kids separately to ask how they felt about my dating in general, and they gave me nothing but sensitive, understanding support, as did the rest of my family and my close confidantes.
And to be clear, once I’d determined I was open to dating, it didn’t mean that I started actively looking, that’s for sure. I had no interest in Tinder, or Bumble, or eHarmony, or any of those other online dating sites, just as Amy mentioned in her viral essay. I still don’t. I knew that if I was going to start to date again after thirty years of being out of the game, it was going to have to happen organically or not at all.
The first “encounter,” if you can call it that, happened at an exercise class. One of the women there was particularly attractive. After class we spent a few minutes chatting about the intensity of the workout and other small talk, and I left wondering, had I just been flirting with that woman? Logically, I knew that even if I was, it was harmless and perfectly okay. But honestly, emotionally, it felt like I was cheating on Amy. The visceral conflict was palpable.
Not long after that, a buddy and I had tickets to a concert by a band Amy and I loved. He canceled at the last minute, but there was no way I was going to miss that concert. I went by myself and found myself in a similar situation—smart, sexy younger woman, casual conversation, very sultry on the dance floor. I tried to just relax and have a good time.
I consider Amy’s express permission in her piece to begin another love story a real gift. As I started to think about dating, I was not thinking about love. It was enough to walk around the streets of my own city, my community, with someone other than Amy. I felt guilty and kept looking over my shoulder. When I was asked about what Amy’s message meant to me, I told the world that her blessing has been a guide for me in the most meaningful way. It permitted me to even think about other women, dating, and the idea of a relationship with someone else.
Having said that, everything was and remains complex. It’s no secret that Amy occupies a place in my heart and always will. Knowing that makes whoever wants to be with me a unique and openhearted individual, and any relationship I might find myself in would have to be predicated on the notion that my past is still going to be a part of my present and my future.
It was some time later that I happened to meet a hazel-eyed identical twin. Again, I wasn’t looking for her, but after we’d spent some time together, I knew there was something special about this woman, and my world changed.
We started seeing each other, and the companionship, her companionship, felt so good. Even then, when she and I started going out in public, I was still apprehensive about being judged for enjoying myself with a woman who wasn’t Amy.
My kids, my family, my best friend, and my therapist talked me through it, and I finally got it that all the disapproval and judgment I was so braced for was self-imposed. Everyone who loved me, especially Amy, just wanted me to be happy. I was the one who’d been holding out, afraid that if I let myself be happy without Amy, I’d be dishonoring her, betraying her somehow.
What I finally came to realize was that being happy again would actually be, in a way, a testament to the thirty beautiful years I’d had with Amy, and my memories of them that, no matter what happens along the way, I’ll cherish for the rest of my life. It’s because of her that I know I have the capacity to love deeply and to embrace every minute of joy I can possibly create.
Amy left that blank page at the end of her essay for me to compose my fresh start. I get it that it would be perfect to end this story by explaining that the empty space has been filled. I am certainly open to that. I think the larger point is that there is that intentional empty space. I ask myself often, as I ask many people I have been exposed to over the last several years, what I will do with my blank page, with my fresh start. In many ways, I answer that question every day. With new experiences. With an entirely new perspective on seeing the world. With a woman I think about many times throughout the day. With mindfulness and an open heart.
Thank you, Amy, for giving me that gift.
Epilogue
A Permanent Place to Gather
Please, sir, may I have some more?
—Charles Dickens
Not long ago a close family member asked me, “When are you moving? Aren’t there ghosts everywhere?” A little crass, I guess, but I understood the desire to protect me from too many memories and too much loneliness.
Whether to pack up and leave or stay right where you are is an intensely personal decision after you’ve lost a spouse you treasured, a decision no one can really make but you. I completely get it that staying is unbearable for some people. For me, at least for now, it would be unbearable for me to leave my house, to go home to some new place after a day’s work or an evening out or a weekend with the family or a trip.
I’ve mentioned several times that this was Amy’s and my dream house, and there’s no other way to describe it. We built it together from the ground up, on the same site as the little frame house we bought together, on a tree-lined residential street that’s about a ten-minute walk from Wrigley Field. When our kids came along and we realized we were running out of space, we hired my best friend Jeff as our general contractor, tore down the frame house, and started over. What we created can best be described as a modern farmhouse, with fabricated wood paneling on the outside and a whole wall of bookshelves on the inside that extends from the basement to the third floor, because we could, because we wanted to, because that was so much of who Jason&Amy were.
We made every single decision about every single detail as a team, but the house has Amy’s imprint, her unique artistic sensibility and her quirky style, everywhere you look.
We raised our family here together. We created here together, and cooked here together, and had Shabbat dinners and Backwards Nights here. We made life plans together here. Cougar spent fourteen years here with us. Amy wrote here, and I developed my own sense of art and style here. The playfulness of the powder room on the first floor was my pet project—sparkly wallpaper, and a magnificent clear chandelier with red accents. My own idiosyncratic habits evolved here. Adjusting the shades in the living room just so, organizing the firewood so that it was stacked exactly right, placing the three digitally printed pieces of art representing our children’s images in a neat row on our chest of drawers. When our kids come home from wherever they are, they come here.
“Home” is here, so I am too. For now. As I have learned too well, nothing is permanent.
Chicago is also a big part of that. On Tuesday, May 14, 2019, I fulfilled my dream of having a public piece of art in Amy’s memory installed in a place called Grandmother’s Garden in Lincoln Park, our family’s old stomping ground. I had spent nearly two years navigating the bureaucra
cies of the City of Chicago and the Chicago Park District. My kids and I all went to school near Lincoln Park, and it’s a neighborhood where Amy spent many hours in local cafés.
With the help of Chicago artist Susan Giles; a Chicago-based design and production studio called Space Haus; my friend and general contractor Jeff; a structural engineer; the Chicago Park District; and a committee overseeing public art installations in local parks, and with the blessings of Chicago mayor Rahm Emanuel, a nine-foot-tall yellow umbrella now stands. The glass was hand-painted and manufactured in Germany and decorated with photographs the artist took of flowers that grow in Lincoln Park.
And last but certainly not least, the word more appears on the umbrella panels, positioned in such a way that when the sun shines at different times of the day, that same word is reflected on the ground. “More” was the first word Amy spoke in this life, and I can’t think of a more perfect word for her to leave behind.
The day before this tribute to her, this celebration of her, was installed, I sat by myself in the park at sunset, silently admiring it, lost in thoughts of how much Amy would have loved it. My tears flowed, but my heart was so full.
Courtesy of Brooke Hummer
Every square inch of my house and this great city makes me think of Amy. Honestly, though, what doesn’t? Why fight it, when there are reminders of her everywhere, from a random bag of potato chips, to a corkscrew that was once a shadow puppet, to an exit sign that should read “excite,” to a display of unique buttons that could make a great brooch, to the mail that still comes in response to Amy’s column, and to some of the work I have put out in the universe since then?
I have come to a place where I have a deeper appreciation for what I had with Amy. I have made peace with the reminders I see about Amy. I have the realization now that I am one of the fortunate ones to have loved so deeply and to have experienced grief in such a profound way. It means to me that I was one of the lucky ones, to have cared and loved so much—why else would I have such intense reactions to my loss?
My Wife Said You May Want to Marry Me Page 17
