A few months ago, I wrote a piece about the circular nature of grief (A Tuesday Kind of Miracle). When we lose someone, the path through grief is a looping line, not a straight one. As the years pass, the loops become smaller and spaced further apart. I ran headlong into one of those loops today and that’s how I found myself sitting at my desk sobbing into a Kleenex…all because of a typo on some paperwork. Or maybe it wasn’t a typo. In some world, it might be true.
It’s been eight years since Richard died. I’ve slogged through the months and months of estate paperwork and had it all settled. I hadn’t looked at that brown accordion file in years. Nevertheless, at the end of 2012, I got a big envelope from the university where he had taught. I inherited one of his retirement accounts, but I didn’t bother to open the envelope because all that was SETTLED. I got another envelope…put it in same dusty stack. (I know, I know, I know) He ended his career as a professor of finance, so both of us had great retirement plans and aggressive commitments to our savings. So I already had and have “My Own Money.” When this account came to me after his death, I kept it separate for tax purposes and viewed it as my super duper safety net, a sad windfall. Whenever the financial news got me scared, or I had a bad day at work, I would pull up that account online and take a deep breath. That money was an extra egg in the nest.
(TAKE HEED: If you ever inherit a retirement account, DO NOT roll it in with your own funds. If you ever have to take money out in the event of an emergency, you can withdraw from the inherited account at a much lower penalty rate.) (This message brought to you by the ghost of Richard A. Grayson, MBA, PhD.) ‘
Well, one day after the beginning of this year, I was feeling kind of blue so I logged in to the account to cheer myself up. The balance was $0.00. GACK. The image of those big white envelopes from the university came racing back to mind Might have been a good idea to look in there! I’ve had other estate related glitches (like the letter from the IRS that said I owed $86,543.78…that was a sphincter release notification). I calmed myself down pretty quickly and opened the damn envelopes. Yep, the university had switched investment management companies and I was going to have to do the paperwork ALL OVER AGAIN.
Damn it.
It took me a month to call Investor Relations. Another month to fill out the Beneficiary forms. Another month before I made it to the bank for the fancy Medallion certification stamp (who knew?). Seriously, I haaaaaaate this kind of paperwork, even if it puts me back in my safety net. ARGH. Hate it. Hate it hate it hatey hatecakes.
Now it’s been a couple of weeks since I mailed all that stamped and certified stuff in…and I get another white envelope in the mail. I took it out today and opened it up to read that they need a copy of his death certificate. Sigh. While I was bracing myself to open up the big brown accordion file to find a copy of that clinical green document with Dr. Marrano’s signature and all those dates and codes and finality, I skimmed over the letter from the investment company. I was listed as the primary account holder, with all my information as I had entered it on the forms. Richard was listed as the secondary account holder. And for some unknown reason, the form listed his age: 46.
He died at 38. He’s never going to be 46. Not in this world.
My late husband is growing older.
Thus the sobbing. 46.
For the first few months, maybe years after he died, I sometimes thought I caught a glimpse of him in crowds. He was distinctive looking–5′ 4″ tall with reddish hair, an Irish tan, broad shoulders and a narrow skier’s butt. His body was beautifully proportioned and compact. When we hugged, he fit right under my chin. So if I was in a crowd and saw out of the corner of my eye a body shaped like that or a russet haired man with a bouncy step…I kept looking, out of the corner of my eye, and I pretended that it was him. It was a way of hanging on to the notion that he wasn’t really dead, just NOT HERE. I don’t believe in a heaven where this that is “I” and that that is “you” remain. I believe more in the conservation of energy and the way our selves remain part of the great equation of the universe but not in any distinct being…but it will never be mine to know. I do know that when you have to wake up one day into a world that no longer is home to your beloved, it’s easy to pick out pieces of them in a crowd and let your brain relax into the fantasy that they are still somewhere nearby.
But to think of him as 46? Right there, in black and white on a form. Stomach punch.
I once found myself on a train across Canada with the Cowboy Junkies and some of their favorite singers and songwriters. One of them was Fred Eaglesmith–his song “Crowds” speaks to me when I think about Richard being 46, somewhere:
So I look for you in crowdsIn train stations and bus stops
On sidewalks in the middle of the night
When I go driving by
Little churchyards on Saturdays
I check to see if you might be the bride
Hope you’re happy now
I still look for you in crowds
Forty six. In another place, maybe, another life. In a parallel universe, he is 46. And maybe now and then, he misses me too.
Stop making me cry at work!
Sorry! Make me a red velvet cake and I’ll cheer up……maybe….
Ashley — I’m not exactly “enjoying” but certainly appreciating these posts about Richard. When we met in class, it was pretty obvious that you have an exuberant personality, and I never knew about your great sadness. It’s always good to be able to plumb the depths of your friends’ minds and hearts, and it all just makes me love you more. And I’m so glad you found someone else to be happy with now. You certainly deserve it.
Thanks, Marie. Like most clowns, I keep my sadness on the inside!
This took my breath away. Is there, somewhere, a parallel life where all our missed opportunities, our broken dreams, get to exist after all? Something to comfort me on the difficult days.
I’m going to choose to think of it that way!
I’ve read your blogs about Richard with much interest as well as the one’s with your “new” husband, I have lymphoma (NHL) and it’s the “good kind”, i.e. slow growing, but I am heading towards 8 years now. With the exception of the first “bout” things have been good, as good as things can be with that dx hanging over your head and the other issues: Lupus, stroke, etc. etc. lol My oncologist has said when it “comes” and it will, it will fast and furious. I found the love of my life late in life. The issue I have is with trying to prepare Ray. He has always been a day by day kind of person. “We’ll handle it when we have to handle it| I’m a realist and a nurse and I know he needs more preparation than that. Here is the conundrum. I can’t bog myself down with all of this. Make no mistake, I’m not in denial, I know what will happen, but if I keep harping on it with Ray I will lose my “happy” place edge. I just don’t want him to dissolve when it happens, I have written all my instructions down and all my finances (what there is) are in order with the exception of the pesky A. My financial company keeps making me a Maria instead of Marie, no matter how much paperwork I give them to the contrary. Ok I’m done, No real point here, just a long comment on life, death. moving on and so glad that you have such a great life now and praying that my Ray will be as lucky,
Have you seen the movie “Shadowlands?” I highly recommend it. It’s the story of CS Lewis and the love he found late in life. She gets bone cancer and they have to have some of these conversations. There’s one where she talks about “the sadness then and the joy now” and how they’re linked together.
I still miss my mother, 42 years after she died. Big griefs don’t go away. They become bittersweet. I like your description of loops. I’ve always thought of grief as waves, with the peaks and valleys growing less high and low over time. So slowly.
Yes!
After all these years I view that grief as a privilege. It’s my right. Is that warped?
Not at all! I think that grief reminds us that we have the ability to connect to and value other people.
You’re right. It’s an important part of being alive and remembering who you are.
Shit. That’s all I can stop from holding my breath to eke out. Shit.
I hear you.
My image of grief is a big shaggy Old English Sheepdog-sized dog that is usually content to sleep in the doorway of my life. I’ve become used to lifting up my feet and taking a giant step to step over him. But every so often he still will wake up, shake his big furry self, cover me with hair, and sit blocking the doorway. Nothing to do but sit with him and scratch him around the ears until he lays back down and falls asleep again. Like you, I don’t think there’s a heaven-place where we will reunite with the person-ness of our loved ones. But I can understand the comfort others find in thinking we can have that reunion, even as I deny myself that comfort. I wish you smaller grief loops, and a perpetually napping grief-dog.
I love the dog metaphor, because even when they’re lying quietly…THE SMELL!
I thought I saw Michael all the time at first; still, once in a while. It’s been 14 years this month.
He would’ve been 45 next week.
Your beautiful words are bringing me comfort this weekend. Thank you, my friend. Love you.
Peace to you. We had one conversation on Tybee the summer after Richard died and it helped me so much. You said that there would always be a hole, an absence, shaped like him, but the rest would carry on. So true.
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