Chapters 1-5
I am working on finalizing my manuscript. I thought it would be good to post the early chapters as I go along. This will be edited later but I don’t have a copy editor so I welcome any and all feedback! With the exception of quotes and excerpts from text messages, all writing is my own.
There’s always awkwardness when people find out I was widowed. I never like making people uncomfortable, so I usually rush through the explanation and wrap it up neatly. I’m doing good now. I’m remarried. I’m happy. Seven years later, a degree and license in counseling, and I am still following societal norms. Let’s pretend that grief doesn’t exist.
This was not the first death in my life. I’ve lost all of my grandparents, my Aunt Terry, my Uncle Joe, and my nephew Max who only lived for a few minutes. On Patrick’s side, we lost Zia Sue, Nona, Opa and Elsie, Danielle, Ryan, Zia Jan, Zia Glenda, Tony, Barbara, and Zio Angelo. Some of these were sudden and tragic, and they all affected me profoundly. So I thought I understood grief pretty well… until I lost Patrick.
I feel it’s important to acknowledge the depths of grief and the path through them. This is something that I have consistently downplayed because heaven forbid anyone should think I’m not okay. I’m tough. Don’t worry about me.
The truth is, I am human, and I have no clue how I survived the loss of my husband, Patrick. But I did. If you are experiencing the death of a loved one, I hope my story shows you that there can be a light at the end of the tunnel and a new path for you.
I want to share my experience so far in the hopes that it might help people when they interact with someone who has experienced loss.
What I have learned is that there is no right or wrong way to deal with this. I have also learned that the majority of people do not have any idea what to do or say when something like this happens. So here are my thoughts:
Patrick is gone. I know this. Sometimes my brain tries to play tricks on me, but I know he is not coming back. We were together for 30 years, so he is on my mind every day. I will not be upset if you mention him. In fact, it’s really awkward and almost painful when you don’t mention him. So please keep him alive in our conversations.
I realize that I am not the only person grieving. I want everyone to know that it is okay to share your grief with me. You are not going to upset me. This may not be true for every person who experiences this kind of loss, but it is true for me.
If I shared all of my grief with you, it might scare you. I think grief is intensely personal, but it is also necessary. Some of my “best” days have been the days when I sobbed uncontrollably or even screamed. I have found that it is nice to drive alone and just sob or scream! You have to make sure there are no other cars nearby so they won’t think you are in danger, but I highly recommend it! I feel this is healthy, so please don’t freak out when I’m upset. The only way forward is through the grief, so every time I am really sad, I am taking a small step forward.
This is not an easy process. Since I feel my grief is personal, I tend to share my happier thoughts. That does not mean this is not a struggle. I have met many new people as a result of Patrick’s death. Some of them are also sadly members of this widows club that no one wants to join, so this is kind of a message to them. This is how I am getting through this, but there’s no “right” way. If someone needs to share their pain, that is fine too. On the inside, we are all aching.
Grief is like a chameleon. Sometimes it blends into the background, and you never quite expect to see it. Other times it pops into view when you least expect it. Don’t be surprised if I burst into tears for no apparent reason. And if I’m happy, it doesn’t mean I have forgotten. I’m just trying to get through. And I feel this is exactly what he would want me to do.
Prelude
Imagine that you are taking a walk. The weather is mostly perfect, and the scenery is beautiful. As you walk, you are holding the hand of the person you most want to walk this path with. Occasionally there is a hill, and sometimes you stumble, but your partner is always right there to help you. You carry many memories with you, and in the distance, you can see many places that you want to go, and you anticipate these experiences with excitement. You have the path memorized, and you know exactly how to get where you want to go.
Suddenly there is an earthquake worse than you ever imagined. A huge chasm opens up in the path in front of you. You feel your partner slipping, and suddenly they have disappeared. The destruction is so great that you can no longer see your future path. The experiences you had dreamed of are no longer possible.
At first, you feel like jumping into the chasm and looking for your lost dreams. You don’t really see any other option. Moving forward alone is unthinkable. Suddenly you see that there is another path leading away from the chasm.
This path has not been used as often, and it is not as easy to navigate. Sometimes you need help clearing the way. Parts of the path seem dangerous and frightening, and the chasm always seems to be nearby.
As you make your way, you start to notice that there are some interesting things ahead. There are other people traveling the path, and you begin to enjoy their company. They help to clear the path and point out destinations that you didn’t realize were there. This is a much different path than you had planned. You haven’t forgotten about your missing partner or the plans you had with them, but you realize that they would be happy that you found this new path and would want you to continue on.
I wrote this on the one-year anniversary of my husband Patrick’s death. I am now on a completely different path that I did not choose, but it is not as awful and scary as I thought it would be. There have been new dreams and hopes for the future. I feel that Patrick walks this path with me and helps steer me in the right direction. He can no longer hold my hand, but he still keeps me from falling.
Part One – The Worst Day of My Life
Chapter 1 – A Quiet House
April 20, 2016, started differently. I woke up around 6:45 AM to a silent house. My husband, Patrick, ran or rode his bicycle every morning before work. Patrick was very dedicated to staying physically fit. He would be the first to tell you that he didn’t particularly love working out but did it anyway. When he graduated from PT School, he gave a graduation speech, and it was about the importance of staying physically fit. I am hoping that someday I will find a copy of that speech!
He did some type of workout almost every day of the week and frequently did more than one. Each weekday morning, he would either run, lift weights in the garage, or ride his bike out Shaw Avenue to Quail Lakes, do a lap or two, and then return home. I am not much of a morning person, so it was not uncommon for me to sleep through his entire workout. He would usually wake up at 5:30 AM and finish by 6:45 AM. He left while I was still sleeping. I would occasionally wake up briefly, but sometimes I slept through it entirely. I thought it was odd that he wasn’t home, but I had a conference call at 7:00 and needed to prepare for it.
I was a Plan Sponsor Liaison at Aetna. I worked with our sales and marketing team and multiple National Account customers. I had worked at Aetna for over 21 years, the last year or so from home, and I loved being able to work at home. I quickly changed into my day pajamas; Capri-length black sweatpants with a stripe down the side, a sports bra, and a t-shirt. I ran into the loft, turned my computer on, and then asked my 17-year-old Daughter, Camille, to check the garage to see if her dad’s bike was there. And then I dialed into my call.
Camille went downstairs and returned a few minutes later to tell me the bike was gone. Ugh. He was very proud of his old, beat-up bike. I don’t remember when he bought it, but it could have been in the mid to late ’90s. I was sure I would have to get off my call and rescue him from a flat tire. My customer would probably be okay with my absence, but I worried the sales team would be annoyed. I could ask Camille, but she needed to get to school.
I waited until 7:10 and then sent an IM to my account manager to tell her I had a family emergency and needed to step away. I got in my car, which luckily already had the bike rack, and headed out to his usual route. I imagined him walking along the side of the road. He probably didn’t have his phone. He was invincible. Why would he need a phone or any identification?
Chapter 2 – Patrick
Patrick was 49 and one week. We celebrated his birthday exactly one week before at the Paul McCartney concert. I had surprised him with tickets and then decided the girls should go too and bought two additional seats in another part of the arena. We had a fabulous time, and I was thrilled I had splurged on the tickets!
Patrick was a physical therapist and was very dedicated to staying physically fit. He was also frugal and stubborn. His bike was ancient, and he considered himself an anti-cyclist, refusing to wear the usual cycling gear. I had a road bike and frequently extolled the virtues of cycling and the benefits of getting a fancier bike, but he wouldn’t have it. He made fun of the cycling kits the serious cyclists wore and prided himself on wearing the most beat-up clothes he owned when riding. He had a cyclist’s body, and I liked to imagine how great he would look in cycling shorts with a tight jersey, but he refused.
On one of the few occasions when he did a ride with me and some of my cyclist friends, I could only imagine what they thought when he pulled up on that beater bike. But he could keep up with them and climb a hill as if on a lightweight road cycle. He did carry a saddle bag with tools and was usually able to repair a flat, but who knew what kind of mechanical trouble the bike might have?
Chapter 3 – The search
I knew the main route Patrick would have taken. He might have taken a couple of ways to get to the main road, Shaw Avenue, so I guessed and chose Locan Avenue. I didn’t see him there, or when I got to Shaw, so I headed east and scanned the side of the road for a man walking a bike. A fire truck passed me, going in the opposite direction with its lights off. I wasn’t anxious at this point, and I felt the truck would not be driving away if there was an emergency.
We live in Clovis, CA, a constantly growing suburb of Fresno, CA. New housing developments are always popping up, and one or two roads are closed on any given day. I saw the usual flashing signs ahead and assumed the road had been closed due to the new development on the street’s south side. But a small truck was parked there, and someone was beside it. I should investigate.
I pulled over, got out, and walked over to the person, who was a Community Service Officer. I asked her what had happened, and she said there was an accident. I told her my husband was riding his bicycle and asked if I could see if he was there. She told me the crash involved a motorcycle. She even added the sound effect “vroom, vroom” to reassure me. She wouldn’t let me pass.
I returned to my car and then drove past Shaw, trying to think of a way to get closer. Patrick had CPR and first aid certification and would have stopped to render aid. Suddenly I realized this was too big of a coincidence. Patrick wasn’t home, hadn’t contacted me, AND there was an accident. An inner voice told me I needed to go home.
Chapter 4 – Meeting Patrick
I remember the first time I saw Patrick. I was working as a typist for his cousin, John Prandini, in his physical therapy office, which was inside a local fitness club, Fresno Racquet Time. John is the brother of one of my high school track and cross-country coaches, Carlo Prandini. I knew that one of their cousins was coming to work as a physical therapy aide for the summer, but I guess I thought he would be older. I was in the front lobby, and I saw a guy walking in. He was tall and was dressed in a very 80’s style with light yellow pants, a t-shirt, and suspenders with palm trees on them. He was hot!
I later figured out this was not actually the first time I saw Patrick. Although I went to Clovis High School and he went to Hoover, we both ran track and cross country and would have been at the same meets many times during our high school years. And I once went on a date with one of Patrick’s best friends, John Wright, and Patrick was with him when we met. I often wonder why we couldn’t have met sooner, but I think we met when we were supposed to. We weren’t instantly an item, but by the end of that summer, we had begun our 30-year love story.
Chapter 5 – Driving Home 7:29 AM
As I drove, I called my nephew, Nicholas Campbell, who was a police officer at the time. He said he wasn’t working but agreed to try and get information. A few minutes later, he called back to ask me to describe Patrick’s bike. He mentioned there was an accident, and the rider did not have ID. I told him my husband refused to wear the Road ID I had made for him.
I don’t remember panicking or wondering why they would need ID. Maybe shock had set in? All I knew was Camille would be leaving for school, and I needed to get home before she did. As I walked into the house, I got a breaking news text reading, “Fatal bicycle vs. vehicle accident closes Shaw.” And I knew. I can remember thinking this is what happens when you follow the news too closely. I received notification of death by a news alert. My brain refused to process the news.
