Love and loss

Winnie’s memorial was today.

I sat at the end of a row of men from my department – we’d come across town in the same car. I clung to the passenger door to avoid crushing Tim as he huddled in the middle of the front seat. We walked in together - the 6 of us, mostly silent, and looked briefly at a collage of pictures at the door before taking our seats.

Since we’re in the south and I’m a girl, everyone stepped aside to let me enter first. I decided on the 4th row of orange theater seats, tucking in the little flip-up desks as I shuffled down the aisle to the opposite row. Tim was next to me, but we didn’t speak. Just waited in silence, staring blankly at walls until an introductory slide show began.

I blinked back tears at the first photo of Winnie smiling. As her many tributes would lovingly recall, she had a warmth about her regardless of her location or mood. A wide smile would light her face when she’d see people. I don’t always smile at people. Will roll my eyes when approaching some friends if I’m having a bad day. Will grin easily at others. Have avoided eye contact with almost everyone if I’m feeling particularly busy or irritable or sad.

Despite my many pep talks to stay a bit detached, I found myself trembling throughout the hour we spent in the room. Wiped at my eyes when the speakers would cry. Swallowed repeatedly to keep control. Listened to others weep openly, knowing I wasn’t comfortable doing the same. It hurt though. My entire throat ached from holding back displays of sadness for the lovely people seated just 2 rows in front of us. Her son in his tiny dark suit, no more than 4 years old. Her daughter was seated on the other side of Winnie’s husband, Warren.

I lost Grandpa when I was in first grade. Mom thought I would be inconsolable. I loved Grandpa so very much. But I wasn’t all that sad. I didn’t have any experience with someone going away and not coming back. It’s difficult to comprehend the actual loss when you lack a reasonable comparison. My deep sorrow for Winnie's children stems from knowledge of my own losses. The many times I’ve picked up the phone to call someone who wouldn’t answer. Drove past homes that used to contain people I loved dearly. Missed someone so much I ached too much to cry.

I watched her husband walk to the podium, his son on his right, daughter on his left. Each holding his hand. He thanked everyone for the outpouring of support. Spoke haltingly but with an underlying strength. I briefly lost my battle against tears when her mom, a beautiful woman, stepped to the podium and wept before she was able to speak softly. Warren placed his hand on her shoulder, offering support. Then the 4 people walked back toward their seats before Warren stopped and headed back to the podium. The children looked momentarily confused before following their grandmother back to their chairs.

I turned my attention back to him – this man who had lost his partner. He wanted to thank a few more people specifically. Mentors that were important to Winnie – she would have wanted them to know how very grateful she’d been to them.

“She was simple, Winnie.” He said. “She wanted a few things. She wanted to teach here. She wanted to do research. She wanted a home and family. And she wanted to love God. Some of you gave her the opportunity to achieve those goals. She would have wanted me to thank you. To let you know how much you meant to her.”

That moment – a single memory of a lovely service full of moving statements and songs – lingers with the greatest pain for me.

I went to WalMart after leaving work. I was hurting – remembering how Winnie’s mother pressed her cheek into mine when I hugged her after the service. How her grandmother wept when I told her how incredibly wonderful Winnie was. I promised to continue my prayers as I met Warren’s eyes, gripping his hand between both of mine as I tried to find words to express my deep sadness over his loss. I returned to my desk, shaky and with head throbbing. I couldn’t focus – felt that sitting in a bathroom sobbing would do little good – so I decided to run some errands.

I bought a hose – my old one has a leak – and some weed killer to continue my recent obsession. I picked up some vegetables and ice cream – a friend’s coming out for dinner later this week. And I decided on a card. I couldn’t articulate anything meaningful for Warren, and felt I wanted to say something.

For whatever reason, I didn’t use the express lanes. I must have been lost in other thoughts when choosing a line because I waited behind 4 people with carts full of groceries. The pair in front of me was a father – an older man – and his son, likely my age or a bit older. Father helped Son unload the cart, his movements a bit slow, but healthy. I wondered if Mother was at home. For some reason, I desperately didn’t want Father to live alone. Wanted him to have someone to talk to, go places with, grocery shop for.

“Why 2 cartons of blueberries, Dad?” Son asked, smiling over at his father before placing the small cartons next to the larger one of strawberries.

Father shrugged and said something too softly for me to hear. Then he handed a large bag of bagels to Son.

“I like those.” He said, and I smiled over the quantity. There were 18 according to my quick count. Far too many for one person to finish before they went stale, I soothed myself. He had someone at home for him. A partner. Someone to cuddle into at night when he was cold. To share coffee with in the morning. Someone to take care of him. Share his bagels. He was OK.

Then he placed a single toothbrush on the counter at the end of his order.

I looked down to see that I was turning the sympathy card in my hands, dangerously near tears. Worried that he might have his own Winnie that he missed every day.

They finished after Son paid for the food and loaded the bags in the cart. I paid for my purchases – the hose, weed killer, watering can, Snaps for Chienne, a piece of red velvet cake from the bakery, green beans, chocolate cashew ice cream, and the card that was placed into a small bag then into my purse.

Upon returning home, I greeted the dog then ate my cake. It’s all I’ve had today and didn’t help much with the sick feeling I’m trying to fight. Then I found the books I ordered on my porch and settled in to read.

I tossed the book to the floor after 4 pages. I was sad. Found myself wondering what would make me happy. I came up empty which is why I’m sitting here writing.

I had the thought that I wished I had a partner. Someone who knew me well enough to decide whether to distract or comfort. To cuddle or seduce. To say, “enough with the cake, sweetheart" before I got sick. Then perhaps he’d make buttered noodles or something soothing. Or we’d go out and wash the car so I could get rid of some of this awful energy.

I found myself recoiling from the very idea. That someone would matter that much to me. That we’d know each other so well, trust that the other would be around tomorrow for as many tomorrows as there were.

The problem – the reason I get stuck – is that we wouldn’t likely have the same number of tomorrows. I might find myself walking back toward a podium after speaking once already because I’d remember something I know he’d want me to say. Would think of all the times he’d mention people at work, the funny stories he might have told. His goals that would have become our goals because we were partners. And I’d have to share those thoughts with his colleagues because he’d be gone.

Or perhaps he’d one day shop for food alone. Buy extra blueberries because I’d always liked them. And some of my preferences eventually became his own because we’d lived together so long.

The thought of such loss overwhelms me. Terrifies me. I know how to be alone. It’s not always great, but it’s not that bad either. I don’t want to adjust into loving someone then lose him. Nor do I want to love him more than I imagined I could love someone and acknowledge that he could be hurt by losing me.

I know there are reasons we decide to love other people. To accept the inevitable pain that comes with loss because the alternative is to be isolated. And we generally don’t like complete solitude.

Except today, for me, caused a retreat into myself. I don’t want to love anyone right now because that would mean accepting I could lose him. I’m quite grateful to be safely single. No falling in love, I told myself sternly as I curled up on the couch, rubbing my chest to try to soothe the ache there.

The cool thing about people – about life – is that the heart overrides the brain sometimes. I didn’t want to cry at the service today. Professional Katie is pretty contained and I decided beforehand that I’d remain as aloof as possible.

I didn’t last 2 minutes before wiping at tears that arrived without my permission. I hurt for her family – couldn’t stop that initial painful sting as they took their seats. I blinked back tears for her mother, mourning the daughter she lost. I prayed with complete focus and sincerity when directed to do so. I was desperately sad as I looked into Warren’s eyes, trying to find words that would express my sorrow for him. I didn’t plan to kiss her mother’s cheek and whisper something comforting, nor did I plan to choke out a sob while I embraced her best friend.

It just happened. My heart demanded the right to express what I felt. Those awful feelings I couldn’t control.

My guess is that love is the same way. I can’t control the amazing emotions any more than the painful ones. But that’s for tomorrow. For tonight, I believe I’ll make my own buttered noodles, wash the car by myself, and consider that ice cream I was going to save for my friend.