Do What Feels Right

The funeral director told me that there was no wrong way to grieve, that I should do what feels right in my gut.  Whether I was picking out songs for the funeral mass, or discussing burial arrangements, she told me to defer to that feeling.  Leslie has been my deciding vote for so long, I feel exposed when I make decisions without her.  But this feels right...I'll start at the start.

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I moved to Pittsburgh in 1994.  It was the end of the year, just past Thanksgiving.  I moved here knowing only the few people I worked with and nobody else.  My closest relatives were in New Jersey.  I was flying by the seat of my pants, but it felt good to be putting myself out there.

The first week after I arrived, the apartment complex I lived in (moved in sight unseen...) had a Christmas mixer.  Maybe it was a holiday mixer.  Holiday was more PC.  My neighbor across the hall was married, but I hijacked him and we went to the mixer together.  We played pool and drank until the apartment manager came over and offered to introduce me to some people.  She introduced me to Leslie and her roommate. 

We settled in, scraping bar stools together to chat about life in Montana, and "what are you doing in Pittsburgh??" (what would become a question I'd answer by rote) over gin and tonics and beer.  Many drinks later we left the bar and drove back to the apartment in her Hyundai Sport.  The black paint sun-damaged ("black is hard color to keep" the Hyundai dealership told her), the car freezing cold.  We scraped a hole in the frost large enough for the driver to peer through and stupidly drove home.

They invited me the following week to their own Christmas party.  My apartment complex was flight attendant central, and the apartment across from hers was vacated by friends who let her party spill over into their apartment. 

I went to the local liquor store and asked the guy working the counter, "What's a traditional Pittsburgh drink?"  I explained where I was headed. 

"Pelinkovac," he replied. 

I got to the party and produced my traditional Pittsburgh drink to the collective cricket chirps and confused head scratches of the gathered party guests.  Nobody had heard of it.  We all took shots.  It was awful.  To this day when I reference Pelinkovac nobody knows what I'm talking about.  Nobody.

I became a fixture at Leslie's apartment.  We hung out and listened to Zombie by the Cranberries.  Because the apartment next door was vacant they would blast it as loud as their speakers could handle.  It shook the fixtures.  When we finished they'd press play again.  We watched Friends and barbecued on our tiny patios.  We drank wine and played tennis.  We went out to dinner.  But we didn't date. 

And I think we didn't date because for the first time I was truly enjoying the friendship of a woman without fucking it up by dating her.  And she was...and is...the first and only girl I've ever not gotten tired of.  We had our ups and downs for sure, but beneath our relationship was always the foundation of friendship that we built in that first year in the apartment complex.

She took me on a blind date because she was nervous about the guy she was going out with.  She took me to weddings when she didn't have a date.  And ultimately, she liked me.  And I liked her.  But I wasn't going to fuck it up by dating her.  Because history had shown me that there's no surer way for me to fuck up a relationship with a girl than by dating her. 

And then my sister and brother-in-law came to visit, and my sister fell in love with Leslie and fell in love with the idea of Leslie and her little brother, and she pushed her into my arms. 

One night after watching Friends over wine, she confessed she wanted to date.  I sat that there thinking...do I fuck this up, or do I say let's be friends?  What the hell...

I stood up and walked to the door.  Leslie told me later that she thought I was going to ask her to leave.  Instead I turned the lock on my front door.  I slid the bolt home.  That's not a euphemism.  Well...

We dated.

More to come.

Leslie from her "Rachel" phase.  I'm sporting the "Chandler".  She loved this picture, but I used to give her endless shit because it looks like she's cupping my genitalia.  This is at a wedding for one of her flight attendant friends.

Picking Up the Pieces

This will seem scattered probably...

I wrote last night about Leslie.  It was crap.  It was so down and negative, talking about the long slow slide at the end.  Emma came down from her room while I was typing.  Couldn't sleep.  It was 11:40.  I gave her some ideas about how to calm herself and told her I'd be up in about 20 minutes. 

I always do that for Emma.  When her brain gets too hot and she needs to distract herself, I've given her "dreams".  For years I've given her dreams. 

"Daddy, can you give me some dreams," she'd ask? 
"Sure baby."

The dreams were just me giving her a focus for her mind.  I'd usually pick a seasonal fantasy...a day at Kennywood, a snow adventure, that sort of thing.  I'd lie down with her and tell her, "Okay, I want you to try to dream about a day at Kennywood, just our family and whatever friends you want.  There are no lines.  It's hot, but not too hot.  Just hot enough that the water rides splash up around your clothes and feel refreshing.  You can walk up to any ride and you get immediately on.  You can ride it however much you want.  When you get hungry, you just ask for cheese fries or lemonade and they get it for you right away."

And she'd occupy her imagination with the seeds of a dream and usually that was enough.

Last night I couldn't think of a happy dream that didn't in some way shine a spotlight on her missing mother.  I told her to try to imagine a trip to Sky Zone without grownups.  Just the kids doing what they wanted.  I sent her back upstairs to her bedroom and continued typing.  My dream seeds didn't take root. 

20 minutes later I was done writing just past the part where we told Emma the news that her mother was going to pass, and I'd had enough.  It was all wrong.  All about doom and gloom, and nothing about the woman we lost.  All facts, no love.  Maybe I was protecting myself.

I walked into Emma's room and found her lying on her side, staring, wide awake. 

"Come on, sweetie.  Why don't you lie down with me."  She came back with me to the room I'd shared with her mother and curled into the covers.  I scratched her back for a while and eventually we both fell asleep. 

Things are rocky right now.  I think it's going to be a long time before things are "normal" in our house.  Right now the most normal part of it is Lily, who is COMPLETELY normal despite her mother passing, which, ironically, is not normal. 

She doesn't get the finality.  She hasn't even really processed that Leslie's gone.  She is happy watching Wiggles.  We say our prayers and she dutifully "godblesses" her mother, but says nothing else that indicates she's aware that Leslie isn't in our house, or our lives.  It is simultaneously heartbreaking and relieving.  Although I'll continue to watch her carefully...she seems blessedly unimpacted by Leslie's passing.

I have grief like pregnancy cravings.  One minute it's Leslie's voice.  The next it's her scent.  I'll look feverishly through the house for videos or audio files with Leslie's voice on them.  It doesn't satisfy the urge.  There isn't enough. 

This weekend while Emma slept, I couldn't bear to wake her.  What if she was dreaming of Leslie? 

When we are around people we're fine.  We entertain.  We chat.  Our attention drifts from Leslie's absence even if we're talking about her.  When we're alone, it's harder. 

If I think about the future without Leslie it hurts too bad, and I stop myself.  It hurts remembering the past happy moments too, but not as much as looking into the future.  Mother's day is a month away. 

Leslie's presence looms so large in our house.  Everywhere I turn something sucker punches my emotions.  I'm tempted to sweep my house clean of every trace because it hurts.  I know that I can't do that.  I know that it'd be ten times worse if those things were out of my grasp forever.  Too final.  Am I tricking myself?  I don't know.  Either way, I have to give it time.  I'd rather realize that I'm trying to hedge Leslie's death in a few months, then realize I overreacted in a few months.  I can ALWAYS throw that stuff away later.

A friend online offered to make quilts for the kids from Leslie's clothes.  I'm going to take her up on it.

More later...

eff you, auticorrect

everyone i know complaibs about autocoitect.  i wonder sometimes if we tryly realize how much work autocoorect does.

i decided to write this blog post from my phone  it's easy because im bot eben goinf to bother editing, spell-checking, etc  im just tuping the way i normally would...with my autocorrect turned off

i looked at mt settings wgen i ahut it off.  It capitaluzes gor me, it predicts my words, ot fices spelling wrrors.  hiw eould my texting turn out witout ot?

like this.  it would turn out like thus.  

oh my god!!!

THANK UOU AUYOCORRECT!!

yeah, maybe in critical when you chang fucking to ducking (i woll never...EVER mean to say ducking), but apart from a weird word sustitution here or thrre...youve saved me from looking like a complete idiot  

i encourage you to turn off your autocorrects in the connents.  you might be surprised how much you appreciate it