Dream New Dreams (21 page)

We had made so many plans together lying in that bed and dreaming about our life, our family. Our talks, our arguments, our whispered secrets to each other were woven into the very fabrics in our bedroom. With so many powerful associations, they naturally triggered thoughts and memories of Randy. I avoided the room, and even after shifting the furniture around, I still couldn’t shake my uneasiness. I couldn’t sleep in there, so I retreated to the guest room, passing in and out of the master bedroom to get dressed and quickly get out.

While I was trying not to evoke Randy’s ghost, my oldest son, Dylan, wanted the bedroom to stay exactly the same. Dylan reacted strongly against any changes in the house. He cried when we moved the bed to a different wall not long after Randy died. He said he wanted everything left as it was so he could go in the bedroom and remember when he and his father snuggled in bed watching
MythBusters
or telling stories. By stepping into the room, Dylan could visualize Daddy when he was alive. He didn’t want to lose that strong tether to the past, and I respected his wishes and feelings.

For Dylan’s sake, I didn’t remodel the master bedroom. I didn’t relocate the television we had given Randy for his forty-seventh birthday. The entire room went unused for several months. I left
everything as it had been before July 25, 2008, until I finally felt that things had calmed down, that we had a bit of a new routine established and we could feel life’s forward momentum pulling us along. The past was still present with us, but eventually it became sounds in the background that we were able to tune out at will.

As my children and I learned to make peace with Randy’s absence and to live with his memory, I went back into the master bedroom and took a hard look at it. My objective now was to make this space mine, to make myself comfortable in the house where I had to live. I had to make our house into my home, and it was time to redecorate. Of course I missed Randy, and of course my heart still ached. But I needed to move forward with the rest of my life, starting in the safety and intimacy of what had been our room.

When I came back up to the master bedroom, the room Randy had convalesced in and died in, where we had shared our last moments together on this earth, I felt all the sacredness of those experiences. I thought I was strong enough to handle all the emotions I would feel in this place. However, it took months to even begin the process. With Randy gone, the same bed that had seemed at times too small now felt way too big. At night, I felt swallowed by the emptiness around me, I missed my husband so. There was no one, no body to fill up his side of the bed or to wake me up getting into bed after I was already asleep. It was colder without my furry space heater, as Randy often referred to himself. Without him, the world seemed a more hostile place.

In the mornings when I was half awake, I would reach for Randy before realizing he wasn’t there. My hand would find the indentation where his body used to be, created over our precious years together. Morning after morning, I would wake to the feeling of loss and the reminder of my new status as a widow. My heart would
break anew. I couldn’t go on this way. I couldn’t wake each day to feel my loss both literally and figuratively.

I suffered needlessly in my attempt to balance my love and memories of Randy with my need for peace and tranquility. Finally I decided I would never lose those experiences we had shared together in this room, or in any other for that matter, regardless of whether I painted the walls or the house was destroyed in a hurricane. They were and are mine forever, for me to reflect on and honor at the time most appropriate for me. What I didn’t want was for this space to trigger memories when I was unprepared. Unlike my children, I didn’t want it to be a shrine to the past. So I began my makeover with a hopeful outlook. Soon I reveled in listening to myself, deciding what would make me feel comfortable and happy.

I started by taking care of the immediate reminder—the mattress. My friend Roger Magowitz, owner of Mattress Discounters in Virginia, had told me to call him if I ever needed a mattress, and he would help me find something that worked best for me. This would be my first step to change something so closely associated with Randy. In his thirty years in the bedding business, Roger had learned that one of the most common reasons people buy a new mattress is the death of a spouse. I guess he had foreseen my inevitable need. I accepted his invitation to answer my questions, knowing I wouldn’t have to explain why I was buying a new mattress; I wouldn’t have to talk about Randy’s death. The past would remain there and not intrude on the present, when I could focus on the pleasure of shopping for myself.

What a treat it was lying on all of the different kinds of mattresses in the store! It was also a novel experience not to have to negotiate or compromise with someone else. It was just my opinion that mattered—such a change in the way I had been thinking
and operating for many years. Between caring for babies and then Randy, my wants and needs had often gone last or unrealized. Now I was listening to myself and finding I could make changes to suit myself without feeling as if I was betraying the memory of my husband. The experience was rejuvenating—awakening in me a dormant drive to take care of myself. Just as I had learned to make new family traditions in accordance with what would work best for the children and me, I was now beginning to see I could exercise the same principle in other areas of my life.

Next I pitched out all the old bed linens: the pillows we had bought, the sheets we got at Sam’s Club on sale—all gone! I started fresh. I painted the bedroom a deep shade of blueberry. I got rid of the Luxo lighting that Randy had insisted on for utilitarian reasons and I had disliked for aesthetic reasons. I bought beautiful lamps and curtains. I hung new pictures on the walls and put a chaise longue in the corner to make it feel like a retreat just for me. Down went the ceiling fan; up went a pretty light fixture. By the time I was done, the room was completely transformed. The chains to the past were broken! I had surrounded myself with beauty that made me catch my breath each time I walked into the room. More important, Randy’s ghost wouldn’t haunt me in here any longer.

Next I turned my attention to our bathroom, with its double sinks. Even after I removed Randy’s toiletries, I could still envision him at his sink brushing his teeth and putting in his contacts, leaving toothpaste residue in the bowl and contact lens solution seemingly everywhere. The empty counter and useless double sink were a powerful visual reminder of my husband, who was no longer there to greet me in the morning with a smile and kiss in the continual dance we call marriage.

I’d always wanted a place to sit down to put on my makeup, so
I wouldn’t drop my eye-shadow applicator or mascara wand in the sink. I had gotten pretty good at basic plumbing, having put in new single-lever faucets in the children’s bathroom. So I decided to rip out one of the double sinks, cap off the pipes, and cut down the cabinet with the help of a neighbor. I was going to make a vanity table for myself.

I had a long to-do list, which is still not complete.

Many people who lose a loved one choose to move from the house that holds so many memories. My friend with two young children sold her house about a year after her husband died. She told me of the pain visual reminders caused her—the flooring they had put down together or the deck he had built. I was lucky that Randy and our family had moved into our house in Virginia only eleven months earlier. Our house couldn’t tell the same kinds of stories. I also couldn’t move because of my children. Randy and I had talked at length with our cancer counselor and to a child psychologist before we decided to move to Virginia. We wanted to know what effect moving would have on the children after Randy died. Should we move closer to family before he died or stay put in the comfort of the only home they knew? Randy felt very strongly that it was important to be closer to family so I could have a support network to help raise our children. And both professionals said it would be better for our children if we moved before Randy died. Being in the same house after he passed away would give them stability and a sense that their father knew where they were.

Many books advise grieving spouses not to make any major changes during the year following the death of their beloved. I can appreciate the idea of a year as being the yardstick to measure how long it might take to get one’s emotions better in check. But I don’t think it should be a hard-and-fast rule. We all grieve in individual
ways, with different degrees of emotional intensity and varying needs. I found I needed to get control over the space I had inhabited so it wouldn’t cause me to tear up every time I rose in the morning. My son, on the other hand, wanted memories of his father associated with various rooms throughout the house to remain. I tried to find a time frame that worked for both of us, recognizing that we were sharing the same space and missing the same person.

So I didn’t always follow the “wait a year before you make major changes” rule. For example, I asked Randy’s friends to help me clean out the clothes, shoes, and sporting goods from his closet while they were in Virginia for the funeral. I didn’t need twelve months to give away his clothes to people who could use them. Not all of Randy’s possessions went to Goodwill. A hospice volunteer took three of his shirts and cut and sewed them to fit cute little teddy bears, which she then gave to our children.

Furthermore, not all memories are bittersweet; some are just plain bitter. Like any normal couple, Randy and I had our disagreements. One issue arose over deciding on a new car to replace his thirteen-year-old Volkswagen Cabriolet. This coincided with his finishing the trial chemotherapy treatment in the spring of 2007. That was before the cancer had returned and metastasized to his liver and spleen—a time when we were hopeful he would beat the disease. I encouraged Randy to take this opportunity to buy a new car as an affirmation that he was going to live. I wanted him to drive this new car into the ground over many years, just as he had his Cabriolet. He agreed but said we should choose this car together. We had several fun outings test-driving convertibles, for Randy was a ragtop man. It gave us something else to think about besides the cancer and what might happen next. We could live in the moment, without worrying about tomorrow.

But independent of my input, Randy narrowed the field down to two cars. I no longer felt that this was a couple’s decision or that I was really part of the process. When it came down to deciding, I expressed my feelings and said I felt my opinion on the final selection should carry more weight. Randy disagreed. Maybe he felt this would be the last car he might ever get to buy if his cancer returned. Maybe he thought he deserved to have the ultimate say, since he had suffered so much in fighting cancer. I don’t know exactly what was going on in his mind; he rarely articulated what emotions or thoughts were driving his actions. Finally he told me I could sell the damn car after he was dead and go buy whatever I wanted. That ugly statement just hung in the air for a few minutes. I held my tongue so I wouldn’t say anything I would regret. I was so disappointed in Randy, not only for the comment, but also for the way he had acted during the whole process. I ran through all the unhelpful things I wanted to say in return, but I didn’t vocalize them. Instead, I told him that if the car meant that much to him, he should pick out what he wanted, and I would step aside.

Randy went on to buy his first choice, and for obvious reasons, I never did like the car. He loved driving around with the top down, enjoying the fresh air. Ironically, he wasn’t able to drive or even ride in the passenger seat after the cancer had spread through his system. The car had too hard a ride. Given the damage that had been done to his organs, every bump in the road caused him pain. So the car sat in the driveway, and it was rarely used after Randy passed away.

The car became a negative reminder of our argument and the uncharitable feelings I had had. I didn’t wait a full year to sell it—just a couple of months to make sure the children would be OK with Daddy’s car going to a good home. Then I followed Randy’s orders and went out to buy what I had always wanted—a Mini Cooper
Clubman with really good gas mileage and a backseat big enough for two children’s car seats. It’s bright yellow with white racing stripes and white and black flames on the side. My brother calls it a clown car, but it makes me laugh every time I see it and smile each time I drive it. I’m glad I didn’t wait a year to bring a little joy into my life. And I needed a daily laugh, especially as the burden of being a single parent became greater with each passing day.

N
EAR THE END
of Randy’s battle, our house was a three-ring circus, and I was the reluctant ringmaster. In ring number one were the kids, whose activities were supervised by our nanny, Rachel. In ring number two was Randy with his health issues and emotional needs. Finally, in ring number three was the endless stream of visitors, from family members and friends to hospice care workers. Rarely was I ever in the house alone with Randy and the children. We had so much support, so much help to make it through the worst of times, for which I am forever grateful. But all of the activities made our household chaotic, to say the least.