my lucky day

May 27th is a particularly lucky day for me.  On May 27, 2006, I met my husband.  On May 27, 2007, he asked me to marry him.  On May 27, 2008, I found out I was pregnant with our baby girl.  Obviously you can see why I celebrate the end of May, but I can tell you that it didn’t start out that way.

I went on my first date six months after my first husband died.  I know, that sounds wayyyyy tooooo early!  But, I had sound reasoning behind my decision.  I needed to meet new people.  My inner circle was so full of sorrow for me and my grief; they were so full of desire to help and their need to show support, that I began to feel unhealthy in my own life.  I was a young widow, and I was in danger of assuming that role for decades to come.  What if widowhood wasn’t just a chapter in my life, what if it was my entire book?  I felt desperate to ensure that I got unstuck.  I was determined to heal and decided the best way to start was to do the one thing I was most terrified of doing, dating.

I joined Match.com, and I signed up for a service called It’s Just Lunch, where I got set up for lunch dates a couple of times a month.  I had many first dates, and then, like a teenager, I never returned their calls.  In May a friend phoned and wanted to introduce me to Tim.  She invited both of us to a dinner party to see if we clicked.

Frankly, we didn’t talk much that night.  Still, I wasn’t completely surprised when he called me a few days later.

After a bit of small talk, Tim said, “So I don’t really know much about you; I mean except that you’re a tragic widow.”

A tragic widow?  A TRAGIC WIDOW!  “I’m not a tragic widow,” I snapped.  “And my children are definitely not tragic.”  I didn’t come right out and call Tim an asshole, but I implied it with my tone.

“So why did you agree to see him again?” you ask.

That is a very good question.  I agreed to see him again because of my girlfriend, Alex.  Alex was at the party the night I met Tim.  The next day she called me and said, “He’s totally your type.”

“What type is that?” I asked.

“If you went running across train tracks and fell just as the train approached, Tim looks like the kinda guy who would sprint to your side, scoop you up, and throw you out of the way.  That is totally your type.”

“Oh God, that IS totally my type!”

So I agreed to have dinner with Tim because he had massive biceps and looked strong enough to launch me off train tracks.

Still, it was not love at first sight.  Tim claims I didn’t talk for three weeks, and that is not completely untrue.  I am a bit shy and a rather hard nut to crack.  Tim, on the other hand, is a man with strong opinions and a strong sense of self.  He is easily irritated by stupidity, and unfortunately for him, the world is rather stupid.  Tim was like a pissed-off Energizer Bunny, with O.C.D. and a touch of road rage.  While he spent the first month waiting for me to talk, I spent the first month waiting for him to calm down.  Still, I kept seeing him because he had that bicep thing, and he kept seeing me because he felt obligated not to crush the spirit of the tragic widow, plus we made each other laugh.  We still laugh A LOT!

As weeks turned into months, we stayed together.  After that first summer Tim said, “I believe all women are crazy and eventually, given enough time, they will unpack their crazy and show you just how insane they are.  Then, a guy has to decide whether he can live with that level of dysfunction.  I keep waiting for you to unpack your crazy, but now I realize you are completely up-front with your insanity.”

“Yes,” I said.  “All my crazy was unpacked by our third date.  And I keep waiting for you to chill out, but now I accept that you are simply not capable of relaxation.”

And we lived happily ever after.

paper trail

After my mom died, I hauled three big boxes of paperwork out of her house.  These boxes have been sitting in my garage, waiting for me to sort through them; a task I have been avoiding for almost a year.

I believe my mother was either a lawyer in a previous life or an accused felon because through the paperwork she kept she can prove her whereabouts for virtually every day of her life.  Neatly organized by year, my mother kept every receipt, estimate, manual, and report.  Have you ever purchased something and while throwing away the warranty card wondered who actually fills those cards out?  The answer is: my mother!  If my mother purchased a lawn mower with a five-year warranty, and it broke down after four years and eleven months, she could pull out the manual, the receipt, and the name of the salesman who sold it to her.  By the way, if your name is Joe and you worked at Sears in 1982, I apologize on behalf of my entire family.  According to my mother’s notes, she phoned you three times to complain about a faulty weed whacker

It was hard not to feel sentimental when I began the sorting process.  Ah, there is my mom’s handwriting.  Look, my dad’s high school diploma.  But eventually I took a more practical approach.  Do I really need my parents tax return from 1963? (In case you are curious, they earned a combined $10, 941 that year.  My mom as a bank teller and my dad as a high school history teacher.)  Or how about my brother’s preschool evaluation?  Apparently he was very good a pasting.  I found my vaccination report from 1970, so I can mark worry about Rubella off my list.  I can prove I was baptized, I can prove I was adopted, and I can prove that on September 8, 1987 my parents both had the halibut for dinner at Steamers.  I can also tell you my brother’s SAT scores from 1985, which proves he is not nearly as smart as he thinks he is.

It was weird going through the minutia of my parent’s life together, decades of bills, receipts, and contracts.  But in the midst of the mounds of documentation, there were treasures.  A letter from my grandmother to my brother on his ninth birthday declaring him a dream come true, and a note from 1971 in my mom’s handwriting telling a random babysitter that I like tuna fish for lunch, and I do not like the bedroom door closed when I fall asleep.  How about my dad’s college transcripts? I had no idea he failed psychology.  Had I known that thirty years ago, it would have come in handy.

In the end, I shredded ninety-nine percent of the boxes contents.  You simply can’t carry around decades of tax returns and notes on plumbing repairs, and now that it is over, I am glad the boxes are gone.  Still, journeying through my parent’s paper trail was not a bad way to spend an afternoon.

 

loss

I woke up sick this morning.  I have a cough, a bit of a fever.  My head hurts, and my shoulders ache.  I get dizzy when I stand up, and I want to call my mom.

I want to call my mom and tell her I don’t feel well.  I want to describe every ache and pain.  I want to tell her that Cole is learning to drive, and Ella threw a fit in the middle of swim lessons.  I want to tell her that Meg is taking the SATs in a few weeks and that her team lost their last soccer game.

I want to call my mom and tell her that it’s raining.  I want to tell her I bought her a Mother’s Day present.  Ella taught herself how to whistle and my dishwasher is on the fritz.

I want to call my mom and tell her I have a dentist appointment next week and our dog got his spring hair cut.  I want to tell her my car needs an oil change and Cole pulled his grade up in science.  I want to tell her that Tim fixed the truck tire; he’s swamped at work; I have a new tomato soup recipe.

I want to call my mom, but I can’t.

Some mornings loss throws herself in front of you and trips you up.  Some mornings loss is that itch you can’t scratch, that connection you simply can’t make.  Some mornings you just want to call your mom, and when you realize you can’t, you are left crying in front of your computer wondering how you will turn your morning around.

one old truck

My first husband, Scott, had an old Ford, F-150.  The truck is not so old that it has become collectible or in any way unique.  No power windows, no power door locks, no CD player; but she is strong, dependable, and reliable in a crunch.  That old truck reminds me a lot of my husband.

When Scott died, I kept the pick-up.  In the days after the loss, I would climb into the front seat, sit alone, and let the numbness wash over me.  Other times I would slam the door and cry or curse depending on my mood, but I rarely drove it, and as the months and years passed, the truck sat mostly vacant and idle in the driveway.

When I met my second husband, Tim, he bonded with the truck.  He changed the oil, bought new tires, had the dent fixed where the mailbox had T-boned me one hectic morning years prior.  He washed her, waxed her, steam-cleaned the interior, and he drove her (apparently it is not good to let a vehicle sit too long without being run. Who knew?)

That old truck has hauled dirt, and gravel, and camping gear.  Furniture, dogs, and children.  She is a one-ton pick-up but one miraculous afternoon, Tim loaded her with a ton and a half of flagstone, and she carried it without complaint.

I like to think that the two men I love most have bonded over that old Ford.  They have gotten to know each other through that truck, created a relationship, and an understanding.  They both saw her value and her beauty.  They both cared for her, admired her.  Both of these amazing men have repaired her and me.

happy birthday, Dad

My dad, brother, and me. 1978

Today is my father’s birthday.  If he were alive, he would turn eighty today.  To honor my dad, I am going to link his eulogy

and re-publish his obituaty.  My father was an impressive man who left this world a better place.  Happy birthday, Dad!  Long live the Yankees, cold beer, and your legacy.

Ed Fallon, of Tacoma, Washington, passed on May sixteenth at the age of 78.  The son of Ed and Leona Fallon, Ed grew up in Colton and Spokane, Washington where he attended Gonzaga High School and graduated from Gonzaga University in 1957. He is a veteran of the United States Army and served in the Korean War.  In 1963, Ed married Carol Johnson of Sumner, Washington.  They had two children, Neil and Kate.

He began his teaching and coaching career at St. Gertrude’s School in Cottonwood, Idaho, where he worked as the only male with a staff of twenty-five nuns.  This would be his first stop in his 37 year career in education.  Ed moved on to coach football and baseball at Rosalia and Orting High Schools.  While at Orting, his football team won back-to-back Class A football championships.  In 1966, he moved to Bellarmine Preparatory School to build a football program for a school that had not won a championship since 1947.  Under Ed’s guidance, the team won the Tacoma City League Championship in 1971 and repeated in 1972.

In 1972, Ed became the Vice President of Student Activities and Athletic Director at Bellarmine, a position he would hold until his retirement in 1993.  In his decades at Bellarmine, Ed spearheaded the drive to improve facilities and athletics, and lead Bellarmine to become the first co-ed Jesuit high school in the world.  Along with opening the doors for female students, Ed built a fiercely competitive girls’ athletic program.  He established policies allowing girls equal practice time, budgets, and recognition.  In addition, he developed a stipend scale that paid both the girls’ and boys’ coaches equally.

Ed was a member of WSSAAA, NIAAA, and WACA.  As a past president of the Tacoma Athletic Commission, he was instrumental in developing the “Athlete of the Month,” and “TAC Athlete of the Year” awards.  In 1997, he was inducted into the Washington Athletic Administrators Hall of Fame.  In 2006, he was presented with the Robert Bellarmine Award for his distinguished career in education.

Ed is survived by his wife of 48 years, Carol Fallon, his children, Neil and Kate, three grandchildren, and brother, Robert Fallon.  He was predeceased by his brother Mark Fallon on May 13, 2011.

happy birthday Mom

Today would have been my mother’s seventy-eight birthday.  I made cupcakes in her honor, and later I plan to eat two or three or four.  I basically plan to eat cupcakes until my stomach hurts worse than my heart.

Delicious cupcakes which I do not plan on sharing.

To pay tribute to my mom, I am going to share a funny family story.  If you knew my mom, think about her today and laugh a little.

The Ceiling Incident:

I never liked the attic.  It was filled with fluffy black insulation, like cotton candy from a horror film, and it smelled like dust and ghost breath.  Rough sheets of plywood had been nailed to the support beams thus creating a narrow walkway that lead back to a larger area where my mom stored boxes of Halloween costumes, old photos, and the giant hunks of wood that were used in the dining room at Thanksgiving to make the table longer.  My brother liked playing up there; the mad scientist lab or bank robber hideout.  But I was uninterested and rarely ventured up, so when my mother instructed me to go get the Christmas tree lights, I was relieved when my dad answered, “I’ll get ‘em.”  But moments later, we heard a loud tearing noise followed by a bellow and several curses.  My dad had slipped from the attic path and his entire left leg was dangling through the ceiling in the center of the dining room.

“Ed,” my mother yelled.  “Are you OK?”

“Fine,” he barked.  “I’m stuck.”  His foot wiggled as he tried to gain leverage.  Not-so-muffled curses followed.

My mom giggled, muted at first, then louder.  Turning to me she said, “Maybe we should leave him there.  We could hang a picture frame around his leg and call it modern art.”  She snorted, unable to stop her laughter until a trickle of blood made its way down my father’s leg.  “Ed,” she ordered.  “If you bleed on my new carpet, so help me. . .”

As my mother snapped useless advice, my father continued to struggle, pumping his leg up and down trying to jerk it free.  Eventually, the drywall opened up, he popped his leg through, and made his way downstairs only slightly injured.

For the next decade, the hole in the dining room ceiling remained patched with silver duct tape.  In my early twenties, while sitting for Easter dinner, I finally asked, “Dad, when are you going to get the hole in the ceiling fixed?”

“It’s healing,” he said.

I was raised Catholic, and for the next few years I jokingly said holiday prayers for the ceiling to heal.  At some point in the early nineties, my mother hired a carpenter.  “He was like Jesus,” she smiled.  “He was a carpenter, and he answered our prayers.”

grief mountain

I was asked recently about how I managed after Scott died.  Apparently, to the outside world, it appears as if I have a bit of grace when it comes to grief.  Ha!

I think of grief as a mountain you have to climb.  Some people take decades to get to the other side;others do it quickly, like ripping off a bandaid.

August 15, 1992

I believe, when it came to losing my husband, I was relatively quick to climb the mountain.  Here’s why . . .

Six months after Scott died, I was alone in my house.  It was the middle of the night, and I had been crying for so long, I could not remember what it felt like to breathe freely.  I was drowning in a puddle I created.  I had reduced Scott’s love to a heavy ball of anguish, and I was slogging it around like I cornered the market on sorrow.  What’s worse is that I was teaching our children that pain was all we had left of him.  I hid inside my grief, and I called it honor.  I was a fool.

From that moment, it didn’t take me years or even many months.  It took me one second to decide to try something different.  It was like grabbing an ice ax, strapping on crampons, and climbing straight up the face of a glacier.  I immersed myself in the business of grief; I read books, talked a lot, listened to music, and confronted myself and my fears.  It was an exhausting reality check, but the view from the top was exhilarating.  I thought tackling grief mountain meant leaving Scott behind.  When the worst of my climb was over, I was shocked to find Scott waiting for me, my cheerleader, my biggest fan, my teammate still—like a high-five from heaven.

Here is the key take-away:  as soon as I decided everything was going to be OK, everything was miraculously OK.

August 4, 2007

And one more realization, I would climb a thousand mountains if I knew Tim, my second husband, was waiting on the other side.  A thousand times a thousand!

I know a guy who will do it for $250

Meg with King Oberon.
(King Oberon, March 1994 – January 2005)

Queen Elizabeth’s corgi has died and I feel sincerely bad about it.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/09/09/queen-elizabeth-corgi-dies_n_1868282.html?ir=World

I have lost lots of pets, and it’s awful every single time.  It’s a deeply unsettling feeling not to be able to hold a conversation with an ill pet.  You want to somehow reassure or prepare him for what lies ahead, but all you can really do is scratch him behind the ears and let him sleep on the sofa.  It’s simply not enough.

Many years ago, I had a black lab named King Oberon.  He was one hell of a dog, and I loved him very much.  When we found out he had cancer in his foot, we had a surgeon operate immediately, even though it was a ridiculously expensive procedure.  The operation proved to be unsuccessful in removing the cancer, and the veterinarian suggested we amputate Oberon’s toe.  We looked at our sick dog, we looked at the looming bill, and we were paralyzed by indecision.

My dad had a wide social circle, so he started asking around and found a country vet with a solid reputation who would do the surgery for a fraction of the cost.

“It’s not a complicated operation,” the veterinarian said.  “It will be two-hundred and fifty dollars to amputate the toe.”

Sold!  We made the appointment, and the procedure went off without a hitch.

Several years later my dad was in the hospital with a severe staph infection.

The doctor came in to discuss options.  “We are going to stick with our current course of treatment,” he said.  “But, if we don’t see substantial improvement soon, we may have to amputate the toe.”

“Hey, Dad,” I said, “That’s not a problem.  I know a guy who will do it for two-hundred and fifty bucks.”

My mother hid her face and used her church laugh, a wheezing giggle she emitted when she knew she was not supposed to laugh, but simply couldn’t help herself.

My dad turned to me. “You’re not funny,” he said.

I have measured my grief by the hour

A few days ago I phoned my Aunt Janet to check in and hear about end-of-summer plans.  She answered the phone and asked, “Honey, how are you?”

I burst into tears.  Two minutes before the phone call I was doing laundry, planning lunch in my head, feeling completely emotionally stable.  Something about her tone, the warmth in her voice, or the simple question, shoved the weight of my loss to the forefront.

Grief is a poor sport favoring low blows and side swipes.  Grief will kick you in the back and knock you to your knees when you are least expecting it.  On a random Tuesday morning, with an armload of clean laundry and a wiggling dog at your feet, you will think of your mother and fall apart.

There have been times in my life when I have measured my grief by the hour.  From noon until 1:00 I was fine, but from 1:00 to 2:15 I sat in the bathtub and sobbed.

Then suddenly you realized it has been years since your dad died, or your husband, or your sister.  Time has passed and the worst is over.  Grief loosens its grip.  You no longer get teary-eyed in the cereal aisle at the supermarket or sick to your stomach when you hear a particular song.

Time heals all wounds, so the cliché goes.  The wounds heal into thick, rough scares that we carry with us.