I had a massage appointment scheduled for Saturday, September 21 which was three days after Coleen left us. At first I was going to cancel, but thought better of it. I sent a text to my massage therapist, Maureen, telling her that I wanted to keep the appointment. She had heard about Coleen and thought that it would be good for me to have that massage.
Maureen had given me about five massages at that point and I was on a monthly schedule with her. She was outstanding at getting deep and really working out my stress and tensions. Coleen had also seen her several times and they were of like minds. Very alternative, thoughtful and creative. It’s funny how Coleen surrounded herself with people like that, like her, especially toward the end. She took a lot of comfort there. I think it’s also interesting that I followed her lead. Which brought me to Maureen just three days after Coleen’s death.
Things were a little different that day. When Maureen started she said, “Sometimes grief settles in the tissues, Rob. Today, we’ll try to get rid of some of that. It might be a little emotional for you but that’s OK. You’re safe here.”
Safe. That was the first time I heard that word spoken like that, in that context. Directed at me. I was safe there. All through the massage, something felt just a little bit different to me. I was relaxing into it, very receptive to Maureen. She was right, it did get emotional for me a few times but I just let that happen. It was very natural.
Towards the end, I was on my back and Maureen was behind me working on my neck and shoulders, releasing the tensions there. Then she did something different, she laid the palms of her hands down over my chest and just kept them there for several moments, perfectly still. I felt very relaxed and I could actually feel the warmth from her hands. I didn’t realize it at the time but this was part of reiki, the laying of the hands for healing and energy.
When she finishes, Maureen leaves the room and gives me a few minutes to compose myself. As she did, I lied on my back with my eyes closed and felt it for the first time. It felt like Coleen was there with me right in that room. A presence, a comfort, something different like I had never felt before. I took it in and then thought I was crazy, shook my head and got dressed.
When I came out of the room I said “Maureen, you going to think I’m nuts, but I swear Coleen was there just now. She was in the room.”
Maureen smiled. “She was, Rob. I felt her when I first walked in. She was there. And when I put my hands on your chest, I looked down and saw her hands there. She was with you.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry so I did a little of both. That was my first experience with Coleen’s presence. There was more to come. A trusted adviser who knew Coleen well said that she would be present to me sometimes. That she would be helping me and guiding me. Things have happened since that massage and I have felt her often. I told her a few weeks before her passing that I would always be talking to her. She gave me one of her looks and said, “Well, I’ll try to figure out how to talk back to you.”
I have been trying to arrange my schedule this week in Ft Lauderdale so that I can spend happy hour on the beach. It’s usually my second or third trip of the day there but I try to always be on the beach by 5:00 PM. It’s one of the big pressures of my days here.
My happy hours here are not extravagant. They consist of a couple Heineken’s iced in a $8.oo cooler I bought at the local CVS and a roasted almond tin I fill with whatever snacks I have laying around the condo. I also make sure to bring the Stephen King novel I am reading, some antacids, my iPhone, room key, and a small notebook and pen in case I get the urge to write something down. At that point, I feel pretty complete.
I like to think that Coleen and I invented happy hours at the beach. We probably didn’t but I remember starting our tradition on a vacation we took years ago, 15 or 20 years at least. We were on a little island called Ocracoke, which sits at the southernmost tip of North Carolina’s Outer Banks. Our routine while there was to visit the beach in the late morning before the sun got too hot and too aggressive and then return to our rented house for lunch. We would hang around in the afternoon, reading or seeing some sights, riding bikes or maybe just napping.
As it got closer to 5:00, we would pack up some beer or wine or both, some snacks, the kids, and head back to the beach for happy hour. The kids would get back in the water with their boogie boards and Coleen and I would be that couple you see on the beach with a glass of wine, looking in each other’s eyes, talking, laughing, making plans. Never thinking this far ahead when one of us would be missing and the other one would be having happy hour alone on a different beach. Never thinking of that.
This beach in Ft Lauderdale reminds me of Ocracoke today. It’s windy and the surf is up. Nice waves. We always liked big waves. I can almost see the kids on those boogie boards. And Coleen wrapping up and being worried about getting too much sun because that wasn’t good for her. And the wind in her hair. And the life in her eyes.
Tonight when I leave this beach, I won’t be going back to our rented house with her. And I won’t be opening a bottle of wine and chopping vegetables or garlic or onions while she cooks dinner. Shrimp scampi, maybe? And I won’t be laying with her in bed either.
I’m starting to think this is why Coleen wanted me to come to the ocean. Not so I could have happy hour alone but because she could talk to me here. Communicate with me. We shared so many wonderful times on these beaches. Vacations, memories, boogie boards, happy hours. She could remind me of all that here.
Maybe Coleen’s on to to me and my theory about confronting the memories, looking at the pictures, feeling the hurt and anguish and loss. Then moving forward, healing, being safe. Maybe she knows all about that process. Maybe she’s encouraging it.
There’s something about couples as they get older. You can just look at them and tell things. Like they don’t always have to be impressing each other. Like they have a long history together. Like its ok if they have periods of silence. And they are so comfortable together. They almost know what the other one is about to say or is thinking.
There’s one of those couples in the restaurant I’m at right now. She’s dressed a little funky in a jean jacket and jewelry, short gray hair, and wearing glasses. Maybe kind of a hippie look. He’s not so funky. Tank top, jeans (in Florida?), kind of looks disinterested. I like her more than I like him. She seems enlightened and he seems distracted. She’s the spark. She’s Coleen but he’s not me. I am attentive and anxious to hear what she has to say. He doesn’t seem to offer any observations or attempt to stimulate conversation. I do. I always wanted to make her laugh. I would always say something to get her to react, hopefully happily.
I’m jealous of couples. Especially couples that are close to my age. To our age. We were such a great couple. I mean, just great. We were the standard bearers on how couples should be. People wanted to be in our company, we were Coleen and Rob. We were fun and inspiring. We had parties, game nights, happy hours. We made people comfortable and made them laugh.
Now it’s just me and I can’t be that couple and I am jealous. I am mad about no longer being part of a couple, especially a couple that included Coleen. I was privileged to have my role in that. I can not replicate that and I miss it.
I was having lunch at Hooters yesterday and the girls there made me an offer. They said they would give me a free draft beer ($4.00 value) if I would buy one of their calendars for $13.00. And that was before I even saw a menu.
They showed me the calendar. They probably thought that I would be unable to resist their offer once I laid eyes on the artistic merit of young blondes in orange hot pants, white tank tops and over emphasized breasts in pathetic poses with fake smiles. I was trying to visualize the sight of that work of art hanging in my kitchen when my granddaughters came over to visit.
I guess the Hooters girls sensed my apprehension because they then moved in with their kill shot. “And the proceeds go to breast cancer.”
I was just trying to get a salad and a beer. I am here as a direct result of losing my wife to metastatic breast cancer. I don’t really want to hear about how committed to the cause Hooters and all of its large breasted girls are to “breast cancer.” I notice the pink paper towels scattered throughout the restaurant. I guess that’s Hooters idea of commitment or awareness maybe. I did not want to get into a breast cancer debate with one of these girls. It wasn’t really their fault that they didn’t know any better. Or was it?
I tried to stay out of it but ultimately, I had to ask, “How does it go to breast cancer?” “What do you mean? It goes to breast cancer!” Like that was some destination or secret bank account that all these monies were magically directed to. I said “Well, you know, does it go to research, Komen, some sort of Hooters foundation? How does it go to breast cancer?”
“It just does! It goes to breast cancer!” I stopped there. I know when it’s time to stop. It’s hard to reason with someone dressed as ridiculously as those girls are. I ordered the garden salad with chicken, balsamic on the side, Heineken draft. And I passed on the calendar.
But I must say, ” shame on you Hooters.” If you are going to ask your young darlings to shamelessly hawk your merchandise in the name of a cause, to trade it off for free beer, could you please first educate them on what the hell the cause is?
It is likely that a significant percentage of those well endowed waitresses of yours will someday grow up to be breast cancer victims themselves. Like about 1 of every 8. Please teach them what they need to know. Or else next time I’ll go to Subway.
I don’t remember where I first heard it, but I do recall it was with Coleen. We were on vacation somewhere and we read a quote that said “In the mountains, we forget to count the days.” Well I am going to modify that to read “In Ft. Lauderdale, I forget to count the days.”
I am at day six of my seven day stay here and it is like no vacation I have ever taken. I am alone with no schedule, no deadlines, no car, no showtimes to catch, nothing to be late for. I have all day to do nothing and I am getting pretty good at managing all my time.
Exactly one week after Coleen’s death, I was encouraged to take a month and just go hang out on a beach somewhere by myself. At the time I thought it was a nice idea but didn’t take it seriously. Even though the person doing the encouraging was Coleen. More about that later.
At that time I was about four days away from returning to work and felt a responsibility to do just that. My employers had been very kind and understanding during Coleen’s sickness and I did not want to take advantage of the situation. I also thought the length of time was a little too long. I mean what was I going to do for a whole month by myself? That’s a lot of books and a lot of sand.
I returned to work on schedule and somehow managed to drag myself through most of that week. All the time thinking, though, what am I doing here? What do I really want and need? I knew that I didn’t want that job any longer. The stress and tension it caused me had already taken a toll and I felt much too fragile to continue to deflect it away. Rebecca encouraged me to think about myself first, what I wanted. My daughters did the same.
I invited my practical side into the discussion and started playing with numbers and figures. Or as the song goes, “I was just guessing, numbers and figures, tearing her puzzles apart.” I prepared a budget based on me with little or no income. With me quitting my job and going into retirement mode. It looked like it would work but I was thinking maybe I was missing something. I mean, how could it be possible that I could quit working at 60? I met with Kent, my financial adviser and he agreed, “Rob, it looks like you thought of everything. You might have to cut some corners but this can work for you.”
Cut some corners to stop working? I was ready to make that deal. I talked to my bosses and told them of my decision. I was sorry to be leaving them so suddenly but I had to what was right for me and working for them wasn’t it. Two weeks later I walked out the door there for the last time.
During those two weeks, several things happened resulting in me being in Florida. Probably the most significant of those was when my daughter Lindsay and son in law Mike arranged a timeshare trade for a week they were not able to use. They found a beautiful ocean view condo in Ft Lauderdale where I am staying, and booked it almost before I could say “yes, please.” I had accumulated many free Southwest Air miles and found direct flights. And I received more counseling and reiki from Rebecca and she thought it would be a great opportunity for me to be alone and nurture my healing. She was right, everybody was right, including me and Coleen.
Now here I am on my balcony, shirtless, ocean breezes messing my hair and helping me heal. I am doing something I have always loved and wanted to do. This morning I woke up with an old Harry Chapin song in my head. It’s called “Taxi” and in it he sings “She was going to be an actress and I was going to learn to fly…” but for me, I was going to learn to write. Feels like I’m finally getting that chance.
My biggest daily decisions down here are what time (or times) should I go to the beach and where should I have dinner. And the easiest question to answer is when can I make time to write? All day, every day, wherever I am, whoever is around. I have many random thoughts and ideas for articles and I try to write them all down so I can work on them later but some have gotten away from me. That does not worry me though because I’m certain they will return when it is time. Sometimes I feel guilty because I want to spend time writing and think I should be on the beach vacationing with my Stephen King novel and a cold Heineken. But the writing part is so much fun for me I feel like I’m on vacation anyway. It certainly doesn’t feel like work. So I compromise and take my journal and pen with me wherever I go. And a cold Heineken.
I recall listening to a live recording of singer/songwriter Neil Young from sometime in the early 70’s during an especially prolific songwriting period for him. While introducing his next song, which he had just written,he said, “I’ve had so many songs come to me lately, I don’t know what else to do except sing them.”
I’ve had so many thoughts and things to say, I don’t know either. So for now, I just write them down and keep them safe.
