Me Reading the Signs

I love the movie Silver Linings Playbook. I love how messy the characters are, how beautifully they portray real life. Tiffany, the young widow of a police officer, encapsulates the immense messiness and confusion of grief that is exceptionally raw. She is a person trying to claw her way out of an awful situation, finding both mistakes and resiliency along the way. Her “crazy" counterpart, Pat, is concerned with reading the signs, finding the meaning in situations. He is trying to grasp some semblance of control over a chaotic world that can feel senseless.

I can relate to both characters in different ways. Their sadness, their rage, their attempts to make life better-- I see those things in myself.  I often find myself looking for the signs too. 

I recently read about another widow’s encounter with signs on one of my favorite blogs, One Fit Widow. She speaks of being awakened to the signs around her after her husband’s death, little moments that seem far too meaningful for coincidence. While I am actively struggling with God’s will, I have not lost faith in the signs that serve as a powerful reminder that Chris is not so far away. 

Chris in Leavenworth

The sign most significant, especially right now, is snow. Chris had a fondness for cool weather, and the beauty of snow. One of my favorite memories of our time together was cross country skiing in the little town of Leavenworth, surrounded by feet of snow (and some really great beer). Neither one of us really knew how to cross country ski, but we gave it a shot anyway. I had to borrow a too large puffy coat from the family coat closet for the trip, which I wore over my other winter gear as we walked around town apres ski. Chris had a good laugh at my cold intolerance and the ridiculous sight of me. It was a perfect winter adventure.

 

Cadet Chapel, January 27th, photo by Kristen Deem

The day we buried Chris, those memories came flooding back to me as I awoke to beautiful pristine snow covering the mountains near the Academy.  I should note, it had been in the 50s the days before, but had snowed through most of the night and stopped shortly before the service and burial, clearing up long enough for the HH60 flyover.  At the time, we joked about how funny Chris must find the snow and the freezing temperatures. Never one for much pomp and circumstance, the snow felt like his way of trying to thwart to ceremony of it all. The joke was not lost on us. 

Following the funeral, I flew out to Vancouver to be with his (my) family surrounding a celebration life service in his honor. Some of his high school friends organized a memorial run in honor of Chris the day before the service—a perfect tribute. The day of the run, it snowed, and snowed and snowed. We ran around the track at his old high school in roughly a foot of snow (after a mysterious wind gently opened the gate surrounding the track). While the PNW is known for cool, wet weather, the snowfall was a bit of an anomaly. Shortly after we were finished, the snow turned to freezing rain that didn't relent until the next day. Again, Chris thwarting too much ceremony. Miraculously, the sun started to break through the clouds immediately following the service.

Post memorial run photo

Throughout the spring, on my multiple trips to Colorado in March and April, it snowed during every visit. It also snowed on Veteran’s Day, our wedding anniversary, Christmas day (in Taos where I was staying), on New Year’s Day (Chris’s birthday) and on January 7^th, the day we lost Jolly 22. 

It is snowing today.

It snowed the day I left for Las Vegas (mid November) to run my first marathon post-Chris. My heart ached with sadness, wishing he could offer his usual encouragement, feeling a little defeated. That morning I saw a beautiful rainbow emerging from the snow covered horizon. A reminder that is he was watching.

Rainbows are the other big sign. We danced to Rainbow Connection as our first dance. The words, “someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers, and me,” take on a new meaning now. Until that someday appears, rainbows are a little hello when I need it most. 

       

The first lines of a poem by e.e. cummings are tattooed on my back, "except in your honour, my loveliest, nothing may move may rest." Further along the poem reads:

post hike, missing Chris, wishing for a sign

"so is your heart
alert,
of languages
there’s none
but well she knows;
and can
perfectly speak
(snowflake
and rainbow mind
and soul
november and
april)"

The language of snowflakes and rainbows is our language in a strange world, separated by death. It's like that poem was written for us.  

There are other strange things as well. The squawking bird before the accident briefing, the robin that lurked around my new house in Colorado throughout the summer, the HH60s that flew over my house shortly after moving in, getting lost during a race-- all little moments that make me feel less alone.

If it’s me reading the signs, I think it takes more than death to fully separate us from the people we love most. Some of Chris’s magic lingers in this world, reminding me of his love… and his sense of humor.  Those little moments are my silver lining in the face of grief. 

One of my favorite random signs-- so literal.

Farewell to 2014

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And auld lang syne? …

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,

And surely I'll be mine!

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne…

We twa hae run about the braes,

And pu'd the gowans fine;

But we've wandered mony a weary fit

Sin' auld lang syne…

We twa hae paidled i' the burn,

Frae morning sun till dine;

But seas between us braid hae roared

Sin' auld lang syne…

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere,

And gie's a hand o' thine!

And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught

For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.”

-Robert Frost

Bidding farewell to the most difficult year of my life is bittersweet. Almost one year ago, I could barely fathom how I would make it through the year, believing my heart would implode with grief. I am both grateful at the idea of ringing in a new season of life (a muddled combination of sadness and thriving in spite of the circumstances) and greatly saddened that I am letting go of the last year that Chris was a part of this (my) world, however briefly.

Instead of ushering in the hope of a new year, the season now stands as a reminder of the age Chris will never be. Each first of January will be another birthday he never reached. Nearly a year ago, the thought of observing the day was incomprehensible. But the day has come and gone, and I am still standing.

One of the greatest pieces of advice someone gave me was to not attach too much expectation to any given day or event. Don’t assign emotions to something that has yet to transpire. Chris inherently knew how to do this—I had to go through therapy and the grieving process to learn it. Even now, almost a year later, it’s still a day by day process in learning to be gracious toward myself and the way that I am grieving.

 Rather than create a day of sorrow for myself, I sought moments that made me feel connected to Chris—things he would have done. I ran a race that morning. And got lost. A feat Chris managed years earlier in his cross-country days. The moment I realized I had run the wrong direction (4 miles into what was supposed to be a 5k), I could only laugh and think of Chris.

I reveled at the snow that kept me from driving out to the cemetery that day. Snow has become one of the ways I feel Chris. It snowed at his funeral. It snowed every time I visited Colorado before I moved. It snowed on Veteran’s Day, on Christmas. It snowed the day I left for my marathon, when I longed the most for his encouragement. And it snowed on his birthday.

I drank a craft beer with his best friend and his wife that evening in honor of Chris. My own cup of kindness raised to the person who continues to inspire the best in me.

I am not certain what 2015 will hold. I am not holding any expectation other than to give it my best, grounded in the knowledge that I am just one of many people I know who have survived one of the most challenging and demanding years of our lives. Like a bad romance, we had our moment 2014, but I am glad to see you go.