Signs of Life

by Natalie Taylor

  “Daniel, do you still have a comment?” He shakes his head. I can see him smiling just a little. He just wanted to make sure he could do it. He wanted to make sure I wasn’t telling him that his dream of graduating from high school and college, maybe even his dream of becoming a doctor or an architect, wasn’t as far off as he thought. It isn’t.

  It’s odd how I connect with students now that I have this tragedy attached to me. Students just seem to be different around me than they were last year. Neil Michaels was in my ninth-grade English class two years ago. He was a mean kid. During our Lord of the Flies unit, I had to send him to the principal’s office a few times for calling a chubby kid in class “Piggy.” By the end of the first marking period, Neil had a 13 percent in the class.

  During Neil’s sophomore year he got himself into so many fights that he was kicked out of school. Shortly after that, his parents discovered that Neil, not even sixteen, was heavily into drugs and alcohol. They sent him away to a rehab facility for eight months.

  For this school year, Berkley High School let him have another shot. On the second day of school Neil stopped by my room. He had a completely different temperament about him; I could notice a change just by watching him walk through the doorway.

  He told me he heard about what happened to my husband this summer and he was so sorry. He asked about the baby and if I was nervous about being a single mom. He then told me all about rehab, the various problems he had along the way, and that he was so happy to be back at Berkley. He was relieved he’d been allowed back in. I told him it was good to see him and he nodded. He paused for a moment and I could tell he wanted to say something, maybe another comment about my situation or maybe an apology about being a jerk to me two years ago. But I cut him off. I didn’t need to hear either comment from him. I knew he felt both.

  “Neil, we all have something, ya know. We all have something we’re trying to get through. It sounds like you’re on your way to a better year. That’s awesome.”

  “Thanks,” he said quietly. “I hope things turn out all right for you and your baby.”

  “Thanks, Neil.” He waved and walked out the door.

  Last year I had nothing in common with Neil Michaels and I had nothing of value to say to students from single-parent or low-income homes. Certainly I tried to motivate students who had challenges, but it was difficult for me to connect in a profound way with students whose lives were so drastically different from my own. I had a great life with no real obstacles ahead of me. Despite a few minor issues, my life was easy.

  Four months after losing Josh, I know that my life will never be as easy as it was. I can’t say that I’ve reached acceptance, but I understand the reality of what has happened to me. I know that there are people who have to deal with real issues, real problems that statistically set them behind or below others. I am now one of those people. And although I’d rather not be, although I would do anything and give up anything to go back to how it was, I know that I can’t. So I’ll do my best from down here. Daniel Stevenson, Adam Dolman, Neil Michaels, and I are going to do our best with what we have. The one comfort that all of us can take is that we are not the only people on the planet who have something to swim against. We are not alone in our battle to disprove a statistic.

  • • •

  One of the big things I’ve realized in the last four months is that I am unable to do anything without detaching it from the fact that I am a widow. I can’t watch television, listen to a song, drive a car, see a movie, or do anything without having the death of my husband as the primary thought in my head.

  For example, I just finished watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. I used to think that Ty Pennington was really the only man on the planet who could be compared to Josh. Ty seems like he could fix anything around the house, he knows how to build stuff, he has really good design ideas, and he looks like he is an incredibly generous and caring person. I always thought Josh could be the host of this TV show. He would be just as charismatic and energetic. At one point while job hunting, Josh and I actually discussed if we could somehow get him to be the next Ty Pennington. After Josh died, I had this vision that I would get Deedee’s house on Extreme Makeover. They would just gut the hell out of it and turn it into a million-dollar home. While filming, Ty would see my selflessness in wanting the best for my mother-in-law and he would hear my story and be moved by my courage and strength as a mother. He would develop a secret love for me and in one of his confessionals on the camera, while he was making some sincere comment about the strength of the family—you know how he does that—he would say, “And that Natalie. Wow, she sure is something.” Weeks later he would call me and say that he built a hand-crafted bassinet or something for the baby and the next thing you know we’re on Oprah being interviewed about our relationship and Sears is remodeling our kitchen for free.

  But tonight I realize two things while watching the Brown family run and scream through their new house.

  1. Deedee could never be on Extreme Makeover. The part where they let the families run through the house is really the best part of the show because we realize how grateful the family is. They cry and clap their hands and say endearing things like “We’ve never had a dishwasher before!” The little girl who dreams of being a ballerina runs into her room and sees her new dance studio and starts to cry and you really think, wow, these people really deserve this. And you’re happy for them. At least I’m happy for them. But with Deedee, it would get to this part of the show and it would be a disaster. She would be doing the walk-through and she would get to the kitchen and she wouldn’t be able to hide anything. She would say something like “You know I really envisioned oak cabinets in here. I mean, I like the white. The white is nice. I had just pictured oak.” Then they would take her into the laundry room and she would have a whole new washer and dryer set, a beautiful storage system, closets for linens, and she would say, “Oh.” Pause. “Oh, you painted over my stencils on the wall. Okay.” Pause … pause (the pauses would really throw off the cameramen). Then: “No, I like the lavender. It’s just that, do you know when I painted those stencils? I was pregnant with Chris, right up until the day I went to the hospital, and I was on the ladder finishing those stencils.” And she would stare at the place in the wall where the stencils used to be. “But the lavender looks fine. No really, it’s fine.” The whole thing would be incredibly anticlimactic because with every room you would be able to feel her disappointment.

  2. Ty Pennington uses too much hair product for my liking. I am quite certain that he goes tanning on a consistent basis. I could never date a guy who uses too much hair gel or who goes tanning. It would never work out between us.

  Every single thing I watch is like this—I can only view the world through my widow lens. I can no longer be entertained. I only think about how it compares to my loss and my current state of grief. For example, Halle Berry is on Oprah. She begins by talking about her pregnancy and her superhot model boyfriend. I immediately roll my eyes as Oprah inquires about their happy life together. I remember a week after Josh died I was watching Oprah and Faith Hill was on. It was absolutely the wrong thing for me to watch. Faith Hill went on and on about how amazing a husband Tim is, about how their sex life is great, about how beautiful their three daughters are. It was disgusting. There she was sitting on stage, tall, thin, talented, wealthy, married to an equally attractive, talented, wealthy man. And there I was, single, pregnant, and about to go from $1,130 every two weeks to $398.

  Faith Hill smiled as she confirmed that Tim was everything he seemed to be—considerate, kind, a good father, and completely sexy. The audience gave their typical Oprah audience high-pitched scream and applause at any mention of their sex life. I’ve always found this to be totally bizarre, and if you’re a regular Oprah watcher, you know that this happens often. When Halle Berry starts talking about “trying” to get pregnant, the audience does the proverbial “Whooooo!” and claps. How awkward that must be for Halle Berry, althoug
h Faith Hill did not seem to be bothered by it.

  Halle Berry is on Oprah to promote her new movie called The Things We Lost in the Fire. The movie is about a woman who has two kids. Her husband dies and she finds strange comfort in her husband’s best friend, whom she previously loathed. Basically it would be as if I lost Josh, and Doug Heinz, Josh’s longtime neighborhood friend whom I have always suspected to have Asperger’s syndrome, helped me raise my baby. What a horrible, horrible idea.

  The interview is a little frustrating because Oprah, of course, is asking Halle about what it was like to play a woman who had experienced so much. I am annoyed by this. This is where I go from liking Halle Berry to becoming frustrated with all that she is associated with: “Oh, Halle, tell us what it was like to act like you were a woman who lost her husband. What was it like to play pretend widow and then go home to your gorgeous boyfriend? Oh, Halle, that must have been so difficult, I mean to play dress-up for a whole day, to actually convince other people that you had lost your husband and get paid millions of dollars for it and then go home to a beautiful man who loves and adores you. What a challenge. Was it difficult to balance the emotional burden of playing a widow and then go home and have sex all the time with your supermodel boyfriend? [Audience screams and claps]. Well, I think we know what the audience wants to talk about!” Blah, blah, blah.

  I felt the same way when I saw pictures of Angelina Jolie in magazines and write-ups about her “stunning performance” in A Mighty Heart. “Oh, Angelina, you did such a wonderful job at acting like your new soon-to-be-father of a husband was kidnapped and killed. Let’s talk to Angelina about what it was like to imitate a woman who had actually lived through the worst situation imaginable. Angelina, tell us what that was like for you.”

  So annoying. Why are these people more popular than Marianne Pearl? Why don’t we interview Marianne Pearl? (I know, I know, Oprah did interview Marianne Pearl, which is why we never judge Oprah). Still, so sickening. So frustrating. I just feel like I am the one who should be rich and famous, not them. I am going through this horrible fucking situation; doesn’t the universe owe me something? Don’t I get to be on Oprah?

  But I don’t. I’m not. I’m sitting on my couch with an eight-pound baby sitting on my sciatic nerve taking my hormonal aggression out on famous people who don’t even know me.

  Right now I am reading a book called Goodnight Nobody by Jennifer Weiner. I read her first novel, Good in Bed, which was pretty funny as I remember it. But when I read Good in Bed, I was in college, perhaps even single, so I thought reading chick lit about some woman who was “trying to find herself” through a series of screwed-up relationships was quite entertaining. But Goodnight Nobody irritates me every time I open it. It’s about this woman named Kate who lives in an extremely affluent suburb in New Jersey and is married to a very wealthy guy. Despite her three beautiful children and rich husband, she is supremely unhappy because she feels like she’s lost herself. Give me a break.

  First of all, I probably shouldn’t be reading this book. I am fully aware that there is an entire population of mothers who live a daily life of complete malcontents because their identities have been “reduced” to driving children around in a minivan, grocery shopping, and doing laundry. I know that these are the women who end up snorting crystal meth or resorting to alcohol or who yell at their kids in that tone that just screams “I am a bitter human being.” They watch Oprah, they think about having affairs (some probably do), and all of this in their minds is justified by the idea that they’ve been “suppressing” their real selves their entire life. Tragic. So sad I could cry. These are women who make choices their entire lives—they choose to be married, they choose to have children, they choose to not go back to work—and get everything they want only to one day wake up and say, “I am horribly unhappy.” If I could personally punch all of these women in the face, I would.

  In a world where Desperate Housewives has come to describe more than just the four women on a prime-time television show, I find myself increasingly frustrated by this genre of women. Dr. Joy Browne gets callers like this all the time. Yesterday I was listening to her, and a woman named Donna called in. Donna’s problem was that she was obsessing over the fact that her husband constantly pointed out other attractive women in public. Donna was annoyed by this in part because she had struggled to lose her postbaby weight. Dr. Joy Browne of course immediately asked how often they were having sex. (DJB always asks this question). Dr. Joy told Donna that she shouldn’t let it get to her. It is natural for all of us to look at the opposite sex, but she needed to explain to her husband that he doesn’t have to make a comment every time, and if she trusts him and she knows he isn’t cheating, then it’s not really that big of a deal. Before Donna hung up, Dr. Joy asked a series of interesting, clearly relevant questions.

  “Donna, how many children do you have?”

  “Three.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Five years, three years, and sixteen months.”

  “Donna, do you get out much?”

  Pause. “No, I don’t actually.” She started to cry right there on the phone. “I feel tired all the time. I feel insecure and overweight all the time. So when my husband says these things, it just …” She could hardly talk. “It just really hurts.”

  At this point Dr. Joy obviously realized that this woman has a lot more going on than just her husband. She attempted to explain the importance of taking time for yourself.

  “You know, Donna, assuming you can afford to get a babysitter a few times a week, it is really important that you get out by yourself a little. Join a women’s group, take a yoga class, take an aerobics class. But your confidence cannot be defined by your husband and his stupid remarks. Do something that makes you happy and that leaves you feeling refreshed. I think you’ll find that that makes a big difference.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Joy,” she said as if she had been blessed by the pope.

  It’s not that I don’t feel any sympathy for people like Donna, but I don’t feel a lot of sympathy. I get frustrated when people get themselves into situations that make them unhappy and then instead of attempting to get themselves out of the situation or just deal with it, they turn into complaining machines.

  I personally think I would make a fantastic psychologist. Women would walk into my office and tell me, “My husband doesn’t pay enough attention to me. What should I do?” I would reply, “Leave your husband.” My patient would get a little flustered and probably a little defensive and maybe even a little annoyed that I didn’t let her talk about herself more. I would lean back in my chair and sip on my Starbucks, looking completely comfortable with the fact that I told this woman to get a divorce. The rest of the session would consist of her trying to explain to me that her life is shitty but not shitty enough for her to do anything about it, just shitty enough so that she complains about it constantly to her girlfriends and spends thousands of dollars on a therapist. The rest of the conversation would proceed like this:

  STRESSED-OUT MOM (LET’S CALL HER DEBBIE; DEBBIE IS A TOTAL MOM NAME): What do you mean? I mean, he doesn’t pay a lot of attention to me and our sex life is mediocre, but he is a good dad. The kids love him. You really think I should just divorce him?

  ME: You really need to ask yourself how much your husband sucks on a scale of one to ten. I don’t know how much your husband sucks because I’m not you. But you have two choices. If he really sucks—I mean if every day all you can think about is how pathetic and horrible your life is because your husband no longer makes eye contact with you when he speaks to you, or because you take all the time in the world to cook a thoughtful dinner and he says nothing and you truly believe that your marriage is setting a horrible example for your children and your daughter will think that being a wife means being a doormat—then divorce him, or separate at least. But if it’s really not all that bad, if it’s really more you just trying to find something to complain about because you’re bored out of your
mind as a stay-at-home mom, then deal with it. Talk to your husband, maybe go get some couples’ counseling. But honestly, the bottom line: quit your bitchin’, sister, and do something about your crappy life. Take the bull by the horns and work for a positive marriage or leave his sorry ass. But don’t sit around and complain about a situation that you have control over. It’s just obnoxious.

  DEBBIE: But you’re my therapist. Aren’t I allowed to complain to you? Isn’t that the point? You’re not allowed to say that my complaints are obnoxious.

  ME: Uh, yeah, Debbie, I am allowed to call you obnoxious. [I say this with wide eyes as if she is the moron in the room. I put my hands behind my head, casually, and put my feet up on the center table.] Look, Deb, you need to do something. That’s the operative word here. Stop sitting on your ass in the pity pool feeling sorry for yourself. Let me ask you a question, just out of curiosity: What else do you find “wrong” with your life?

  DEBBIE: Well, I’ve gained fifteen pounds in the last six months. I have a hard time finding time for myself during the day. And I’m tired all the time. [All the women who call Dr. Joy Browne say this.]

  ME: And I bet if I gave you the next thirty minutes, you would find a way to blame all of this on your husband.

  DEBBIE: It’s not that I’m blaming him. I really think that it is his fault that—

  ME: Stop right there, Deb. Stop right there. It may be his fault, but you have the power to change all of that. But nothing is going to change if all you do is complain. You need to get the gears in motion.

  DEBBIE: I just don’t think it’s that simple. I mean—

  ME: No, Deb, it is. [I get up and walk over to my desk to schedule our next appointment.]

  DEBBIE: I just don’t feel like you’re listening to me. I keep trying to say—

  ME: Deb, the problem here is that you’re not listening to me. I’m telling you what you don’t want to hear because the next step in your life is a scary one. You need to confront the problems of your marriage head-on or you need to throw your hands in the air and say, “I’ve tried, and it’s not working.” Both are difficult options. Both require more time, effort, and thoughtfulness than sitting at Starbucks with your bffs and bitching about your crappy husbands. If you want to continue to sit at Starbucks and bitch about your husband, go right ahead. We don’t need to schedule another appointment. But if you want to be happy, all the time, not just for select moments, then you’ll come see me again.