Today marks the 2nd anniversary of Aimee's suicide.
Two years needs some perspective. For me, two years represents about 5% of my life.
For Elliot, age 2 years 3 1/2 months, it is the majority of his life.
For Max, almost 8 years, it is nearly 25% of his life.
Even for Owen, 10 1/2, those 2 years mark around 18% of his life.
I talk to the boys about Aimee from time to time, usually when they approach the subject. I am honest and direct when I do. Owen and I have had some challenging discussions about how she died and the nature of her illness. I know a day will come when Elliot needs to understand things I will not be able to make understandable. For now, he is a sometimes blissful, sometimes cranky toddler with personality and lust for life (i.e., desire to run up and down the sidewalk at full toddler speed).
I remember April 2, 2012 well. It was a Monday. Two sheriff's deputies banged on the door and woke me. The day swam quickly with trips to the junkyard, the funeral home, and the church to plan the funeral... I remember feeling like my dreams were over. My life was irrevocably changed.
True. True.
But here's what I know now. dreams are never meant to survive untouched. Dreams evolve. Dreams undergo constant and steady remodeling. Life's meaning isn't gifted to us when young, so we fight, childlike, against the tide which would wash away our dreams. Life's meaning is something forged through work, heartache, and a lifetime of living.
A number of fans have been upset about the finale of How I Met Your Mother. I am not one of them. Ted Mosby--while a fictional character--has made meaning of his life through the telling of his story. His romantic ideals have survived and evolved. In the end, he knows meaning comes in the making of it--just as he loved the mother so well while she was alive. It wasn't that they were "fated" to be together or "the one," but they made it work. The blue French horn in the end is not the same (metaphorically) he lifts at the beginning of the series; it is Ted's meaning, an all-in romantic ideal which he will chase all his life, even as life forces that ideal to take different shapes. And that, folks, is a beautiful note on which to end if an end must happen. It's the kind of end which doesn't really end.
Life, unfortunately must end--but in that inevitability, we find its greatest gift:
Life is for living now, loving now, forging meaning, now.
Showing posts with label aimee ziegler. Show all posts
Showing posts with label aimee ziegler. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Measuring a Year
Aimee Ziegler, my first wife and mother of my children, took her life one year ago today.
These are facts. They are not the only facts which measure her life. One could count the years she coached basketball and soccer. One could number the students which graduated local high schools who benefited from the WRAP program Aimee helped found. One could account the millions of dollars WRAP brought into our community and schools. One could even count the runs she scored in local kickball games.
Each time I'm reminded life must come to an end--each time a loved one dies or an anniversary of a death arrives on the calendar--think of more than endings. I think of now and how precious it is. Lives shouldn't be measured with numbers. Lives shouldn't be measured at all. Lives are for living and loving and staggering blind through a land which is at times strange and scary but all the while littered with love and miracles.
Hug somebody today. Love hard today. Remember with grace and move forward with courage.
Live.
These are facts. They are not the only facts which measure her life. One could count the years she coached basketball and soccer. One could number the students which graduated local high schools who benefited from the WRAP program Aimee helped found. One could account the millions of dollars WRAP brought into our community and schools. One could even count the runs she scored in local kickball games.
Each time I'm reminded life must come to an end--each time a loved one dies or an anniversary of a death arrives on the calendar--think of more than endings. I think of now and how precious it is. Lives shouldn't be measured with numbers. Lives shouldn't be measured at all. Lives are for living and loving and staggering blind through a land which is at times strange and scary but all the while littered with love and miracles.
Hug somebody today. Love hard today. Remember with grace and move forward with courage.
Live.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Certain Measurements
Six months ago today, a pounding on my front door woke me. Two sheriff's deputies and a parish priest were on the front stoop to tell me Aimee was dead, killed when a southbound coal train struck our Honda Civic just north of Lawrence.
Six months. Half a year.
Nearly 2/3 of Elliot's life. He was 3 1/2 months old and is now 9 1/2.
I remember being the Aaron of six months ago. I remember feeling the awful, empty pain in my stomach and chest.
A week or so after she died, I remember telling myself I would feel differently in a month, in three months, in six months. I remember focusing on the magic of time to heal wounds torn open on that April day. I remember well how I knew I could not make "it" happen any faster than it needed to on its own.
Time, the only truly precious resource, had to sweep forward. I couldn't stop time had I wanted to.
And time has brought many changes, some more wonderful than I could have hoped. It has brought grief, healing, and insight beyond what Aaron from six months ago would have imagined. It has brought a new zest for living, a new focus on life, a new perspective on the importance love and understanding and patience play in my life and will continue to play in my life. It has encouraged me to live harder than I thought possible--and I don't mean the "hard" life, but the life lived to "eleven" (with a nod to Spinal Tap).
I sit here, Aaron of October 2012, and dream six months down the road. What will that Aaron be able to say of the one now? What new measurements can he take of his life?
I plan to live and experience and grow every day until I pause again to reflect.
It's a gift for which I am so thankful.
Six months. Half a year.
Nearly 2/3 of Elliot's life. He was 3 1/2 months old and is now 9 1/2.
I remember being the Aaron of six months ago. I remember feeling the awful, empty pain in my stomach and chest.
A week or so after she died, I remember telling myself I would feel differently in a month, in three months, in six months. I remember focusing on the magic of time to heal wounds torn open on that April day. I remember well how I knew I could not make "it" happen any faster than it needed to on its own.
Time, the only truly precious resource, had to sweep forward. I couldn't stop time had I wanted to.
And time has brought many changes, some more wonderful than I could have hoped. It has brought grief, healing, and insight beyond what Aaron from six months ago would have imagined. It has brought a new zest for living, a new focus on life, a new perspective on the importance love and understanding and patience play in my life and will continue to play in my life. It has encouraged me to live harder than I thought possible--and I don't mean the "hard" life, but the life lived to "eleven" (with a nod to Spinal Tap).
I sit here, Aaron of October 2012, and dream six months down the road. What will that Aaron be able to say of the one now? What new measurements can he take of his life?
I plan to live and experience and grow every day until I pause again to reflect.
It's a gift for which I am so thankful.
Monday, August 20, 2012
On Memory Keeping
I've had several brushes with Aimee's ghost in the last few weeks.
Let me rephrase: I've had several people at different places in their relationship with Aimee's death speak with me in the past few weeks. One person asked permission to make a tribute; one simply greeted me like it was April 2nd and not nearly five months later with no sense of the journey I've taken in those five months.Another, a parent of former students, simply gave me a hug. There were others, but these are salient and representative.
When someone dies, we each own our own grief. We have to. Mine is not the same as Aimee's mother, her father, her sister, or any of the boys, just as my relationship with Aimee wasn't the same as it was with any of those people. My relationship with her death is as different from anyone's as my relationship with her while she was alive. To call it anything else would be untruth.
What I want--I need--the world to know is that I don't own Aimee's memory. I am not the gatekeeper for anyone else's grief journey. I don't have answers for her family or the boys, former students or her co-workers. Anyone. I've only been able to find answers for myself, answers which have been painful, but real. No matter how painful, no matter how broken, we can still strive for beauty in life. We can still love. We can still live every day as though it is a precious, precious gift.
Because life is a precious gift. Every. Damn. Day.
I stood next to Aimee's body for three hours the night of the visitation. I shook hands, hugged, laughed, and cried with hundreds of people. I knew some of them; others were strangers to me. I was the conduit, the lightning rod for so much raw, barbaric emotion. The well is deep. Bottomless at times. That night, I was there as a stand in for her.
Now, I can't be her stand in any more. Aimee would have rejected the idea of me owning her memory, being the sole keeper of her legacy, just as much as she would have rejected such obscene inequality when she was alive. I never owned her. She was her own person, at times beautiful and full of life but as fragile as any of us. She had countless relationships, too, and each was precious and unique in its own way.
I lay this burden down not out of malice or ill will or exhaustion, but because it is not mine. If you had a relationship with Aimee, it is yours. Take care of it. Show it to loved ones. Tell stories and remember good times. Set her ghost free. Cling to it if you need to. Rage with it. Build an altar and let her smoke rise up forever if that is what you need. Love her memory like you loved her.
Let me rephrase: I've had several people at different places in their relationship with Aimee's death speak with me in the past few weeks. One person asked permission to make a tribute; one simply greeted me like it was April 2nd and not nearly five months later with no sense of the journey I've taken in those five months.Another, a parent of former students, simply gave me a hug. There were others, but these are salient and representative.
When someone dies, we each own our own grief. We have to. Mine is not the same as Aimee's mother, her father, her sister, or any of the boys, just as my relationship with Aimee wasn't the same as it was with any of those people. My relationship with her death is as different from anyone's as my relationship with her while she was alive. To call it anything else would be untruth.
What I want--I need--the world to know is that I don't own Aimee's memory. I am not the gatekeeper for anyone else's grief journey. I don't have answers for her family or the boys, former students or her co-workers. Anyone. I've only been able to find answers for myself, answers which have been painful, but real. No matter how painful, no matter how broken, we can still strive for beauty in life. We can still love. We can still live every day as though it is a precious, precious gift.
Because life is a precious gift. Every. Damn. Day.
I stood next to Aimee's body for three hours the night of the visitation. I shook hands, hugged, laughed, and cried with hundreds of people. I knew some of them; others were strangers to me. I was the conduit, the lightning rod for so much raw, barbaric emotion. The well is deep. Bottomless at times. That night, I was there as a stand in for her.
Now, I can't be her stand in any more. Aimee would have rejected the idea of me owning her memory, being the sole keeper of her legacy, just as much as she would have rejected such obscene inequality when she was alive. I never owned her. She was her own person, at times beautiful and full of life but as fragile as any of us. She had countless relationships, too, and each was precious and unique in its own way.
I lay this burden down not out of malice or ill will or exhaustion, but because it is not mine. If you had a relationship with Aimee, it is yours. Take care of it. Show it to loved ones. Tell stories and remember good times. Set her ghost free. Cling to it if you need to. Rage with it. Build an altar and let her smoke rise up forever if that is what you need. Love her memory like you loved her.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Food is Love
I'm making köttbullar for some friends today--or meatballs as we'd say in English. The funny thing about these is that they are meat-less because the target audience lives a mostly meat-free life. How does one make meatless meatballs? With potatoes (from our family garden), ground almonds, and love.
I've used food as an "I love you" for a long time. I suppose I learned this from my mother--what with her always available chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter brownies, and various pies. During college, I never came home to an empty pan or cookie jar.
My first gift to Aimee, was a peach pie. We'd only been dating for about a month, so I didn't want to get weird or anything. She'd mentioned liking peach pie once. I made one and "sealed the deal." (her words, not mine) I baked scores of pies over the years--peach, strawberry rhubarb, chocolate peanut butter... Aimee's birthday became an occasion for pizza, a different kind of pie. When she turned thirty, I kneaded dough and baked for hours. By her fortieth, I'd learned a few tricks, but every pizza was still a work of my two hands.
When prepping food for friends, I always like to make it from scratch, just like my potato meat(less)balls. Food is special that way--something with effort and care put in that you can actually taste and feel.
Aimee helped plant this year's potato crop, and I'm happy to share this little miracle tubers with friends.
I've used food as an "I love you" for a long time. I suppose I learned this from my mother--what with her always available chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter brownies, and various pies. During college, I never came home to an empty pan or cookie jar.
My first gift to Aimee, was a peach pie. We'd only been dating for about a month, so I didn't want to get weird or anything. She'd mentioned liking peach pie once. I made one and "sealed the deal." (her words, not mine) I baked scores of pies over the years--peach, strawberry rhubarb, chocolate peanut butter... Aimee's birthday became an occasion for pizza, a different kind of pie. When she turned thirty, I kneaded dough and baked for hours. By her fortieth, I'd learned a few tricks, but every pizza was still a work of my two hands.
When prepping food for friends, I always like to make it from scratch, just like my potato meat(less)balls. Food is special that way--something with effort and care put in that you can actually taste and feel.
Aimee helped plant this year's potato crop, and I'm happy to share this little miracle tubers with friends.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
What I Mean When I Say "Homesick"
There comes a time during every vacation when I decide I'm ready to go home. Vacation is great--new adventures are great--but home... It's just home. Home brings comfort and routine; I spend less energy at home and can focus on other things. Damn I love those mountains, but until I buy my cabin, home is in Lawrence.
On Sunday night in Estes Park, while packing for home, I sank into a recliner in our rented cabin. A heavy weight pressed against me--it wasn't exactly the "grief landmine" feeling, but something close. I suddenly understood the easy comparison between losing my spouse and homesickness.
The only problem--when your partner dies, you can't go "home" again. Not to the same home.
Aimee has been gone for nearly three months now; an eternity in some ways (half of Elliot's life), but a blink in others. The first few weeks of April were muddy and slow and painful. Part of May vanished beneath "endings" (school, soccer, etc., etc., etc.). June has clipped along with my deck building project, Colorado, camps, art classes, and trips to the swimming pool. Day by day, the new normal takes root. It digs deeper. But this isn't quite home. It's a new place. A move without moving.
Baby steps...
Yes, this is why you learned the Pythagorean Theorem in high school: so you could build a deck. It's also handy for laying tile. I'm well beyond this point (attached the joists today), but I thought my students need to know that math is real. Look--I'm doing math. Math is helping me guarantee a square corner. Yay, math!
(Somebody tell me to bend at the knees next time. My lower back is killing me.)
On Sunday night in Estes Park, while packing for home, I sank into a recliner in our rented cabin. A heavy weight pressed against me--it wasn't exactly the "grief landmine" feeling, but something close. I suddenly understood the easy comparison between losing my spouse and homesickness.
The only problem--when your partner dies, you can't go "home" again. Not to the same home.
Aimee has been gone for nearly three months now; an eternity in some ways (half of Elliot's life), but a blink in others. The first few weeks of April were muddy and slow and painful. Part of May vanished beneath "endings" (school, soccer, etc., etc., etc.). June has clipped along with my deck building project, Colorado, camps, art classes, and trips to the swimming pool. Day by day, the new normal takes root. It digs deeper. But this isn't quite home. It's a new place. A move without moving.
Baby steps...
Yes, this is why you learned the Pythagorean Theorem in high school: so you could build a deck. It's also handy for laying tile. I'm well beyond this point (attached the joists today), but I thought my students need to know that math is real. Look--I'm doing math. Math is helping me guarantee a square corner. Yay, math!
(Somebody tell me to bend at the knees next time. My lower back is killing me.)
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Our National Park Tradition
I feel another "significant" post brewing, but it will wait for another day. Today, I bring pictures from our recent trip to Rocky Mountain National Park and one of my favorite stories about Aimee.
National Parks were/are an obsession of ours--I still have our map of all National Parks hanging in the basement (with color-coded pins indicated which family member has been where). In 2000, Aimee and I took a road trip to Yellowstone and Grand Teton. We camped for five nights--four of them in Yellowstone--and enjoyed all the sights. The view of the Tetons from Jackson Lake... spectacular. We rented a boat, a small craft with an outboard motor, and headed onto the lake. The boat's owner gave us a bit of advice which caused contention:
Stay within a mile of shore.
Of course, Aimee (being the adventurous type she was), aimed the boat for the mountains and gave it the gun. My knuckles whitened as I clutched the gunnels.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Staying a mile away from shore like he said," she said.
"No. No. No." I glanced over my shoulder at the swelling waves. The tiny boat would easily capsize in the middle of Jackson Lake. "He said within a mile of shore."
She didn't agree, of course, but the look of sheer-animal-panic on my face convinced her to turn our ship around. Aimee and I weren't able to share enough National Park adventures before her death (could there ever be enough National Park adventures?), but the boys and I will keep going...
I hiked to Fern Lake early on Saturday morning, the date which would have been our 11th wedding anniversary. Aimee and I made the same hike on our 6th wedding anniversary (June 16, 2007), just over a year after Max was born. I was early enough to miss the crowd (it's a tough hike, but a popular one) and have some alone time with the lake, the trees, the mountains, and my thoughts.
Elliot was not impressed by the lack of oxygen above tree line.
Max, Owen, and I on top of the world. Okay, at least on top of a granite formation on Trail Ridge Road.
Max and Owen showed me how to scramble on the rocks near a waterfall. Going down was easier than up.
Owen, Elliot (in the stroller), and Max on the lookout for yellow bellied marmots. We always find marmots at the "alpine communities" stop on Trail Ridge Road.
Take care, and happy adventuring.
National Parks were/are an obsession of ours--I still have our map of all National Parks hanging in the basement (with color-coded pins indicated which family member has been where). In 2000, Aimee and I took a road trip to Yellowstone and Grand Teton. We camped for five nights--four of them in Yellowstone--and enjoyed all the sights. The view of the Tetons from Jackson Lake... spectacular. We rented a boat, a small craft with an outboard motor, and headed onto the lake. The boat's owner gave us a bit of advice which caused contention:
Stay within a mile of shore.
Of course, Aimee (being the adventurous type she was), aimed the boat for the mountains and gave it the gun. My knuckles whitened as I clutched the gunnels.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Staying a mile away from shore like he said," she said.
"No. No. No." I glanced over my shoulder at the swelling waves. The tiny boat would easily capsize in the middle of Jackson Lake. "He said within a mile of shore."
She didn't agree, of course, but the look of sheer-animal-panic on my face convinced her to turn our ship around. Aimee and I weren't able to share enough National Park adventures before her death (could there ever be enough National Park adventures?), but the boys and I will keep going...
I hiked to Fern Lake early on Saturday morning, the date which would have been our 11th wedding anniversary. Aimee and I made the same hike on our 6th wedding anniversary (June 16, 2007), just over a year after Max was born. I was early enough to miss the crowd (it's a tough hike, but a popular one) and have some alone time with the lake, the trees, the mountains, and my thoughts.
Elliot was not impressed by the lack of oxygen above tree line.
Max, Owen, and I on top of the world. Okay, at least on top of a granite formation on Trail Ridge Road.
Max and Owen showed me how to scramble on the rocks near a waterfall. Going down was easier than up.
Owen, Elliot (in the stroller), and Max on the lookout for yellow bellied marmots. We always find marmots at the "alpine communities" stop on Trail Ridge Road.
Take care, and happy adventuring.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Yesterday was Father's Day
And I spent it in Colorado with my sons. Owen, Max, and I climbed rocks for a beautiful waterfall view, played our third round of mini golf, and snapped photos of a bull elk outside our cabins.
Pictures forthcoming. I promise.
Many folks have already read the article in yesterday's Lawrence Journal-World, but for those who haven't, here's the link: Lawrence Father Recounts Wife's Eight Year Battle...
Thanks to Karrey Britt and Nick Krug for their professionalism and care in putting Aimee's story together.
Pictures forthcoming. I promise.
Many folks have already read the article in yesterday's Lawrence Journal-World, but for those who haven't, here's the link: Lawrence Father Recounts Wife's Eight Year Battle...
Thanks to Karrey Britt and Nick Krug for their professionalism and care in putting Aimee's story together.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Eleven Years Ago
Today, Aimee and I would have been married for eleven years.
Eleven years ago today, in my room at the Holiday Inn, I dressed in a tuxedo. I drove with a carload of groomsmen to the bed and breakfast to pick up a key, and then on to the church. I stood in the sacristy and munched on Scooby Snacks. A lump clogged my throat as I watched Aimee walk the long center aisle of St. Pius the V Catholic Church. Words swam in my mouth as I recited our vows.
It was, simply, one of my best days on Earth.
Here are three of my favorite pictures from that day eleven years ago, each scanned and coated with a tiny bit of dust. Nothing passes time without a little wear.
Two of my best friends, Aaron Ouelette and Jason Wollenberg, while I'm "faith-healing" on the dance floor at the reception.God, I look so boyish.
We thought it would be a brilliant idea to have champagne poppers instead of seeds or bubbles. Damn those little gunpowder-propelled wads of paper propelled hurt like hell.
My favorite picture from that day--maybe from any day. Give me a million bucks, and I still won't tell you what I whispered in her ear.
Miss you, Aimee. Thanks for ten + years of adventure.
Eleven years ago today, in my room at the Holiday Inn, I dressed in a tuxedo. I drove with a carload of groomsmen to the bed and breakfast to pick up a key, and then on to the church. I stood in the sacristy and munched on Scooby Snacks. A lump clogged my throat as I watched Aimee walk the long center aisle of St. Pius the V Catholic Church. Words swam in my mouth as I recited our vows.
It was, simply, one of my best days on Earth.
Here are three of my favorite pictures from that day eleven years ago, each scanned and coated with a tiny bit of dust. Nothing passes time without a little wear.
Two of my best friends, Aaron Ouelette and Jason Wollenberg, while I'm "faith-healing" on the dance floor at the reception.God, I look so boyish.
Miss you, Aimee. Thanks for ten + years of adventure.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
I was Just a Child Then...
Last Saturday, I stumbled across a picture of Aimee and me dancing at a friend's wedding. It was late 2001, only six months after our own wedding. Aimee's back was turned to the camera, but it was her, wedding hair, red bridesmaid dress and all, while I'm facing the camera. I hardly recognized the boy in the picture--me. My hair was dark and full, my face bone-thin, and my grin full of boyish wonder. I was twenty-six.
Nearly eleven years later, I'm thirty-seven, my hair is a bit more grey, my face fuller, the grin more knowing, the smile of a veteran on the eve of deployment.
There's a line from Pink Floyd's "Your Possible Pasts" (from The Final Cut, their often overlooked last album with Roger Waters) which reads, "I was just a child then, now I'm only a man." I've always liked the song, despite its bleak, rather bitter take on life, and I feel that line more now than ever. I don't know when I became a man--or the man I am--sometime between the photo from that long ago wedding and now. When I look back and think about the years in between, when I think of my journey with Aimee, the birth of our children, our ups and downs, good times and bad, and her death, I realize how much has changed for the boy of twenty-six dancing with his beautiful, newlywed wife.
What would I tell that boy now if I could go back? What could I tell him about what life brought to his stoop, about the challenges he'd face, about the heartache and all the rest?
Keep smiling, I suppose. Love your beautiful wife with as much passion as you can. Life, at its best, is far too short, so live with passion. Embrace it all--good times and bad--and love like your life depends on it.
Nearly eleven years later, I'm thirty-seven, my hair is a bit more grey, my face fuller, the grin more knowing, the smile of a veteran on the eve of deployment.
There's a line from Pink Floyd's "Your Possible Pasts" (from The Final Cut, their often overlooked last album with Roger Waters) which reads, "I was just a child then, now I'm only a man." I've always liked the song, despite its bleak, rather bitter take on life, and I feel that line more now than ever. I don't know when I became a man--or the man I am--sometime between the photo from that long ago wedding and now. When I look back and think about the years in between, when I think of my journey with Aimee, the birth of our children, our ups and downs, good times and bad, and her death, I realize how much has changed for the boy of twenty-six dancing with his beautiful, newlywed wife.
What would I tell that boy now if I could go back? What could I tell him about what life brought to his stoop, about the challenges he'd face, about the heartache and all the rest?
Keep smiling, I suppose. Love your beautiful wife with as much passion as you can. Life, at its best, is far too short, so live with passion. Embrace it all--good times and bad--and love like your life depends on it.
Friday, June 8, 2012
Decisions and Revisions
Last June, Owen had a chance to sign up for Premier soccer (sort of the top-shelf league in Kaw Valley Soccer). Coach leaned pretty heavily and Owen wanted it. Aimee and I discussed... We talked about our as-yet unborn child, the strain on the family's budget (Premier is fairly costly) and time (most games are in Overland Park--45 minutes away by car).
We decided--as a unit--to wait. Too much travel, too much stress on the family with a baby due. Owen was disappointed. Aimee and I felt like we made the right decision. Parenting is hard sometimes. Damn hard.
Tomorrow, Kaw Valley is hosting Premier tryouts. Owen isn't attending--his decision. He wants to play club at least one more year. I told him it was his choice. I'm proud of him, regardless of what he chooses and how he plays. He's a great kid. So is Max... and Elliot. (Elliot's only six-months old and just popped his first tooth--how can he not be "great"?)
But damn, it's hard doing this alone.
I need my partner.
Miss you, Ziggs.
We decided--as a unit--to wait. Too much travel, too much stress on the family with a baby due. Owen was disappointed. Aimee and I felt like we made the right decision. Parenting is hard sometimes. Damn hard.
Tomorrow, Kaw Valley is hosting Premier tryouts. Owen isn't attending--his decision. He wants to play club at least one more year. I told him it was his choice. I'm proud of him, regardless of what he chooses and how he plays. He's a great kid. So is Max... and Elliot. (Elliot's only six-months old and just popped his first tooth--how can he not be "great"?)
But damn, it's hard doing this alone.
I need my partner.
Miss you, Ziggs.
(a vintage shot of Owen taking a shot... back when he used to play forward in recreation league)
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
My Yearly Crisis, Amplified
Every summer, I go through a period of "existential crisis." Not a big, scary crisis as in "life has no meaning," but a baby one, as in "I no longer have a job to do and feel lost." I'm sure it's a common feeling for many teachers, although most might not choose the term "existential crisis."
Again, I defer to Wikipedia if you're unfamiliar with the phrase "existential crisis." While the wikis have their shortcomings, it is a good source of group think and common knowledge. Let's examine the first line of the entry:
An existential crisis is a stage of development at which an individual questions the very foundations of his or her life: whether his or her life has any meaning, purpose or value.
I'm not very fond of the word "crisis." It sounds too much like "emergency," as in, if you don't resolve this crisis, bad sh*t is going to happen. Soon. Guess what... Bad sh*t has already happened.
I doubt there is any way to be truly prepared for a loved one's death, especially a spouse. Aimee and I chose not to include a unity candle lighting at our wedding because we both felt the idea of two people becoming one was a bit old-fashioned. Here's what I learned after nearly eleven years of marriage: you will become pretty damned entwined with your partner. If not exactly "one" flesh, the you learn the other's moves before he/she makes them. Losing Aimee has caused a major rift in my thinking about myself and my place in the world--in addition to the pain and grief of her death.
All relationships change over time, regardless of how intimate the relationship. But most changes are gradual, even if at times marked with periods of sudden, but small shifts. A death is a sudden, violent change. Think a football thrown to a receiver--the ball follows a perfect, arcing path to its target, and then a defensive player reaches up to tip the ball, sending it into an awkward, end-over-end spin out of bounds. Or think of what might happen to a planet should another object knock it from its orbit.
I'm out of my orbit. I'm the football tumbling out of bounds. Sure, I have plenty of meaning in my life--right now my boys, especially Owen and Max, need me to be emotionally present. Elliot's needs are fairly simple (although ever-present). Fortunately, he's going to day care during the summer to keep a consistent schedule. The other guys really need me right now.
And that is good--it is as it should be.
But my life, my meaning, is more than father to those boys. I've spent so long as Aimee's friend, lover, partner, and yes, caretaker, that I have to reexamine myself. And by "have to" I mean I have no choice. The change has come, regardless of my wishes, and here I am.
So this year's existential angst (a little more accurate than crisis) brings a good measure of "who am I, now?" with an eye toward the future and "what will my life be like a year from now?"
Baby steps, Aaron. Baby steps.
Again, I defer to Wikipedia if you're unfamiliar with the phrase "existential crisis." While the wikis have their shortcomings, it is a good source of group think and common knowledge. Let's examine the first line of the entry:
An existential crisis is a stage of development at which an individual questions the very foundations of his or her life: whether his or her life has any meaning, purpose or value.
I'm not very fond of the word "crisis." It sounds too much like "emergency," as in, if you don't resolve this crisis, bad sh*t is going to happen. Soon. Guess what... Bad sh*t has already happened.
I doubt there is any way to be truly prepared for a loved one's death, especially a spouse. Aimee and I chose not to include a unity candle lighting at our wedding because we both felt the idea of two people becoming one was a bit old-fashioned. Here's what I learned after nearly eleven years of marriage: you will become pretty damned entwined with your partner. If not exactly "one" flesh, the you learn the other's moves before he/she makes them. Losing Aimee has caused a major rift in my thinking about myself and my place in the world--in addition to the pain and grief of her death.
All relationships change over time, regardless of how intimate the relationship. But most changes are gradual, even if at times marked with periods of sudden, but small shifts. A death is a sudden, violent change. Think a football thrown to a receiver--the ball follows a perfect, arcing path to its target, and then a defensive player reaches up to tip the ball, sending it into an awkward, end-over-end spin out of bounds. Or think of what might happen to a planet should another object knock it from its orbit.
I'm out of my orbit. I'm the football tumbling out of bounds. Sure, I have plenty of meaning in my life--right now my boys, especially Owen and Max, need me to be emotionally present. Elliot's needs are fairly simple (although ever-present). Fortunately, he's going to day care during the summer to keep a consistent schedule. The other guys really need me right now.
And that is good--it is as it should be.
But my life, my meaning, is more than father to those boys. I've spent so long as Aimee's friend, lover, partner, and yes, caretaker, that I have to reexamine myself. And by "have to" I mean I have no choice. The change has come, regardless of my wishes, and here I am.
So this year's existential angst (a little more accurate than crisis) brings a good measure of "who am I, now?" with an eye toward the future and "what will my life be like a year from now?"
Baby steps, Aaron. Baby steps.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Vagabond Days
Yesterday, I checked out of my classroom for the year. I put away all my materials, removed my personal items (photos, books, etc.), and carted them...
To my car.
The outgoing counselor still occupies my future office, and my "replacement" (how I hate that word) has already come to make my old classroom hers. I'm without a home at school.
The rest of my life feels the same... The last two weeks have been obscenely busy, what with end of the year/season parties for soccer, kindergarten (Max), and graduations. But even beyond that, I've felt like a bit of a vagabond since Aimee's death. I've been reeling, readjusting, redefining what my life is, how it will be, what paths I will walk now...
Our principal is retiring. He's had a wonderful impact on school, and I'll miss him especially because his philosophy aligns with my own. From day one, he's been about relationships--you can be the biggest "content expert" on the planet, but fail as a teacher because you fail to make a connection with your students. On Wednesday, he said, "We aren't a factory taking in raw materials and producing a single product... We take in unique materials and produce unique products." How true.
He also went "singer-songwriter" and played/sang a tune with guitar accompaniment. As an ex-band teacher, he's done this before. Sometimes, the songs have been tongue-in-cheek about the budget, angry parents, and government regulations. This time, it was serious--the chorus repeating, "will they [the students] remember my name when they tell their children the story of their lives." He choked up a little when he sang, and I appreciate his honesty.
Those words hit me in the chest, the biggest grief landmine I've found in the last two weeks. I thought of my own kids and how I'd share stories about their mother, and I couldn't stop my own tears. I wouldn't want to.
Here's the nice thing about being a vagabond: when you're on the road, you notice things you wouldn't standing still. A lot of people talk about the "next chapter" of their lives. I don't see the chapter breaks, just a hiking trail with me wondering what lies beyond the next corner. My boots are laced, my bag packed, and a song circling my head.
Let's go.
To my car.
The outgoing counselor still occupies my future office, and my "replacement" (how I hate that word) has already come to make my old classroom hers. I'm without a home at school.
The rest of my life feels the same... The last two weeks have been obscenely busy, what with end of the year/season parties for soccer, kindergarten (Max), and graduations. But even beyond that, I've felt like a bit of a vagabond since Aimee's death. I've been reeling, readjusting, redefining what my life is, how it will be, what paths I will walk now...
Our principal is retiring. He's had a wonderful impact on school, and I'll miss him especially because his philosophy aligns with my own. From day one, he's been about relationships--you can be the biggest "content expert" on the planet, but fail as a teacher because you fail to make a connection with your students. On Wednesday, he said, "We aren't a factory taking in raw materials and producing a single product... We take in unique materials and produce unique products." How true.
He also went "singer-songwriter" and played/sang a tune with guitar accompaniment. As an ex-band teacher, he's done this before. Sometimes, the songs have been tongue-in-cheek about the budget, angry parents, and government regulations. This time, it was serious--the chorus repeating, "will they [the students] remember my name when they tell their children the story of their lives." He choked up a little when he sang, and I appreciate his honesty.
Those words hit me in the chest, the biggest grief landmine I've found in the last two weeks. I thought of my own kids and how I'd share stories about their mother, and I couldn't stop my own tears. I wouldn't want to.
Here's the nice thing about being a vagabond: when you're on the road, you notice things you wouldn't standing still. A lot of people talk about the "next chapter" of their lives. I don't see the chapter breaks, just a hiking trail with me wondering what lies beyond the next corner. My boots are laced, my bag packed, and a song circling my head.
Let's go.
Monday, May 21, 2012
On Being Powerless
Aimee's death has taught me a hard lesson about the nature of power:
I have none. Not where the universe is concerned, anyway.
What I can do, and really the only thing I can do, is choose how to live my life in the face of such horrific powerlessness. And it is horrific--no one, least of all Aimee Elizabeth Ziegler, should have suffered as she did. No one should die like she did. No little boys, innocent if a little precocious, should lose their mother. No husband should be forced to let his best friend go like this. No family should lose a loved one to a monster.
In the face of such horror, the path is not easy. I've never been a very religious man. Yes, I scored six consecutive years of perfect Sunday School attendance as a boy. Yes, I attend church weekly. I sit in the pew. I sing the songs. But it isn't the religion which moves me. Most of the time, I'm quite the agnostic. On my best days, I think there might just be a certain providence to the universe. On my worst... Well...
How can I make meaning of Aimee's life and death? She touched so many lives--as coach, counselor, friend, sister, scholarship hall director, residence hall assistant, classmate, teammate, daughter, mother, wife--in her life. No one who met Ziggs walked away without feeling her light. I could easily shake my fists at the sky and cry out, howl my most primal syllables, shout hate and anger at God for taking Aimee from us.
But somehow, impossibly, I find myself being thankful she spent thirteen years of her life in my presence. I find myself being thankful someone so wonderful walked with me and shared so much with the people she touched. I think of the alternative--never knowing Aimee at all--and realize, no matter how Aimee left us and how awful her suffering, my world would be a far paler place had she never lived at all. It's an awfully hard truth, but truth none the less.
We all must die someday. It has inspired much art, literature, and human history. We have no power to prevent our eventual deaths, no matter how we fight it with modern medicine and science. I will always hurt to think of how Aimee left the world, but I can still find joy that she was here--that she loved so many so well and helped the world be better.
How can we reconcile such beauty with such pain? How can life have meaning in the face of horrors? Sometimes, I wish the answer were easy. Other times, I acknowledge meaning is made in the midst of struggle, not in leisure and ease.
A friend recently told me, "And somewhere, on the other side of those clashing realities is a bigger truth, that few people are willing to look for, because it's such a painful journey."
How true. Oh God, the journey is painful. But there are joys, too, and meaning in the interplay of the two. But finding that meaning isn't an easy path--no, it is a "painful journey."
In the song "Poor Jerusalem" from Jesus Christ Superstar, Jesus sings, "Neither you, Simon, nor the Fifty-Thousand... Understand what power is/Understand what glory is/Understand at all." This comes, if you aren't familiar with the show, just after Simon Zealotes exhorts Jesus to incite his mob of followers and overthrow Rome. Leave it to me to take a theological lesson from a '70s musical. (But a damn good one.)
Power isn't always what we think it is. Jesus finishes with the lines, "To conquer death, you only have to die," leaving Simon with a confused and troubled look on his face.
Here's one more thing I know:
Owen's soccer team lost a heartbreaking championship game on Saturday afternoon. They "outplayed" their opponents (many more shots on goal/time of possession), but with less than a minute left, the opposing team knocked in a sloppy shot, breaking a 1-1 tie. As Owen jogged across the field after coach's final speech, I gave him a big hug and merely said, "I'm proud of how hard you played."
We can't possibly "win" life. All we can do is play hard and give the best we have.
Yes, I'm powerless, but I can choose how I decide to live with my powerlessness.
I have none. Not where the universe is concerned, anyway.
What I can do, and really the only thing I can do, is choose how to live my life in the face of such horrific powerlessness. And it is horrific--no one, least of all Aimee Elizabeth Ziegler, should have suffered as she did. No one should die like she did. No little boys, innocent if a little precocious, should lose their mother. No husband should be forced to let his best friend go like this. No family should lose a loved one to a monster.
In the face of such horror, the path is not easy. I've never been a very religious man. Yes, I scored six consecutive years of perfect Sunday School attendance as a boy. Yes, I attend church weekly. I sit in the pew. I sing the songs. But it isn't the religion which moves me. Most of the time, I'm quite the agnostic. On my best days, I think there might just be a certain providence to the universe. On my worst... Well...
How can I make meaning of Aimee's life and death? She touched so many lives--as coach, counselor, friend, sister, scholarship hall director, residence hall assistant, classmate, teammate, daughter, mother, wife--in her life. No one who met Ziggs walked away without feeling her light. I could easily shake my fists at the sky and cry out, howl my most primal syllables, shout hate and anger at God for taking Aimee from us.
But somehow, impossibly, I find myself being thankful she spent thirteen years of her life in my presence. I find myself being thankful someone so wonderful walked with me and shared so much with the people she touched. I think of the alternative--never knowing Aimee at all--and realize, no matter how Aimee left us and how awful her suffering, my world would be a far paler place had she never lived at all. It's an awfully hard truth, but truth none the less.
We all must die someday. It has inspired much art, literature, and human history. We have no power to prevent our eventual deaths, no matter how we fight it with modern medicine and science. I will always hurt to think of how Aimee left the world, but I can still find joy that she was here--that she loved so many so well and helped the world be better.
How can we reconcile such beauty with such pain? How can life have meaning in the face of horrors? Sometimes, I wish the answer were easy. Other times, I acknowledge meaning is made in the midst of struggle, not in leisure and ease.
A friend recently told me, "And somewhere, on the other side of those clashing realities is a bigger truth, that few people are willing to look for, because it's such a painful journey."
How true. Oh God, the journey is painful. But there are joys, too, and meaning in the interplay of the two. But finding that meaning isn't an easy path--no, it is a "painful journey."
In the song "Poor Jerusalem" from Jesus Christ Superstar, Jesus sings, "Neither you, Simon, nor the Fifty-Thousand... Understand what power is/Understand what glory is/Understand at all." This comes, if you aren't familiar with the show, just after Simon Zealotes exhorts Jesus to incite his mob of followers and overthrow Rome. Leave it to me to take a theological lesson from a '70s musical. (But a damn good one.)
Power isn't always what we think it is. Jesus finishes with the lines, "To conquer death, you only have to die," leaving Simon with a confused and troubled look on his face.
Here's one more thing I know:
Owen's soccer team lost a heartbreaking championship game on Saturday afternoon. They "outplayed" their opponents (many more shots on goal/time of possession), but with less than a minute left, the opposing team knocked in a sloppy shot, breaking a 1-1 tie. As Owen jogged across the field after coach's final speech, I gave him a big hug and merely said, "I'm proud of how hard you played."
We can't possibly "win" life. All we can do is play hard and give the best we have.
Yes, I'm powerless, but I can choose how I decide to live with my powerlessness.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Hope is the Thing with Feathers; It's Also a Verb
I'm not a huge Emily Dickinson fan, but I do like image from "Hope is the Thing with Feathers"--hope brought to life as a bird. Hope is also an action, something we, as humans, can do. Something we should do.
In graduate school, I was fortunate enough to enroll in a course titled "Positive Psychology". The first lesson: most of the historical study of psychology has been focused on finding what's wrong with a person rather than what is right. Positive psychology turns the focus to what is right with a person--protective factors and strengths one might possess, just as a physically healthy person might be able to run several miles or compete at a high level in a given sport. Everyone has strengths and weaknesses--positive psychology attempts to recognize strengths. Hope is one of those strengths.
Research studies have shown hope can help you lead a healthy, fulfilled life. Hopeful college students are more likely to obtain degrees. Hopeful public school students are more likely to score high marks and graduate at the top of their classes. I didn't need a class to explain what I knew at the core of my being--hope can pull you through some hard times.
Hope consists of agency and pathways, the willpower and the waypower to make something happen. Hopeful people have the energy--agency--and can find ways--pathways--to make their dreams real.
Aimee's death has knocked me down, hard. Once, I hoped for a family and a long, happy life with the vibrant young woman I met in front of the post office. When Aimee was sick, that same hope pulled me through, helped me do what I could to take care of her. She lived life with hope--hope for me, for the boys, for her friends and family. I'd like to think she never gave up hope. I proud of the way we fought together, and no illness can tarnish my cherished memories.
I'm slowly building hope again--hope for my boys, our future, our family, my future... Things I never imagined putting together without Aimee. I also have hope for her legacy and memory. She spread so much hope and love, it can't help but continue.
Hope is a special kind of inoculation; it can't take away Aimee's death or her illness, but it can help with the way forward. I know Aimee would want us all to continue with as much hope as we can muster.
In graduate school, I was fortunate enough to enroll in a course titled "Positive Psychology". The first lesson: most of the historical study of psychology has been focused on finding what's wrong with a person rather than what is right. Positive psychology turns the focus to what is right with a person--protective factors and strengths one might possess, just as a physically healthy person might be able to run several miles or compete at a high level in a given sport. Everyone has strengths and weaknesses--positive psychology attempts to recognize strengths. Hope is one of those strengths.
Research studies have shown hope can help you lead a healthy, fulfilled life. Hopeful college students are more likely to obtain degrees. Hopeful public school students are more likely to score high marks and graduate at the top of their classes. I didn't need a class to explain what I knew at the core of my being--hope can pull you through some hard times.
Hope consists of agency and pathways, the willpower and the waypower to make something happen. Hopeful people have the energy--agency--and can find ways--pathways--to make their dreams real.
Aimee's death has knocked me down, hard. Once, I hoped for a family and a long, happy life with the vibrant young woman I met in front of the post office. When Aimee was sick, that same hope pulled me through, helped me do what I could to take care of her. She lived life with hope--hope for me, for the boys, for her friends and family. I'd like to think she never gave up hope. I proud of the way we fought together, and no illness can tarnish my cherished memories.
I'm slowly building hope again--hope for my boys, our future, our family, my future... Things I never imagined putting together without Aimee. I also have hope for her legacy and memory. She spread so much hope and love, it can't help but continue.
Hope is a special kind of inoculation; it can't take away Aimee's death or her illness, but it can help with the way forward. I know Aimee would want us all to continue with as much hope as we can muster.
Monday, May 14, 2012
The Road Less Traveled
Aimee and I enjoyed hiking--especially in National Parks. Our National Park map still hangs in our basement, framed and laminated with colorful push pins for each member of the family. The pins indicate where we've been.
In 2000, Aimee and I took a trek to Yellowstone National Park, otherwise known as "Disneyland of National Parks," meaning it's rather crowded and overflowing with RVs. Yes, we drove to Yellowstone in my tiny Honda Civic (and that, my friends, was quite a road trip). We brought most of our food in a big cooler. We camped for a week and found plenty of less-traveled paths (with the help of a few nice park rangers).
Aimee had a nose for water. She climbed onto countless rocks in the middle of mountain streams while I stood on the shore, exhorting her to be safe. Here she is in a common moment of contemplation. In the scrapbook, I wrote a simple note on a Post-it: the road less-traveled.
And that was Aimee's life as I knew her. She never took the easy path--helping start a grant-funded mental health program for kids in local schools, coaching high school sports (and later her sons in soccer and basketball), spending a week each summer at Anytown (a diversity/leadership camp for teens). She even listened to all of my crazy dreams and laughed when she found scraps of paper scribbled with story ideas.
I like this picture more than any other from Yellowstone. I like to imagine what she was thinking, or maybe that she wasn't thinking at all--just letting the water pass beneath her. It's a peaceful thought.
In 2000, Aimee and I took a trek to Yellowstone National Park, otherwise known as "Disneyland of National Parks," meaning it's rather crowded and overflowing with RVs. Yes, we drove to Yellowstone in my tiny Honda Civic (and that, my friends, was quite a road trip). We brought most of our food in a big cooler. We camped for a week and found plenty of less-traveled paths (with the help of a few nice park rangers).
Aimee had a nose for water. She climbed onto countless rocks in the middle of mountain streams while I stood on the shore, exhorting her to be safe. Here she is in a common moment of contemplation. In the scrapbook, I wrote a simple note on a Post-it: the road less-traveled.
I like this picture more than any other from Yellowstone. I like to imagine what she was thinking, or maybe that she wasn't thinking at all--just letting the water pass beneath her. It's a peaceful thought.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
For Mother's Day
This message is for men on Mother's Day, a message in honor of Aimee.
Guys, I'll keep it brief: if you have kids--and I don't care if you are divorced, estranged, never married--find your baby mama and go tell her how amazing she is. Now (as in as soon as you finish reading this post). Find your own mom and tell her how amazing she is, too. See a mom on the street with her kids, wish her a happy Mother's Day and tell her how amazing she is. They're all pretty damn amazing.
The truth? None of us would be here without our mothers. If you're a dad, you wouldn't be a dad without a woman who carried your kid for nine months. Anyone who has witnessed childbirth--the everyday miracle--knows women kick much ass in the toughness department.We say these things often ("you wouldn't be here without your mother"), but we seldom take the time or mental energy to really process what it means.
After you tell her how amazing she is, make sure you take care of her. Not just today, but everyday. Not in some creepy Promise Keepers kind of way, either (that's not my message). Just be good to her. Support her. Burn copies of Time Magazine's Are You Mom Enough? issue on the street just to let people know that yes, your baby mama is more than mom enough.
They all are.
Guys, I'll keep it brief: if you have kids--and I don't care if you are divorced, estranged, never married--find your baby mama and go tell her how amazing she is. Now (as in as soon as you finish reading this post). Find your own mom and tell her how amazing she is, too. See a mom on the street with her kids, wish her a happy Mother's Day and tell her how amazing she is. They're all pretty damn amazing.
The truth? None of us would be here without our mothers. If you're a dad, you wouldn't be a dad without a woman who carried your kid for nine months. Anyone who has witnessed childbirth--the everyday miracle--knows women kick much ass in the toughness department.We say these things often ("you wouldn't be here without your mother"), but we seldom take the time or mental energy to really process what it means.
After you tell her how amazing she is, make sure you take care of her. Not just today, but everyday. Not in some creepy Promise Keepers kind of way, either (that's not my message). Just be good to her. Support her. Burn copies of Time Magazine's Are You Mom Enough? issue on the street just to let people know that yes, your baby mama is more than mom enough.
They all are.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Crushing Stigmas, Smashing Stereotypes, Remembering with Courage
This is the big one. It's been brewing for a while.
My honesty, my frankness, might make some people uncomfortable. That's okay. Aimee's dead, and I know she wouldn't want anyone to be complacent about life. I'm not about to shame her memory by being a coward.
Aimee suffered from postpartum depression and psychosis. While postpartum depression is widely recognized (some studies show as many as one in eight women suffer some depression after childbirth), postpartum psychosis is much more frightening and seldom discussed. Postpartum Support International has a good overview of the condition at their website. You'll note it is a rare illness, affecting around 1/10th of 1% of new mothers.
It's a scary damn disease, too, and one which has too much stigma attached. Aimee never spoke of her bouts with psychosis by name--it was always her postpartum depression or postpartum trouble. It breaks my heart she couldn't call the monster by its real name.
And it is a monster.
I am a trained school counselor with a master's degree in counseling psychology. Aimee was a licensed clinical social worker. We both knew mental illness did not define a person. Aimee was not the psychosis, just as a cancer patient is not a tumor or one with a broken leg is not a broken bone. All the same, mental health issues carry such baggage--so many stereotypes. Aimee was the most vibrant person I've ever known when she was healthy. I still can't fathom what she saw in this small town Kansas boy when she agreed to marry me.
She first struggled about nine months after Owen's birth. It came on slowly with typical depressive symptoms, but slowly morphed into something more hideous. She spent a week in inpatient psychiatric care for the first time in June, 2004. With medication and rest, she recovered. Mostly. Such an experience leaves scars, even if you can't see them.
After Max was born, the psychosis came with a tiger's ferocity. I woke on August 1st, 2006 to a stranger in my bed. She spent her second stint in psychiatric care and navigated a shaky three months before being hospitalized again in November, 2006.
Her recovery was slow. The old Aimee--the most vibrant person I've ever known--never fully returned, at least not to those who were around her most. It breaks my already-shattered heart to write this, but I never stopped loving her. I never stopped caring for her. That is not how I operate--or ever could operate. When I took a vow--to honor and care for her in sickness and in health--in front of God and everyone, I meant it. I'm stubborn that way. I love that way.
Aimee always wanted another child. I was afraid.She never felt our family was complete.
She told me she was pregnant with Elliot last spring. I cried. A cannonball settled in my gut, a cannonball of ice and rusty nails. I steeled myself for the journey ahead. With her history of postpartum psychosis, chances were very great she'd have a relapse.
Nearly four months after Elliot's birth, she did.
Here's what I want you to understand: Aimee was not her illness just as my father, who died as a result of a malignant brain tumor and subsequent treatment, was not the cancer.
If I can help one person have the courage to seek help when they need it--I know Aimee would want that. I know she would.This post is the first step.It's the truth. If Aimee showed me anything, it was how to be brave. I'm not sure what the next step is--but I'm not going to be quiet about Aimee. I'm not going to dishonor her memory by being a coward.
My honesty, my frankness, might make some people uncomfortable. That's okay. Aimee's dead, and I know she wouldn't want anyone to be complacent about life. I'm not about to shame her memory by being a coward.
Aimee suffered from postpartum depression and psychosis. While postpartum depression is widely recognized (some studies show as many as one in eight women suffer some depression after childbirth), postpartum psychosis is much more frightening and seldom discussed. Postpartum Support International has a good overview of the condition at their website. You'll note it is a rare illness, affecting around 1/10th of 1% of new mothers.
It's a scary damn disease, too, and one which has too much stigma attached. Aimee never spoke of her bouts with psychosis by name--it was always her postpartum depression or postpartum trouble. It breaks my heart she couldn't call the monster by its real name.
And it is a monster.
I am a trained school counselor with a master's degree in counseling psychology. Aimee was a licensed clinical social worker. We both knew mental illness did not define a person. Aimee was not the psychosis, just as a cancer patient is not a tumor or one with a broken leg is not a broken bone. All the same, mental health issues carry such baggage--so many stereotypes. Aimee was the most vibrant person I've ever known when she was healthy. I still can't fathom what she saw in this small town Kansas boy when she agreed to marry me.
She first struggled about nine months after Owen's birth. It came on slowly with typical depressive symptoms, but slowly morphed into something more hideous. She spent a week in inpatient psychiatric care for the first time in June, 2004. With medication and rest, she recovered. Mostly. Such an experience leaves scars, even if you can't see them.
After Max was born, the psychosis came with a tiger's ferocity. I woke on August 1st, 2006 to a stranger in my bed. She spent her second stint in psychiatric care and navigated a shaky three months before being hospitalized again in November, 2006.
Her recovery was slow. The old Aimee--the most vibrant person I've ever known--never fully returned, at least not to those who were around her most. It breaks my already-shattered heart to write this, but I never stopped loving her. I never stopped caring for her. That is not how I operate--or ever could operate. When I took a vow--to honor and care for her in sickness and in health--in front of God and everyone, I meant it. I'm stubborn that way. I love that way.
Aimee always wanted another child. I was afraid.She never felt our family was complete.
She told me she was pregnant with Elliot last spring. I cried. A cannonball settled in my gut, a cannonball of ice and rusty nails. I steeled myself for the journey ahead. With her history of postpartum psychosis, chances were very great she'd have a relapse.
Nearly four months after Elliot's birth, she did.
Here's what I want you to understand: Aimee was not her illness just as my father, who died as a result of a malignant brain tumor and subsequent treatment, was not the cancer.
If I can help one person have the courage to seek help when they need it--I know Aimee would want that. I know she would.This post is the first step.It's the truth. If Aimee showed me anything, it was how to be brave. I'm not sure what the next step is--but I'm not going to be quiet about Aimee. I'm not going to dishonor her memory by being a coward.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
So This is Anger
Evidently there is a bit of controversy as to whether grief comes in loose "stages" or not. News to me. I'm not really operating on anyone's schedule, as my own grief is my own, regardless of what this smart fellow might say (Dr. George Bonanno). Sure, you've studied thousands of people--and not one of them was me. (this, my friends, is a fundamental flaw in most of psychology--it can speak to trends or general behaviors, but not much to individuals) I know what I feel and how I'm working through my experience. I know I miss Aimee. I know that losing one's wife sucks at 37, and would most likely suck at any age.
Emotions are what they are. I can't help but cry--and, during the last two days, shout and howl at the universe. Yes, I've been angry lately. Is it a stage? I don't know, but it's real. I'm angry.
As in "HULK SMASH" angry. I feel it in my bones. My skin itches with it.
The thing about this anger, the really tough thing, is that it isn't directed at anyone or anything in particular. I'm just angry. Angry my life is what it is right now. Angry I don't get to hug Aimee again, or give her another back massage, or just laugh with her. Angry my kids don't have a mommy (in the physical sense). Angry people have to spend their sympathy on me (although I appreciate every good thought and all the help). I'm just angry.
Anger isn't fun. It's not my natural place. I don't want to be angry for long, and that's why I'm writing about it.
Stage? I don't know. I do know it won't last forever.
Nothing does.
Yes, Dr. Bonanno, I will rebound. I am resilient, as all healthy adults can be.
Right now though... right now I'm pissed off.
Emotions are what they are. I can't help but cry--and, during the last two days, shout and howl at the universe. Yes, I've been angry lately. Is it a stage? I don't know, but it's real. I'm angry.
As in "HULK SMASH" angry. I feel it in my bones. My skin itches with it.
The thing about this anger, the really tough thing, is that it isn't directed at anyone or anything in particular. I'm just angry. Angry my life is what it is right now. Angry I don't get to hug Aimee again, or give her another back massage, or just laugh with her. Angry my kids don't have a mommy (in the physical sense). Angry people have to spend their sympathy on me (although I appreciate every good thought and all the help). I'm just angry.
Anger isn't fun. It's not my natural place. I don't want to be angry for long, and that's why I'm writing about it.
Stage? I don't know. I do know it won't last forever.
Nothing does.
Yes, Dr. Bonanno, I will rebound. I am resilient, as all healthy adults can be.
Right now though... right now I'm pissed off.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
A Brief History of Sunflowers
A couple of pictures from the vault today: the first Aimee and I took with sunflowers nearly thirteen years ago.
Aimee surrounded by the yellow blooms wearing her Sunflower Bike Shop t-shirt. How appropriate.
Yes, that's me, baby face and all, sniffing a sunflower. Look how non-grey my hair was back then. And no, sunflowers don't really have a lovely flower fragrance. To take the picture, Aimee asked me to climb a little mound and stand in the middle of the flowers. I paid for my compliance with tiny cuts and hives on my arms and legs. She framed my picture (the one above) and kept it on her nightstand until the day she died.
After that first adventure, we took family photos with sunflowers each year. Usually, we'd pose with random "dirt mound" flowers--the small ones from the pictures above which litter Kansas in late summer. A few times we found commercial fields of sunflowers, the big, fat-headed blooms harvested for seeds or floral arrangements. Sunflowers are stubborn plants, and the wild ones crop up anywhere they can find open soil.
Sunflowers held special meaning for us. I painted an arrangement of sunflowers for Aimee's wedding gift. When we honeymooned in Ireland and I started feeling a little homesick, Aimee found a flower shop in Cork and bought me a sunflower. The boys and I made her a triptych of flowers one year for Mothers' Day.
We'll take a family photo this fall, the boys and I in a cluster of yellow, and share memories of sunflowers past.
Yes, that's me, baby face and all, sniffing a sunflower. Look how non-grey my hair was back then. And no, sunflowers don't really have a lovely flower fragrance. To take the picture, Aimee asked me to climb a little mound and stand in the middle of the flowers. I paid for my compliance with tiny cuts and hives on my arms and legs. She framed my picture (the one above) and kept it on her nightstand until the day she died.
After that first adventure, we took family photos with sunflowers each year. Usually, we'd pose with random "dirt mound" flowers--the small ones from the pictures above which litter Kansas in late summer. A few times we found commercial fields of sunflowers, the big, fat-headed blooms harvested for seeds or floral arrangements. Sunflowers are stubborn plants, and the wild ones crop up anywhere they can find open soil.
Sunflowers held special meaning for us. I painted an arrangement of sunflowers for Aimee's wedding gift. When we honeymooned in Ireland and I started feeling a little homesick, Aimee found a flower shop in Cork and bought me a sunflower. The boys and I made her a triptych of flowers one year for Mothers' Day.
We'll take a family photo this fall, the boys and I in a cluster of yellow, and share memories of sunflowers past.
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