Even if I Am
Page 28
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I am doing well. I’m now in a place where there is no more confusion over why you left or why God took you from me. People have told me time heals all wounds. I disagree. Time gives you space and distance and understanding. There is still a scar, an eternal ache, but there is also a bandage of acceptance. I’m in a place where there is only peace and joy and perfect love and gratitude. And I thank God for those things again. I was mad at Him that first year, maybe even the second and third. He was distant and remote and I felt completely abandoned. But I trust in Him again. I told God the truth.
I told him I missed you and every time I thought the words, “miss you,” I cried. I’m not sure if that feeling will ever go away. I told Him that. The more I talked to Him, the more I cried, feeling every emotion I had collected along the way. I cried through every stage of grief and then back around again. Round and round. I’m not numb anymore. I am living, breathing, existing at my most raw. I am human and God is always right there. Right where I need Him to be. In my heart. In my love. In my you.
I have held on to a number of voicemail messages in my phone. I listen to them when I need a smile or reminder or something as simple as a voice. Today I erased a bunch of them, leaving me with two left. One is from you. I miss you, call me.
The other one is from someone you haven’t met. I think you’d like him, though. He reminds me of you in the way he can get me to laugh loud and sudden and squirt beer out of my nose. He feels like Minnesota in the winter of freshly chopped wood and hot cocoa. I feel lighter when he is around. And he makes excellent coffee. That has to count for something. No?
Like I said, a lot has happened in these five years. I’ve somehow made my way out of Los Angeles, out of the discontent, and headed east. Martha’s Vineyard is home these days and I can’t imagine a more ideal place from which to write to you today. It’s summer, it’s July, and I’m thinking of celebrating our wedding anniversary by sipping a Blue Moon on the dock of Menemsha, eating lobster with my friend Jessica. Don’t worry, I’ll get on a bike, too. I promise.
It feels like you’re near. Just beyond my reach. I like that feeling. Anyway, I should get back to coffee and listening to my friend chatter more about experiencing love, instead of trying to figure it all out. Maybe we can talk more tomorrow? I’ll continue the story from where we left off and tell you about our infamous bike ride the night we spread your ashes on Venice Beach. Today, I just wanted you to hear our love story again and know I wrote these words for you and no one else.
I miss you. It still makes me cry.
acknowledgments
Simply acknowledging each person listed below isn’t nearly enough gratitude.
I’ve considered getting “I ❤ York” tattooed on my butt, for I could never thank Royal York Funston enough. He believed in this story long before I did. His audio interviews are proof that his heart is pure gold, even if he can be a complete pain in the ass sometimes. To a fantastic artist and friend, I honestly couldn’t have done this without your help, York. Thank you.
When I borrowed $3000 from my dad and left all my belongings in my mother’s garage, telling my parents I’m moving to Martha’s Vineyard to write a book — their love and continued support were amazing to me.
To Gladys my dog, thank you for showing me absolute affection — and for growing old, even with cancer.
Gladys happily smiling in our backyard.
To my in-laws, I want you to know how much you mean to me now, and how much you meant to me then. Without your kindheartedness, I wouldn’t be smiling as bright as I am today.
Much gratitude to my editor, Sarah Cypher, for reminding me of the strength of perspective.
To the early readers: Jaclyn Thomas, Ann Peterson, Carin Zakes, Catherine Mayhew, Jessica Soleil, Julie Ragland and the remarkable writing group on Martha’s Vineyard — thank you for listening with open arms, ears and hearts.
To Jeff Sliney, thank you for editing the audio with great strength, and fine-tuning the details.
To a loving support group on Martha’s Vineyard. I know now, I am not alone in this journey.
To Tim and Kaethy, thank you for adopting me into your family.
A huge, “fat” love-filled thank you to the angels that fit into the title “Camp Mourn.”
To Zach, for being the perfect third wheel.
To Jay, thank you for honoring that first year, and for loving Glencoe as much as we did.
To Jane, thank you for helping me stand on my own two feet again.
To every person mentioned within this story, and those I’ve missed. I am so very proud to have you as a part of our story.
I’m struck by how the grace of God works in my life — Thank you, Grant, for meeting me for coffee and sharing your cancer experience.
Anthony, I hope I’ve told our story truthfully and lovingly… and babe, I miss you.