In an earlier post, I described how different my dreams are about Paul from those about my brother. And I rarely ever dream about my father, who died a few years after him. This morning, probably in a milisecond between snooze alarms, I had a dream about all three.

I experience waves of grief and loss that move at the frequency a wave of molasses might. I’m deep in one right now, and haven’t quite come to the surface. I’m learning to let go and trust that I’ll come up on the other side, hopefully with no more than a little water up my nose and some salt burning my eyes.

This dream was a gift, a really sweet moment in time. As is the way with dreams, I don’t remember context or how one person morphed into another, but I do know I climbed into the back of my brother’s 1986 Saab 900 SPG with a young version of my dad in the passenger seat and my brother driving, and suddenly Paul was next to me. Andrew drove us fast through an empty parking garage, and I delighted in how beautifully that car could take a corner. Driving a fun car is another love I have lost over the years, but at least I can remedy that someday.

Something has been brewing in my nervous system, and I didn’t recognize it until this morning when I let Emmet outside.

I’ve been juggling a lot lately, fair to say. Between a heavier workload than usual, and spending more time in Seattle, some of that time being with three wonderful but very teenage girls, some travel, and extreme (for Seattle) heat, I would call recent months “challenging” but not unreasonable. Most of it has been fun and not worth the agitation and stress that has built up lately.

This morning I opened the sliding door and was hit with the most wonderful smell of 5:30am in the Pacific Northwest on a day that promises to be hot. As I inhaled, I could read everything it was telling me. Then I recalled feeling this way last year. And the year before. This would have been about the time Paul came home for hospice in 2018. Morning-dampened dry green summer air, open windows, fans, surf music, ripening tomatoes, homemade ice cream.

These are happy and wonderful things, but the sadness and stress from that time is permanently woven into my fibers and becomes activated without me consciously knowing it. I felt a dose of it two weeks ago, when Jay and I went down to Lake Tahoe for some work in my CA office and the Trans-Tahoe swim relay. Such a distinctive smell, eliciting a swirl of happy nostalgia, sadness, and new memories.

I realize these memories will evolve, but I also don’t want to see them go. This month, I plan to savor my time at home. Morning-dampened dry green summer air, open windows, fans, surf music, ripening tomatoes, homemade ice cream. I just might share some of that time with Jay and his three wonderful girls.

I’m sitting in my back yard in a cheap plastic Adirondack chair, drinking a not-cheap margarita. Thoughts that run through my head: I am so very, very, bad at relaxing. Paul was so good at this. It’s not lost on me that I have adopted a dog who reflects all of my inner anxieties and pent up stress energy. I’m putting him inside because there is too much stimulation out here. There are so many bird noises! Paul would have helped me identify them, and would have uncovered a whole layer of calls that I hadn’t noticed before. What would Paul have to say about our new (ish) neighbors with their bafflingly large family and trampoline? He would be so proud that I filled two yard waste bins in a day. My next door neighbors are having mundane arguments but I wonder what they’re grilling. We really should rebuild that shed addition. Shit, I should really rebuild that shed addition.. Does tomorrow have to be Monday?

I have been missing Paul in a magnified way. Earlier, I thought it had to do with Covid-related home isolation, which is still part of it, but it’s also seasonal. Spring weekends were when Paul and I did the most together, cleaning up the yard and taking care of everything we had let go in the winter. It was always a time of ambitious plans, whether they be about updates to our house or summer travel. In more recent years I was the one doing the physical work, but Paul was always a key part of the inspiration.

In some ways, I am tackling things much more freely and aggressively than I would have if I wanted Paul’s input. I assume that is normal in most relationships; maybe not. But at the same time, without anyone else to influence me, I am more aware of my own ebbs and floods of motivation. I have major plans for this house, and it’s really daunting to take them on alone. Some weekends I don’t stop moving, and on others… I just can’t.

As I rode my bike up to my house last week, I was thinking about how much I miss Paul’s “boy” qualities. The motoring sound effects he might have made riding his bike up the walk and right up to the the side door, the names he would call me, and his affinity for all things mechanical. But also I miss the partnership. That trusted person to help motivate/inspire, to be mutually proud of accomplishments, and to lean on when I just can’t manage.

I want to remember this month and its beautiful weather because every year I have lived here, May has been incredible. Once Junuary comes, everyone forgets how nice May was. It’s also my birthday month. but I’ll never stop wishing Paul could be here to enjoy it. And for him to set up the hammock and teach me how to relax.

Ah, young and in love in 2007. Now it is 2020, and I am really having a hard time getting my head around what is happening in our world. As I have told friends, I’m thankful that Paul is not here to deal with the stress of being sick and going through treatment during something as unexpected and frightening as the current pandemic. While that may be true, I’m finding the experience to be daunting without his reassuring presence.

I am proud of being capable on my own, and I am lucky to have multiple groups of lifetime friends to turn to. But this is the kind of thing that really makes me yearn for my life partner. So often he was my guiding voice, the one who read all the different sides of an issue, and had a good grasp on things at a high level. I wish he could be here when I wake up in the morning and remember that our world is in a surreal lockdown.

One good thing that has been coming out of this is increased (virtual) contact with my friends. Zoom and google chats, phone calls, and text. These connections are vital to my mental health, and if I can maintain that, I’ll get through this.

More and more, friends are reaching out and expressing their gratitude to each other around Thanksgiving. I love this shift to the tradition. I am personally more and more aware of my gratitude towards friends and family recently, and I appreciate the opportunity to give and receive this emotion in words, whether a text or call or in person.

I was lucky enough to be whisked away to another world for this Thanksgiving, visiting Paul’s brother’s family in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. Helen and Phil and our friends Chris and Jenni Browning joined for the adventure. We lounged, ate, and made sure the pool was sufficiently splashed-in. Our Thanksgiving feast did not disappoint! I would like to say I ate excessive amounts of stuffing and pie for Paul’s sake, but I did it because I’m a greedy pig.

The week before, Seattle radio station KEXP asked listeners to submit a story about an artist they are thankful for this year. I often hear these requests for their Saturday “Sound and Vision” show, but never get around to sending my ideas in. This year I had a good response, so I emailed and was lucky to be chosen to read my story. The archive of the show is no longer available, so I can tell you I really nailed it! In truth it didn’t make me cringe, so that’s huge. Here’s what I said:

“The artist I’m thankful for is Robyn Hitchcock. My husband, Paul, was super passionate about music, and his collection was staggering.

One of his favorites though, was Robyn. He told me this on our second or third date. I made reference to the Soft Boys, and he fell in love with me on the spot. [sidenote for listeners: That the Soft Boys was one of Robyn Hitchcock’s bands is the only thing I knew about them. But it worked.]

At some point Paul started an email correspondence with Robyn. This started after Paul was diagnosed with Stage 4 colon cancer, which is when the things he valued in life came into greater focus, and music was the backbone of his survival strategy. At one point, I took a photo of Paul recreating Robyn’s 2017 album cover where he is holding a white cat, with our own cat Karl. He sent this to him.

I finally got to experience Robyn live at the Fremont Abbey a couple years ago, and he posed for a photo with Paul and our friend Ian Jones. He’s even wearing the shirt he wears on the album cover with the cat. Another time, we brought a bunch of friends to see him play at the Fillmore in SF.  Paul died in August 2018, and I am thankful to Robyn Hitchcock for being warm and kind when he didn’t have to be, and allowing Paul to feel the kind of connection that he lived for.”

Today marks what would have been our 11th anniversary. I checked the handy internet for meaning and gift ideas and it did not disappoint. I think we were more of a bike couple than a handcuff one, but today I may have to settle for steel-cut oats.

I spent last weekend cleaning and organizing my home office, which entailed a lot of filing and looking through painful reminders – if you’ve been around me lately you may have noticed my emotions are a little more at the surface! I am really, really missing him. Lucky for you readers, I have to keep this short so I can go to work.

Last night I met some friends for a beer to catch up and help support Feed 253. Like a message from the Paul himself, one of the delicious IPAs called out: How ’bout now? You can guess my response.

A few posts ago, I suggested that I like the ritual of designating certain days as times to give particular emphasis to memories of someone you lost. I don’t subscribe to any specific cultural ritual at the end of October, be it Halloween (although I do love costumes), or All Saints’ Day, or Dia de Muertos, but it gave me the idea that instead of focusing on the commercial holiday, I could think of it as another time to remember the people I have lost.

This Fall has been so spectacular, that it has me thinking about Paul constantly. (side note: are tear ducts always full of tears, ready to go? Do they take up a lot of space with all that salt water? Where is it held? How do they replenish so quickly?) He would have gone nuts for this crisp dry week we had, with beautiful colors and a good smell in the air – I like to think about healthy times when he would have been enjoying it on his mountain bike. I have missed him for weirdly specific reasons, like going out for dinner. I’ve got lots of people I could go eat with, but it was something I loved to do with him. But more generally, I would just like a hug from him. Many of you out there are good at this too, but he was THE BEST. It is painful for me to remember times that I didn’t appreciate him as much as I should have, got short tempered or took him for granted. I could vow I won’t do that to anyone else but I know I cannot keep that promise.

I want him back. I want them all back – Andrew, my dad (another great hugger), and Paul. It doesn’t seem fair to lose so many male role models in the early half of my life. There are some things I’m glad they don’t have to endure today, things they would not BELIEVE have occurred. Example #1, our president. But the things I wish I could share with them far outweigh those unfortunate examples.

I assume everyone experiences musically-triggered flashbacks. A visceral time travel experience that takes no thought, just a feeling. Usually it is a specific album that transports me: I hear something (though it’s rare) from Talking Heads “Speaking in Tongues” and I am back in middle school, reading V.C. Andrews books. OMD “Crush” and I am sunbathing in the backyard in high school. Any New Order album and, you got it, in my bedroom suffering from moody adolescence.

Music used to be much more precious to me – I really gave a lot of thought to what I would spend money on. I have fond memories of getting in the car with my brother if he was home from school, and going to Fox & Sutherland to shop for a new album. (pretty much any memory of the glow of my brother’s attention and a ride in his car = unparalleled nostalgia)

A few weeks ago, I heard “Ocean Man” by Ween, and it slammed me with a memory. Neither Paul or I had any particular thing for Ween, but it was the soundtrack to a trailer for the ski movie G.N.A.R. about an unofficial competition at Squaw Mountain (NSFW, in case you’re interested) and it had led to a very WikiPaulia-esque tale about the band, and of course the iconic cover art of the album Chocolate and Cheese.

Those who knew Paul know that his taste in music was broad, and his knowledge extensive. The music library I have inherited is utterly intimidating, especially without him to explain to me why he downloaded it, what were the musical influences and band history of the artist, and where he came across it (and at what wee hour of the morning). Many of his stories included anecdotes about buying a drink for a band member when he saw them at the bar, or chatting with one after a show, or how another was a drunken asshole. He had a minor penpal relationship with Robyn Hitchcock. Suffice it to say, his passion for it was intense. I told him at one point that we had a project in my office for a couple that were really into music, so much so that the project title includes the name Big Star. By the next day I had an entire playlist and lengthy education on the evolution of power pop.

I’ll get to the point. I have a lot of Paul memories that are triggered by music. I remember phases he went through, like all Sufjan Stevens all the time when we were living in San Francisco, TV on the Radio when their earlier albums came out, a somewhat surprising overplaying of Daft Punk, and of course I can’t forget about the band that only wrote songs about the game of cricket. (the Duckworth Lewis Method. Check it out.) He made playlists that I will associate with road trips to Tahoe, or our wedding, or just because it was a new year. The Grateful Dead, the Beatles, Neil Young and other classic mainstays were part of the constant soundtrack of our home.

I prefer to have music on when I am home, but a lot of times I just don’t know what to play anymore.

Today is the one year mark. We make such a big deal about marking “anniversaries” and significant days; sometimes I think it is pointless. Today is not any different from any other day, and it is specifically not the same as last year on this date. So why do I feel so bad? Why am I torturing myself with some of the most painful memories I have? Why do I miss Paul more today than any other?

I guess the real point of marking these dates is for remembrance. I think it’s nice to establish a particular time that is dedicated to thinking about a person or an event even more than you might on a general basis. It’s up to me to decide how to honor it – I could get on with my work day and try to distract myself, or I could spend time recalling our last conversations, go for a bike ride and scatter some ashes, or declare a day for nurturing myself and others who loved him. (cue a vision of me and Karl lounging about and eating ice cream) In any case, I have come around – I don’t think it’s pointless.

I just returned from Portland, ME, where I competed in a SwimRun event with Alison. We were out at a wood fired pizza restaurant on Monday and the soundtrack from Endless Summer came on. Those tracks by the Sandals are the backbone of an extensive surf playlist that Paul created, and that is exactly what I played quietly on the stereo in the last days, when he was no longer speaking and his body was shutting down. To hear this on Monday was poignant timing.

I don’t believe in this sort of thing, but I do like to imagine Paul experiencing an endless Summer. Although if he had it his way, he would probably have chosen Fall.