Today was a good day. Even though it started with Conor feeling crummy.

I let him stay home. He watched a lot of Futurama. And we ordered Tropical Smoothie. And he put away his laundry and finished his homework (he found a mistake in a math question) and read so he could play Fortnite.

And I let him play past the promised hour and then we made dinner (salads and our favorite smashed potatoes – it’s easy to cook for 2) and we ate and watched Taskmaster and I drank some wine a friend brought me.

(For the record, if you want to bring something to me, wine is a very good way to show your love. Reds especially.)

I eased back in to work today – emails and catch up, mostly – but what a fantastic distraction. It’s a privilege to genuinely like your work. And I’m so proud of my board for being supportive and to my team for just figuring it the heck out.

My board chair, a dear friend, went so far as to say, “We’ve got this. Let us do this for you.” And by george, they did.

I had therapy, too. I walked outside and got sunburned, but we talked and she let me vent and I felt better afterwards. Validated. Lifted.

And I finished mapping out Conor’s summer and signed him up for surf camp in Wilmington, so he can surf and I can sit on the beach and write.

Our friend sent us a Lego art project and we ordered Tropical Smoothie for lunch.

Today was the first day where we sort of found a rhythm that was just me and Conor. I didn’t make him go to school. We relaxed the rules. We ate on the couch.

He’s good company, that kid. And yes, he’s feeling much better.

Sun and support and potatoes and wine reminds me that – true to my promise to Preston – we’ll be OK.

I find myself in need of new sets of words.

This, dear reader, is new territory for me.

Talking with people is at the core of who I am. I got in trouble for talking in school constantly. I was a communications major. My job involves loads of chit chat.

Silence befuddles me.

But now, I find that my brain just can’t find the right words to make regular conversations.

I don’t have good ways to answer “How are you?” because I know full well most folks – though well-meaning – aren’t ready to hold the real answer.

“Oh! Well, it sucks a lot! Today was our wedding anniversary so between losing the cat in the attic, unnecessarily and obsessively reorganizing my fabric stash, and watching Ted Lasso, I cried and ate swiss cake rolls,” just isn’t polite, rain-into-someone-at-the-grocery-store kind of talk.

And if they don’t know about Preston’s death, I find myself wondering – to the point of absolutely not listening to a thing they are saying – if I should figure out some way to work it into the conversation.

“Oh! Your son got his height from your side of the family? Mine is taking after his dad. And well, he died a few days ago.”

And I’m not even sure I can answer the question of “How’s Conor?” because the truth of it is that I’m not totally sure. I think he’s OK? He isn’t weepy like I am, but he does get misty when we talk about Preston. We’ve done a good job keeping him busy and having lots of fun, and I think that helps a lot.

I think he, like me (most of the time) is still trying to figure out what this new life looks like. It’s simpler. Cooking and ordering for the two of us is straightforward. (that might be because I keep forgetting to feed myself, which I think I should probably work on fixing). I don’t have to time trips to school or to the store around who can be at the house to help out. We aren’t eating meals on the floor of the bedroom or talking about scans and scary stuff.

There are just these spaces. Spaces he used to fill. The third plate, the other towel, the extra load of laundry, the coffee cup. The mental load – medicines, doctor’s appointments, protein counts. The company, the advice, the conversations, the stories. The traditional anniversary sushi.

And in the same way I can’t quite figure out how to take up silence with carefully-chosen words, I can’t even begin to fill in all of the gaps he left behind. And I’m fairly certain I’d rather not try.

I think, perhaps, I’ll do what I often do when I have to talk in front of a group. I’ll work on my talking points, and rehearse them in front of an imaginary audience in the car.

(A side note: my absolute FAVORITE way to work through something is in the car and pretending to be interviewed by Terry Gross. She just asks me the best questions to get it all sorted out in my head.)

How are you?

We’re taking it one day at a time. But it’s hard, and we miss him.

What does your husband do?

He passed away a few weeks ago, but was Conor’s biggest fan.

How is Conor?

Kids are pretty resilient. We’ve got a great village and we’re trying to keep him busy.

Ok, I guess that wasn’t so hard. In the next episode, I’ll use this blog to work out exactly how to respond when someone says, “Oh, I’m so sorry” because “It’s OK” and “Thank you” feel real weird.

We settled on May because it is generally a beautiful time of year. And since we got engaged on July 31st the year before, it hit within coveted, “can’t get too complicated” window the bridal magazines talked about. It was after tax season but before summer vacations took over.

We had about $10,000 from my parents and a few extra dollars we saved up. Most of the money went to the tents in the front yard of Richard and Cathy’s house and in the spare lot with the cherry tree for the reception. Dad arranged for lanterns to be hung from the ceiling. We used the caterer that cooked the pigs for Wake Stone when dad worked there. We called upon the talents of friends and family to design invitations, play the music, take pictures, DJ, and direct the parking. My mom and aunts planted flowers in the flower beds and made cupcakes. My friends helped me put $100 worth of dried flowers into mason jars for centerpieces. We picked up cheap beer and wine from Total Wine.

We’d had a beautiful dinner at Pia’s the night before. It was a fitting choice because the day Preston proposed, I had desperately wanted to go to dinner there on our way to the River. I couldn’t have known that he was trying to beat the coming thunderstorm to propose on the shore that evening.

“We have food ready to cook. Let’s go ahead and get down there,” he had said, terribly reasonably.

Of course I pouted, and you would have, too, because Pia’s was really a lovely restaurant and it would have been tasty indeed.

I hadn’t even really seen it coming. As you know, I knew I would marry him almost immediately, but I hadn’t realized that he’d been saving every extra penny he had to snag my ring at the Raleigh institution, “Reliable Loan and Pawn” (yes, actually). When he did finally get down on one knee, storm approaching, perfect diamond solitaire in his hand, I just said, “yes yes yes yes yes yes” and hugged his neck. (He was 6’3″ and I was just 5′ – hugging his neck was a novelty in and of itself.)

Before the wedding, we bucked tradition and stayed together at Little Washington’s newest Hampton Inn. The staff had gotten our names confused and on the front sign had declared, “Congratulations Sharon and James!” The staff was thrilled to have met “the Irish Couple” so named because they had listened to the wedding CD we had burned for our guests and it contained both fiddle tunes and some Flogging Molly.

The next morning, I had to pick up all new makeup because some mysterious yellow stain had show un just before the rehearsal dinner. The lipgloss I got that morning was this pretty shimmery pink Cover Girl lip gloss that had been a weird cross-partnership with Crest so it tasted like mint and tingled when I put it on.

I got ready in the back room of what is now our River house. We moved it to its current location the year after the wedding. My uncle and aunt laid out refreshments. I put on my off-the-rack gown that the seamstress who did the alterations said didn’t fit me, but made me feel like a princess. My shoulders were sunburned – badly – from the day before. I still had some yellow splotches from the night before. I wore pink ballet flat crocs with the sixpence in my shoe that mom and her sisters had worn at their weddings. I had on the garter that I caught at my friend Carrie’s wedding. The locket was a gift from my beloved granddaddy Bill.

My bridesmaids chose their own dresses that “were mostly some shade of green” and Preston used a few of our extra dollars to buy ties for the groomsmen. I made bouquets out of buttons. He wore a gray suit and still had glasses then. And no beard. He looks so young in the photographs (but obviously I look exactly the same.)

I had a playlist on an ipod connected to some speakers to play music before the ceremony, and when I peaked out to turn it on, folks were watching the end of the pier because bull-nosed rays were breaking the surface of the otherwise completely still water.

Because it was absolutely still. Not one stitch of breeze.

And it was 85 degrees.

Thank god our wedding was casual.

Every May 15th since then has been a perfectly reasonable temperature. 75 degrees. 65 even one year. Looks like tomorrow will be in the mid-70s with a nice breeze.

But not in 2010.

By the time the ceremony was over, everyone had sweat clean through their clothes. The kids had already either completely disrobed or had changed into shorts. Everyone ditched any jackets. My hair was immediately pinned back in what now looks like a purposeful updo, but then was just, “OH MY GOD GET THIS HAIR OFF MY NECK.”

Fans were found. Extension cords were dropped. Beer was consumed.

We danced, and ate barbeque (spinach lasagna for the vegetarians) and had the toasts. My family made up new words to, “Say a Little Prayer for You” and everyone asked it I was pregnant when I chose to eat banana pudding rather than use wine for the toasts. (In truth, I would just much rather have Ms. Layton’s banana pudding than any alcoholic beverage available to me, and when I drink, I flush, and I was hot enough in that taffeta.)

I flitted from table to table and the bottom of my dress was (still is actually) covered in the fine gray dust of Woodstock on the Pungo.

The sun set and it stayed hot.

The DJ played all sorts of songs on the “do not play” list. Our friend Michael Casey started wowing everyone with his magic tricks.

At some point, Preston and I snuck off to dance to the Michael Buble version of “The Way You Look Tonight” (it was not on the approved list of songs, but I am not mad about it) and looked up at the tiny fingernail moon that is – and always will be – my very favorite.

On this eve of what would have been our 13th anniversary, I feel both desperately sad and profoundly grateful for our love. I think what most people remember about our wedding is, well, of course that it was very very hot, but also that it was very very us.

It was simple and beautiful and we were surrounded by our most beloved friends and family. We nearly forgot to sign the paperwork, but it wouldn’t have mattered. We were as devoted to each other as two people could be – pawn shop rings and government paperwork and vows and veils didn’t make it more or less permanent.

And I don’t feel any less married now than I did then.

But what I wouldn’t give for another dance where no one is watching.

The last two days have been a doozy.

Erin is still here (thank goodness) serving as wise counsel, decision making partner, extra muscle, and baseball and hockey watching buddy to both me and C. She’s magic and we’re grateful she’s here.

Yesterday (how was it only yesterday?!) we made a list. “THINGS TO DO” I titled it in my fancy e-notebook. Most of it was easy stuff:

Freeze credit cards, make sure I can log in to stuff, change hulu/netflix/hbo/youtube/spotify/appleTV/HBO streaming to my credit card. Unsubscribe to at least 2 of those. Hang up new canvas picture of the “do this” we made last week. Email the lawyer. Email the financial planner. Take the old medicines to the CVS dropoff bin.

Some of it was stuff I’ve been planning for a while or was regular stuff:

Remove the desk downstairs and make a “guitar lesson” nook for Conor. Rewire the vintage lamp. Take the old soundbars to goodwill. Help Conor add his guitar teacher to his friend list in Fortnite so they can play sometimes. Go to Conor’s baseball game.

And some of it was tricky and required a lot of help:

OK the desk actually falls into this category. (Advil for E, Becca and me for sure.) Getting a new home for the tempurpedic bed.

And as it turns out, as I uncovered as I was on a stroll with Erin before dinner:

Absolutely every single piece of that fairly simple stuff was absolutely heavy as fuck.

Having to figure out the streaming stuff was a painful reminder that he isn’t here to manage all of that. Emailing about the estate flagged that, though we had planned a lot, there was still so much to sort out. Taking the medicines was an obscene show of just how much was required to keep him out of pain these last 12 months. He never even got to go to one of C’s baseball games.

The new living room set up was something we dreamed up together – planned when we did our porch addition. He never got to see it. Only ever got to see Conor play his new guitar twice. The lamp is something we picked out together and honestly, built the entire room around it. The login and parental controls for Xbox/Fortnite were tricky and I couldn’t figure them out.

And the desk was the last piece I hadn’t gone through. Notebooks full of his (impossible to read) writing. A card I had given him when we’d been dating for 3 months and I was already head over heels. Care instructions for the cutting boards he made people.

And the bed – a physical reminder of what where he had been the majority of the time for 6 months – an important gift that allowed us to sleep in the same space after he had been in a chair the previous 7 months. A bed that made it possible for him to sleep but made my shoulder and hip ache.

I’m so glad it’s gone. And yet, it’s so weird that it’s not here.

And he’s still not here. We didn’t have enough time to figure these things out. We didn’t get enough time in a regular bed.

I feel like I’m existing in some sort of alternate reality. An in-between. A medium place.

Most of the time, things are fine. I can laugh. I can tell stories. I can make jokes. I can eat.

But then there are other times when I’m alone and desperate. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t form a rational thought.

I dig through his drawers, his bags, his closet for new things. A new understanding or moment with him. Or perhaps a memory we hadn’t shared in some time. A new scrap of handwriting. A hidden memento.

I watch videos and scroll through photos, but never all of them. Never too many. I must leave some to be discovered later. When I need to hear a new version of his voice or remember the crinkle in his eyes that only came out when he was really, truly laughing.

I wish that we hadn’t done so much laundry and that his smell lingered. I wear his deodorant, his tshirts, his hoodies.

I stare into his photo that is the lock screen of my phone and whisper, “I just can’t believe you’re not here,” because I can’t but he isn’t.

But most of the time, I’m OK. I cooked dinner. Took a shower. Cleaned up a bit. Most of the time, it’s fine. My best friend came from New York just to be present. My family abandoned plans and assembled at the River. Brendan and Lauren, jetlagged, made it up 17 in time to join us for brunch. It was just right. We are so loved.

Conor is also fine, but I worry that he is also feeling the liminal space as we find our footing together. I don’t want him to have to sit with it as I have chosen to, so he plays fortnite and spends the nights with cousins and that feels right and so we keep going.

I am glad we went to the River. When Conor and I went a few weeks ago – when Preston first entered hospice – when we pulled every string we could to possibly get him there one last time – I couldn’t function. Especially once I knew he couldn’t get there after all. I couldn’t leave fast enough. Everything in the house reminded me that the space that he occupied as his most authentic self would only ever contain his things and never again his sparkle.

I texted him in my panic that I didn’t think I could go back there, and he responded, “It is our unifying place. We will always all be there together.”

I hope that is true. That as these days and weeks pass – when I’ve finally touched every possession and listened to every record and seen every picture – that I’ll still find him new in the world.

Because it’s just still so hard to believe he isn’t coming back.

He was, first and foremost, a wonderful husband and father. From the time I came into his life, and then when Conor joined us, I don’t think he made a single decision that didn’t center and consider both of us.

Preston made me feel beautiful and smart and capable and he laughed at all of my jokes.

He did not let Conor win at games and taught him how to be a good sport and appreciate good music.

He was the kind of person that made other people feel seen – as colleagues and family members and friends.

He was an exceptional listener.

He loved to fish, but even more than catching, he loved the sport of it. He loved trying to figure out exactly where they would be, and how to read the shore, and to research the gear.

He loved to build and make things with wood. From Conor’s backyard swingset to his shop at 4309 to picture frames and cutting boards to friends, and projects for me, he took great care in creating for others. Come to think of it, I don’t think he ever made something for himself. My craft table – lovingly painted with dandelions is a prized possession – so is my desk, and quit rack and cutting board and picture frame…

He encouraged me to pursue anything I could think up and encouraged me to stick with it. (and since I tend to hyperfixate on things for a short period of time, he had quite a number of opportunities.)

He loved Adam Sandler movies and Rob Schneider for some weird reason.

He adored his friends, and held them close. I really will always believe that the reason I met Kevin and Brendan back in college was to bring Preston to them some day.

The Pungo River was his favorite place – sitting on the shore, riding in a boat, pulling Conor in a tube, dragging my kayak in for me, kicking the kickball clear across the field to humble the children. Pouring daquiris to get us drunk. Cooking dinner when I was passed out on the kitchen floor due to said daquiris.

He loved, loved, loved, live music. Irish sessions in the back of a bar. Crowded, loud metal shows. Folksy singer-songwriters. Bluegrass. Classical. Broadway. I even drug him to a Josh Groban concert once and he didn’t complain. I’m so very grateful he made it to the Jason Isbell show in February.

He played the trombone! A lot of people don’t know that, because he had largely stopped playing by the time we got together. But that’s how we met! He and I were both hired to play the Christmas Cantata at Fuquay Varina United Methodist. We were in line at Moe’s during the break rolling our eyes about the show and he asked if I wanted to grab a beer after we were done. When he called a couple of days later for a “real” date, I was pretty pleased. We went to Champs for dinner and tried to watch a movie. I spent the night, and as far as I can remember, unless we had to for work or travel, we didn’t spend any apart after that.

The next day, I had dinner with my friend Shruthi and told her, “I went out with this guy last night, and I’m going to marry him.”

And I was right. And it was the best decision I ever made. And I feel so grateful to be loved by him.

He died this morning at about 7:45. They let me know it was close, and I turned on Bob Marley. I held his hand and told him how much I loved him. He took one last deep breath and I realized that “No Woman No Cry” was on and I told him I got the message.

Everything is going to be alright.

Ok, so that thing that I was expressing last night – that weird conflict of “I want my person here!” versus, “Please let them move on” has a name and it’s totally a whole thing. It’s called a “Compassionate Wish.” And it’s an acknowledgement that there is a massive difference between “being alive” and “living.”

So, thanks to y’all who are joining me in sending up a compassionate wish.

I learned that term from one of the social workers here. Look, I don’t think – even after 17 years in the nonprofit sector – that I could have articulated what the heck a social worker did. I know it’s an incredibly broad field. And they do all sorts of stuff. But I’ve never really intersected with them until the last few weeks.

And they’re freaking amazing and we don’t talk about how great they are enough. And like, “social worker” doesn’t feel like the right word. “Emotional caretaker?” “Great listener?” “Holder of hard conversations?” “Excellent huggers?” “Receiver of bad, dark jokes?”

I’ve been intersecting with two of them, and honestly, it’s not like I’ve spent tons of time with either of them. But they’ve been wildly helpful. They let me vent or joke as necessary. They have given incredible advice about how to help Conor. They’ve made sure I’ve eaten. It’s weird to feel so connected to strangers so quickly, but they’re just easy.

What a gift that is – to spend most of your time around people who are grieving – hard. And to take a little of that on yourself. With an impossible caseload, and not nearly enough of a paycheck. I appreciate that’s part of the consideration here. It’s as much about care for the patient as it is for us.

This is why I’m purposely on the branch of nonprofit work that is famously removed from direct service. I have all the respect in the world for people who can work directly with humans who are in pain. Maybe I could do it? I’m not sure I’d want to. So many big feelings to hold. So many tears. So much hugging.

Yeah, I think I’ll leave that to them. But I’ll definitely walk out of this experience with an entirely new understanding and appreciation of this important role in our society. They’re kinda the best.

It gets harder and harder to figure out what to write here. Saturday, I had this whole, “gadgets we bought that might make your loved one’s life better!” but by the time I got back here, Preston was uncomfortable and agitated and I just had to keep doing the next right thing.

I don’t know exactly what I thought this would be like. Maybe more of what we were doing at home – watching movies, talking, reminiscing, being together.

But that’s not what this is. And I started to write it all down – to help you know what this is like. To share this journey so you can have a better understanding if you ever have a loved one that has to go through this.

And the more I type, and try to find the words to express it, the more I realize that there is nothing I could ever possibly say to help you or anyone else prepare for this.

I’m exhausted, and know I should try to sleep at home, but the one night I tried, it was awful. So I’m here, with this weird little squeaky recliner pulled up as close to the bed as possible and tucked under the t-shirt quilt I made in January. I hold his hand. I push the button for the nurse when I think he needs more pain medicine. I talk to him about all sorts of things. We listen to the slower, acoustic songs of our favorite artists.

I tell him it’s OK to go. That somehow, we’ll survive. I tell him that – as it says in a song I can’t stop listening to – “If I leave you, it doesn’t mean I love you any less” and I pray that he can find the way to move on.

And I’m not a pray-er.

And what a weird thing to wish – that your most beloved would die.

But his spirit has been elsewhere for a couple of days, and now I wish peace for his physical being and the little bits of consciousness he’s holding on to.

Conor has not been to visit since P was pretty alert on Friday. I’m glad he’s spared the trauma of watching his dad like this. Every day, we give him the option, and make sure he knows that there is no wrong choice. He is in the loving care of my family and they’re making sure he’s distracted, well-fed, and having fun. I miss him, and I need to be here with his dad for the time being.

I’ve lost most concept of time, without any of the usual markers of the day. And interestingly, even though my brain is famous for running on overdrive, I find that I’m able to sit quietly for long periods of time with little distraction and it doesn’t drive me crazy. I’m not sure what that’s about. Exhaustion? Trauma? Helplessness?

I am both desperate for, and afraid of what’s next.

There’s this restaurant in our neighborhood. A little family-run Italian spot. They’re famous for their flatbreads and “gravy” (southern people, this is what Italian folks call “spaghetti sauce”) and wine. It’s small and dim, but the walls are painted a friendly yellow and there are giant pictures of tomatoes and eggplants and basil on the walls. Behind the bar, there are dozens of delicious Italian wines. You need a reservation on the weekends, but you can usually snag a spot at lunch.

It opened after I was in college, but it quickly became our family favorite. Graduations, birthdays, impressing out of town friends, girls night out – it was our special-occasion go to.

And I absolutely, steadfastly, refused to take a date there. Logic being, if I were to take someone there, and it were to end badly, I’d have to give up my eggplant rollatini and – god forbid – free birthday cannoli and tiramisu. Memories of a crummy relationship might taint the place, and frankly, it just wasn’t worth it. Some things need to be protected.

Because I told this to Preston shortly after we started dating, we waited until we were engaged to go to Bella’s. Sure, we got occasional takeout, and we both knew it was just a silly rule, but we stuck to it anyways.

When we got married, we had our rehearsal on the officiant’s deck and went to Bella Monica, just us two. We drank wine and ate so much food we could barely breathe. It was a really special evening.

Since then, we’ve been dozens of times. They’ve taken the eggplant rollatini from being a weekend-only dish, to one that is on the menu all the time. *Somehow the sauce tastes exactly the same and the tiramisu is just as perfect as it has always been. Every year around my birthday, they serve pumpkin ravioli with beautifully crispy mushrooms and pecans and wilted spinach.

Tonight, just before the short thunderstorm, I picked up our favorites and brought them over to hospice house. We opened the doors and ate rollatini and listened to the rain.

But, as I was cleaning up, it occurred to me that, despite my youthful efforts to keep Bella’s emotionally untouched, I’d failed rather spectacularly.

We saved our tiramisu for later. Hopefully he’ll be alert enough to really enjoy it. And I’m hoping that eventually, I can eat there again and find the familiarity and comfort a favorite restaurant can bring. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy this final date night of Italian food and hockey in this strange room with distinctly less charm on this occasion that is special in its own way.

*editor’s note – I was totally wrong about the bankruptcy and owner shift! My apologies!!

Hospice house is a gentle and caring place. Nurses and aids come by to marvel at Preston’s tattoos. The volunteers know my strict rules about visitors. The maintenance crew checks in to make sure the playstation is hooked up and working. The social workers say things like, “OMG I love your sense of humor.” Even the doctors wonder aloud about how we’re still so optimistic.

We’re still us. Still the little family that fights so hard for our good moments together. Preston still puts up with my “memory making” crafts with a glad heart – even though it’s brutal. Conor can’t help but ask to be timed to run laps around the labyrinth outside. I’ve made friends with basically everyone. And Preston is making jokes even in the midst of unimaginable pain and anxiety.

I think that is generally true, though of course, I only have my own perspective. But I think that even when you’re deep in crisis, you’re still going to be you. Your essence doesn’t change when the world around you does. You might have to re-center yourself more often, or need to be reminded to eat more than swiss cake rolls, or need chemistry to help you get through the day, but you’ll still basically show up the same way you always have. It might even magnify it a little bit.

There are a whole lot of people out there sending all of their love and holding us close and thinking about us a lot and thanking their lucky stars that they’re not in our shoes.

But look, you might be someday, and the foundation you’ve built – the person you are – that’s who has to carry you through this. If 2004 me had to show up and figure this shit out, man, we’d all be in a tough spot. (and don’t even get me started about 2004 Preston – that kid was a loose cannon.)

Our little family built our coping skills by practicing. By engaging professionals when we needed to. By prioritizing careers that gave us time to be together. By developing deep and real relationships with our family and friends. By being honest with one another about our needs. By supporting each other’s essence and hobbies and shortcomings. By sticking close most of the time and granting space when we needed it. By never ever – not once – forgetting that the only thing that actually matters is that we love each other.

People say all the time – maybe even once a day – maybe you’ve even said it – “I don’t know how you do it.” And the answer is that we’ve been loving each other and those around us deeply and it’s cheesy as shit, but it carries you. You can only ever fall but so hard. You build this structure of support coming out from every angle – family, friends, colleagues – and everyone shares just a little bit of that weight and somehow, you stay suspended.

Dear friends, know that we feel held up by your love and your deep desire to help. Know that your well wishes are not going unheard and that it is keeping us from sinking. Know that when your time comes to have to navigate the shitty stuff, we will hold you up right along side us and we’ll figure it out.

Be exactly who you are and make friends and laugh and keep moving and you’ll be OK.