The older we get the more we reflect on what has been; as well as lamenting on what possibly should have been.
Time is complex.
Time gives a reason to celebrate as well as a reason to regret.
Into my 50s now, my perspective has come into focus over the past few years to a point where I find myself pleasantly surprised to be in a place of peace.
I find myself feeling comfortable in my own skin.
I no longer have any interest in impressing anyone in any superficial type of way.
For the first time ever all I really care about is being kind, and treating people the way that I wish I’d treated them over the past decades.
The anger, spite, rage, and bitterness that has filled most of my adult life is gone.
Instead of wasting any more time on that, now all I find myself wanting to focus on is being the best possible person that I can be.
The best possible husband, father, and human being.
Grateful for my wife Shelly, and my sons Dylan and Taylor.
It’s been quite the journey to get to where I am now.
A journey of pain, sorrow, denial, and missteps.
As well as a journey most recently of gratitude, vulnerability, self-reflection, and honesty.
Grateful to finally be able to share valuable lessons that others can learn from.
It’s been a life of interesting, yet painful stories.
So painful that I wasn’t able to take the walls down that had surrounded these stories for decades.
As the ability to share and add my perspective has emerged, the walls have come down.
Gratitude and perspective have come into full focus.
This time of year is difficult for me.
Dana died on November 13th.
The 30th anniversary of her death is looming.
October and early November, like a broken record, are typically painful with melancholy as I can’t help but reflect on the last days of her life that led up to November 13th.
Many of those memories are etched in my mind with no threat of going anywhere.
Yet other memories are fading with time.
For years I held on tight, fighting not to let any of the memories fade away.
Grateful now for the shift into the ability to be content.
Content with the precious time that Dana and I had together.
Content with the memories that are safely tucked inside of me.
Content with the resilience that allowed me to eventually move forward.
Content and proud of the father and husband that I am.
Content, proud, and grateful for the life that I have built.
Content, proud, and grateful for the person that I have become.
I find that the more genuine and true I am to myself, the more content I become.
Every year I share the 9/11 story of myself and my lifelong best friend.
It’s an amazing story of baseball, beer and friendship.
In 2016 our story went viral by being told by Mike Rowe on his “The Way I Heard It” podcast. The episode was called “You Don’t Know Mike”.
Here is our story.
Back in 2001 I worked in the grocery business for Wild Oats Markets, overseeing stores throughout the country.
Nineteen years ago this past week, I was sent to the east coast. Starting in Florida for two days, I then flew to Boston for a day before driving to visit a couple of stores in Connecticut.
On September 10, 2001 my co-worker Simon and I finished our project several hours early in Westport, CT. It was noon and we realized that we suddenly had a free afternoon and evening. We weren’t scheduled to fly back home until more than twenty-four hours later, on September 11th from La Guardia Airport in New York City.
We checked out of our hotel and headed down to New York City early. At Yankee Stadium, Roger Clemens was going for his 20th win vs. the Red Sox that evening. We headed straight to the stadium.
We bought our tickets and then it started raining like crazy. The game was delayed. After an hour or so we headed into the stadium and got situated into our prime seats near the field, between home plate and first base.
We just got situated into our seats and right in front of us was my lifelong best-friend Mike and his wife Elena walking by. We were in disbelief, such a wild coincidence! Mike and I had been to dozens of LA Dodgers games together as we grew up in Bakersfield, CA. Now here we were running into each other at Yankee Stadium.
The rain started up again and the game was cancelled. Mike and Elena didn’t have a vehicle at the game, and we didn’t have a hotel booked for the night. So they jumped into our rental car and we headed to their apartment in Hoboken, New Jersey.
We could see Manhattan and the World Trade Center perfectly from Hoboken. Energized by the sight, we came up with the idea of going to visit Mike’s office in the morning to see the amazing view on our way to the airport.
Throughout the night I called my parents, my wife and a few people that I worked with. I told each of them how unbelievable it was that we ran into Mike and Elena and that we were going to spend the evening at their apartment. I also shared my idea of going into work with Mike on our way to the airport in the morning.
Mike, Simon and I went to a great little Irish Pub in Mike’s neighborhood. The Harp’s and Guinness’s started flowing. We had a lively, beer-fueled conversation as Mike and Simon hit it off really well. Mike kept saying he needed to get to bed, but we kept insisting “one more beer”.
At the bar the three of us had been having a passionate discussion about music. The Pixies place in modern music’s evolution came up and created great debate. So at the apartment we proceeded to loudly put on their classic Doolittle album and have more beer and impassioned debate.
Extremely irritated, Elena got up and told us to turn the music and our voices down now. It took her a few more visits to the living room for us to retire for the night. After 3AM we finally went to bed with the obvious agreement that we would not be getting up early to go to work with Mike. We said our good-byes as Mike said he’d be up early for work.
When I woke up not too many hours later, I heard the shower going. Then I heard someone leave the apartment. A bit later I finally salvaged enough energy to get up. I told Simon to get off the couch and jump in the shower. I turned the TV on. I immediately saw that a tower had been hit. I opened the curtain and could see the smoke as I looked at lower Manhattan out the window.
Panicked, I assumed I had heard Mike leave earlier. But I rushed to Mike and Elena’s bedroom and hollered for him. No response at first, so I kept hollering “Mike, are you in there?” Finally, Mike replied with an attitude that he was still in bed because he was hungover.
It was Elena that I had heard in the shower earlier. Her daily destination was the train station in the basement of the World Trade Center. She worked adjacent to the World Trade Center at One Liberty Plaza and had been alerted to the first tower being hit just prior to departing the train station in Hoboken. She turned around and headed back to the apartment. I will never forget how extreme the emotion was as she rushed in and thanked us for keeping Mike up so late.
Mike worked for the small investment banking firm Sandler O’Neill. His office was on the 104th floor of the South Tower of the World Trade Center. Mike wasn’t at his desk that morning because for the only time ever, a hangover kept him from going to work on time.
There were eighty-two of Mike’s co-workers in the office that morning. Despite the reassurance over the loud-speakers to stay put, sixteen of Mike’s co-workers took the elevator down to vacate the building after the first plane hit. The remaining sixty-six stayed and continued working.
They did not survive.
The reality of the day started to take over as the shock made way to Mike coming to the overwhelming realization and confirmation that so many friends and colleagues did not make it.
With the airports closed, Simon and I stayed with Mike & Elena for three more days. On the 12th Simon and I took the train into Manhattan to show our support for the team at our company owned store at 89th & Broadway. We visited the store and then walked the relatively empty streets of the city.
I was blown away by how kind, unified and helpful everyone was in the aftermath of this tragedy. People were solely focused on helping people. It was the best I have ever seen in humanity. The image and feeling of this was life-changing for me; staying with me ever since.
My hope today is that we all can put kindness, gratitude and unity at the core of all that we do.
We never truly know the story behind any of the people that we encounter each day.
Countless lives were changed on that September day nineteen years ago.
We’re each blessed with the special opportunity to impact and change people’s lives in a positive manner.
Let’s continue to remind ourselves to always do this in a kind, patient and grateful way.
Nineteen years later, Mike and Elena are still living in New Jersey. Mike and I talk often throughout the year and have never missed having a conversation each September 11th.
Continuing to inch closer to completing my book, this morning I was working on a particular point in time that was a crucial point in my journey.
My visit to Dana’s room after 24 years pulled so much together in giving me the grace for some much needed peace. The writing of this visit was originally a piece on my blog called “The Upstairs Room”. It’s rawness immediately struck a chord with many that read it.
A few weeks after originally posting, it reached a wide audience; being published by the website Love What Matters (link here).
I thought I’d take an opportunity to share it again here, as well as concluding with some current thoughts.
**********
“In a few weeks it will be 25 years since I moved away from Bakersfield, California to Western Kentucky.
One of the most difficult things was saying goodbye to Dana’s parents (Dan and Mary). I had become very close with them in the 2 and a half years since Dana had died. But I knew to move forward; I needed to move away. I promised that I would keep in close touch and continue to see them whenever I headed back to visit Bakersfield.
Less than a year later that all changed when Shelly and I became a couple. As I have previously mentioned, Shelly and I had become the best of friends after Dana’s death. Shelly was part of Dana’s circle of high school friends, but I did not know her very well. Shelly got an apartment with one of Dana’s best friends in the months after Dana’s death, then I began to get to know Shelly. Over the next few years she became a person that I could easily talk to about the despair I was dealing with. She would listen when I felt that nobody else would.
Shelly came to visit me in Kentucky and our relationship surprisingly changed during that visit.
This sent shock-waves to Bakersfield. Her parents reacted as if we were disrespecting Dana’s memory in the worst possible way; because Shelly was a friend of Dana’s. My Mom even received a call telling her how disgraceful it all was.
This reaction by her parents and by a few of Dana’s friends hurt Shelly and I tremendously. We moved forward and regretfully my relationship with Dan and Mary ended. I hated this, but I felt they were so upset with me that they wanted nothing to do with me anymore. They had no idea that Dana would always be such a major part of my being and that I would deal with the anguish of losing her daily. I wish I would have attempted to salvage our relationship back then. But I didn’t, as the pain was too intense, instead I let anger and rage manifest.
Then in 2013 Shelly had her life-changing freak accident. Her remarkable positive attitude dealing with a situation that almost took her life and forced her to relearn to walk and talk again surprisingly created a big change in myself too. I was finding peace in so many areas of my life as I was washing the years of rage away.
I decided to write to Dan and Mary. It was twenty years since we had last spoken. I gave a little detail on the past twenty years and told them that I missed them. Mary wrote back that they were really happy to hear from me. We continued to occasionally write over the next two years.
November 13, 2015 was the 25th anniversary of Dana’s death. I was taking this particular milestone exceptionally hard. I decided I would call Dan and Mary on the 13th. To dial Dana’s phone number again was surreal. Mary answered and was so excited to hear from me. She even asked about Shelly’s brain injury and our two boys, Dylan and Taylor. I also talked for a long time to Dan. I seemed to struggle more than them to keep my emotions in check, but it was all so good. From that point we continued to talk regularly.
Late last summer my uncle passed away in Hanford, California, which is an hour and a half past my hometown of Bakersfield. I was asked by my cousins to be a pall bearer. My parents could not make the trip due to my Dad’s frail health. So I decided to make a quick turn-around driving trip by myself. I left my home in Arizona around 4 AM, needing to be in Hanford for the rosary at 5 PM.
The night prior I called Mary and asked her if they would be home that next day around noon. She was excited and said they would make sure that they were home. This had all happened so quickly that I did not really have time to be nervous. But it felt good to realize that I was about to see them after all this time.
Upon arriving in Bakersfield I first drove to the house that I had bought just four days prior to Dana’s death. Our last weekend together had primarily focused on the excitement of doing fun stuff for what was to be our first house. I never moved in and sold it a few months after her death.
As I drove up to the cute 1950s California ranch house, the emotion of our shattered future hit me hard.
The tears flowed down my face.
I then made the quick half mile drive to Dana’s house. Her parents still lived in the same house. I pulled up and parked at the spot that I had parked to see Dana so many times before. It quickly hit me that it was the first time I parked there in over 24 years. It sure did not feel like it had been so long. I sat for a minute or two as I attempted to regain some sort of composure.
I rang the doorbell and Dan and Mary both quickly answered. We hugged and I cried. They looked great. Mary was now 74 years old and Dan was 79. It was crazy to think that the last time I had seen them they were around my current age.
Like myself, Dana had been an only child.
They gave me a tour of the bottom floor of the house. I think I expected to be stepping back into 1990. But I was not, they had done a lot of upgrades and remodeling over the years. But pictures of Dana and I were still throughout the house.
We then sat in the family room and talked for 45 minutes or so. We talked so much about Dana. It felt really good to be reminiscing of memories that were so clear and vivid for me, but I rarely had the opportunity to discuss.
I finally said, “I need to go upstairs”.
As I entered Dana’s bedroom, now it was as if I was stepping back into 1990. As it did then, her room was still centered around me. The realization of this engulfed me with emotion. Pictures of us, many in the frames I had bought her. My 8×10 college graduation picture. So many of the gifts I had given her. Wow, such overwhelming pain and joy simultaneously took over me as I absorbed it all. I then went through all of the drawers, cabinets as well as her closet. So many items, keepsakes and little mementos. There were many reminders of things I had not thought of in so long. As well as other reminders of things that had been at the forefront of my mind for all of this time.
Her clothes were all gone, as they had fallen apart many years ago, but much of her room was still intact.
I had gathered my composure pretty well until I saw something on her bulletin board. It was a half folded piece of paper with a drawing of the cartoon puppy that she would so often doodle when she was bored. But it also had her signature. Then underneath that was another signature, this time of her full name. Then lastly she had written Dana Millsap. I had forgotten how she often would practice signing the name that she was so anxious to have one day. A day that never came. I felt such a powerful surge of sadness upon seeing this.
I wanted to stay and spend much more time with Dan and Mary, but I needed to get back on the road. For me, these two hours were more meaningful than I could have ever possibly imagined them to be.
For Dana’s parents, I believe it finally gave them the understanding of how much I love their daughter.
An understanding of how she is never forgotten.
As well as an understanding that I never moved on, I simply moved forward.
It means so much to me that they finally are aware of this.
**********
It’s been almost exactly two years since I wrote this and will soon be three years since the visit.
A visit that gave me the self-approval to go ahead and share my long and winding journey. At the time I had just finished writing “My Story“, but I had no clue what I was going to do with it.
On my drive home it became crystal clear to me.
I would start a blog, first sharing my story, then sharing other vulnerable views of my life after loss.
The morning after I got home, “Ten Thousand Days” went live and a new journey began.
Being a helpful contributor to the grief community has allowed something positive to come from all of this.
I have visited Dana’s room twice since that visit in 2017 and I continue to regularly talk to Dan and Mary.
The knowledge that the upstairs room is there and that I am always welcome to visit is comforting in a way that I can’t quite describe.
I’ve often written about how not many years ago I began the ability of seeing and expressing gratitude within my life. Once this ability presented itself, I have been able to look at life completely differently.
Prior to this I teetered between feeling sorry for myself and being angry at the world for my misfortunes.
It took my wife, Shelly’s, freak accident in 2013 for that to change.
She almost died.
With grit, positivity and persistence she taught herself to both walk and talk again, while never feeling sorry for herself or being angry. So much of her life was taken from her, yet she refused to view it as a negative.
I have been a different person ever since.
I can now find joy in the simplest and most basic elements of life.
Being home every day for nearly 2 months has been an opportunity for me to slow life down to the basics and essentials and focus on joy and gratitude in the most elementary of ways.
I am blessed to be able to work in an industry and for a forward thinking, people first company where I can completely work from home.
I am blessed to be busier than ever.
I am blessed not to have to worry right now about how to put food on the table or pay the mortgage.
I spent years with the reality of that worry being at the forefront of my mind and the basis of my constant hustle.
Having been there, I have great empathy and understanding for the millions that are helplessly facing the panic of that worry today.
I am blessed to be in Arizona, where I have spent 10 to 12 hours each day sitting at my computer on the patio moving through countless emails, Zoom meetings and phone calls.
I am blessed that I have been able to turn my backyard into my makeshift office.
Some days I am able to work on the homestretch of writing my book early in the morning as the sun rises. Other days I jump right into my busy work day. Being a former long-time grocer, I am always up super early, which gives me the opportunity to see the beauty and solitude of the sunrise.
I am blessed for the ability to get lost within the music.
Music has always been the basis of therapy for me. Listening to it provides a calm and a center that reminds me that everything will be alright. I am particularly drawn to watching those that are doing performances from the safety and solitude of their own homes.
I am blessed that I am able to help keep Shelly safe and calm.
With her traumatic brain injury (TBI) and severe post-traumatic stress (PTSD) this pandemic has triggered a lot of fear for her. I am doing all that I can do to keep any additional undue stress or drama at a minimum.
I am blessed than our two sons are doing okay.
Dylan will be 25 this month and he is busily working from his condo in central Phoenix. I am grateful that his job as a graphic designer can be completely done from home too.
We have gone to the Coachella Music and Arts Festival together ten times since he was 11. Last year was unreal as I went to Coachella as his guest; as Dylan was one of a handful of artists selected out of thousands of applicants to design artwork on a recycling bin to be to be displayed at the festival.
This year he was invited back as an artist. The festival was postponed until October (if it happens at all this year). So in addition to his day job, while social distancing he busily worked on this year’s artistic creation from home.
Taylor is 19 and a college freshman. The last two months have been a challenging adjustment for him. It took him several weeks to get the groove of classes online and by Zoom. He is home almost all of the time now. I can’t imagine being 19 and stuck at home only with Mom and Dad every single day.
Our bonding time has been priceless as we stay up late some nights talking deeply in the backyard or playing countless rounds of board games such as Scrabble, Sorry or Yahtzee with Shelly.
He is a collegiate athlete that has an offer to play football in the fall. Will there even be football in the fall? I know that weighs heavily on his mind.
But his positivity from home has both surprised me and made me proud.
I am blessed that I have been able to help keep my parents safe.
My Mom is 80 and my Dad is 83. Every week Shelly and I have been getting groceries for them, making sure they have all that they need to be able to stay safe at home. I can’t help but worry that as we deliver the groceries and visit each week that somehow we bring the virus into them; so we keep our distance (outside of a few lapses in judgment with a couple of quick hugs over the past few weeks).
I am blessed that the power of family is stronger to me today than ever before.
I am blessed that I had a wake-up call to focus on my health.
Seventeen months ago I was diagnosed as a type-2 diabetic.
Rather than be disgusted with myself for allowing myself to get to this situation, I made the commitment to change immediately. Realizing that as Shelly’s caregiver, I need to be here for the long-term.
I eliminated carbs and sugar from my diet. I no longer eat anything between meals and I practice portion control. I cut my alcohol intake to just a few beers a week.
I turned my blood sugar and A1C numbers around quicker than my doctor had ever seen before.
I have lost nearly 40 pounds. I am now within one pound of being in the 170’s for the first time since I was in my 20’s, nearly 25 years ago.
I am blessed that this diagnosis happened.
As with such an improvement in my health, I find that I have the ability to focus on the big picture of joy and gratitude even more clearly.
I am in my 30th year of being a widow. Milestone years always seem to provide the opportunity for me to self-assess more deeply.
For the first time in these 30 years, I feel as if my fiancé, Dana, would finally be proud of the person that I have become.
That’s an accomplishment that I am grateful for and proud of.
As we navigate through these uncharted waters in these unprecedented times. I can’t reiterate enough our need to be kind, patient and grateful.
There are those that are stuck inside their home with nobody to talk to day after day.
There are those that have worked extremely hard to provide for their family, only to see the effects of their hard work completely evaporate in less than two months.
There are those that do not have adequate resources for food or shelter.
There are those that have lost or are losing a loved one with the added sting of not being able to say goodbye, or have the opportunity to mourn and grieve in the way that they would in normal circumstances.
There are those on the front lines putting themselves in danger to help and serve those that desperately need their help and service.
I never truly know the story behind any of the strangers that I encounter each day, so I keep reminding myself that I need to focus on always being kind.
As well as focusing on counting my blessings for those simple things that bring me joy.
As I work from home, what I am working hardest on is staying positive and grateful as the world navigates through this uncharted territory.
We are seeing plenty of bad; just turn on the news, or scroll through your Facebook feed and you will see it. A lot of it.
But I am choosing to focus on the good. And I am seeing a lot of that too.
Settling into my new normal from the comfortable confines of my home, I am trying to create healthy and positive routines.
I am up early each day and on my laptop; feeling blessed that I have so much work to do and that I can do it all from my couch.
I am stocked up now with enough groceries to last us without leaving the house for at least three weeks, probably longer.
With Shelly’s brain injury and PTSD I constantly remind myself that my most crucial job is being her caregiver. Her brain is always on high alert, balancing near panic mode in the most normal of times.
So the uncertainty of this pandemic has her PTSD in overdrive. Yes, I was one of those putting some focus on stocking up the refrigerator and pantry over the past week. Not to hoard, but to make sure we had enough of what we need for the upcoming weeks. Without this reassurance, Shelly’s PTSD would immobilize her with a wave of fear, panic and terror.
My top task is to keep this trauma at an absolute minimum for her.
I am trying to be mindful of her space and the routines that she has in place each day, while creating new ones as I try to gracefully ease into being a constant within her space.
Sixteen months ago I was diagnosed with type-2 Diabetes. From the moment of diagnosis I have taken this with the utmost seriousness.
I totally changed my behavior and my way of life. I have eliminated carbs and sugar from my diet, which has tested all aspects of self-control as I basically live in a bakery (Shelly is a baker :)). I have lost 38 pounds. I am 53 years old and this morning I weighed less than any day since I was in my 20’s.
I am now stuck at home with a months-worth of food at my fingertips. But I am committed more than ever to keep the weight off and not give into temptation of snacking between meals. I am 5 pounds away from my 1994 wedding weight of 175 pounds. I am determined to come out of this weighing less than that.
I keep hearing and reading the reports that I am in an extremely high-risk group to have major complications. This has my attention as I need to be here to continue to take care of Shelly, so I am taking the precautions that I need to take. I am in a position now where I will only leave the house for Shelly, the dogs and I to do our daily walks through the neighborhood.
Music is my therapy, as well as my passion. I have been amazed and inspired all week long seeing artists provide their art for free from the comfort of their homes. They are doing this as a way for themselves to cope with their own isolation as well as giving back to us in our time of need.
Each evening, as we unwind from the day, Shelly and I tune into YouTube as Ben Gibbard (front man of Death Cab for Cutie and The Postal Service) conducts a daily 50 minute performance from his home studio in Seattle. He plans to do this every day for at least two weeks. It definitely has provided a calming effect for me.
No matter what your music genre of preference is; by now you can find someone every day doing something with their art similar to what Ben is doing. I suggest taking the time to explore this.
I am a Mortgage Loan Originator; which is a fancy name for a Loan Officer.
My industry is in chaos. Early in the month we became inundated with refinance applications as rates hit historic lows. I turned in far more loans in a two week period than I ever have before. I am working diligently from 6 AM to beyond 5 PM each day. For that I feel extremely blessed.
Our industry typically closes $1 to $2 trillion in loans each year in the US. Suddenly $11 trillion worth of loans made sense to refinance. Our phones started ringing off the hook.
Since then, as realities and panic have hit the financial markets rates have been on a wild roller coaster ride with volatility like we’ve never seen before.
I lived through, and have written about (here) my struggles with the past economic downturn. In a lot of ways I hit what many would call rock-bottom. It has taken me all the way until now to finally feel like we have recovered from that as a family. I never can help but worry about what’s next.
But I always try to stay focused on the things that really can be controlled and what really matters most.
Through all of this I have witnessed the greatest example of leadership I’ve ever seen within a company. I was once an executive in the grocery industry and have been around upper management types my entire career. But I have never seen leadership like what Steve Jacobson has provided for us at Fairway Independent Mortgage.
By 4 AM PST each day we always have an email from him where he guides and leads from his wisdom based in common sense and his kind heart. I read it each morning before I even get out of bed, and from that point forward proper perspective is set for the day.
For those of you on Twitter, he is a great follow @Fairwaysteve1.
Now more than ever this type of leadership is crucial.
Here is an excerpt from Steve’s email to us this morning;
Breath
Be grateful
Fun——has not been cancelled
Being good to others——not cancelled
Learning; growing; maturing—-not cancelled Reaching out to others——-not cancelled.
Being grateful—-not cancelled
Being able to laugh—-not cancelled
How about——-EVEN IF WE just start today—-BE NICE to each other?
Immune systems must stay strong to BEAT this opponent. Being kind helps the “other person’s immune system and YOURS.
What would happen if each person who has read this far is one thing today?
Really, really, really, really, really NICE to anyone (and yes—-that includes YOUR fellow Fairway teammates) they come in contact with? Why not GIVE each other Grace—-isn’t that our choice?
Why not use this time to “REFRAME” how we think? Why not use this time to SLOW DOWN——not speed up?
Why not BE grateful to be blessed with another day?
We play on.
Encouraging that the entire company to work from home, amazingly he is purchasing Cybex workout equipment for all of us employees to have and work-out with inside of our homes (that’s unheard of!) as well as virtual fitness classes that the whole household can participate in.
He’s conducting daily conference calls communicating how to best do our job from home, walking us off the ledge of stress while always emphasizing that our jobs are not what’s truly most important right now.
He guides us to understand what the new normal is, leading us on how to best play the new game.
He’s given us all a bank of sick time to use if we or a loved one gets this. As well as having the corporate trainers develop programs to keep employees kids engaged, educated and entertained while we are all suddenly at home.
I share this as a real-world example of good that is going on right now. There are thousands of stories like this. It’s important that we focus on them and not lose sight of the fact that the good outshines the bad.
I know more about grief than any other subject. So I can’t stop reflecting on all of those that have already lost loved ones from this virus, and those that will very soon be losing those that are the most important thing to their world.
This makes my heart hurt, as I know so well what a life sentence grief provides.
I worry about Shelly.
I worry that I can keep doing my part to keep her safe. I am again blown away and inspired by her positivity, resilience and perspective as we hunker down into this together. But I do worry about her getting sick, as a widow it is only natural for my mind to go there.
I worry about our sons Dylan and Taylor.
They are grown now. As much as I wish I could keep them locked up safe inside our home, I can’t. They have their own lives. Shelly and I have provided the foundation for them to make wise choices.
But I worry that they are always safe.
I worry about my Mom and Dad.
They are in their 80’s and settling into the new home they downsized into just a month ago. Although it’s only 13 miles away. It feels a lot further now. I am in close touch, making sure they are taking the necessary precautions and have what they need.
It’s important right now that we focus on the good that is all around us.
We are resilient people. We will collectively be stronger than ever before.
Even though we may be physically apart, we will get through this together.
Wishing the best of health to you and your family, as well as the strength and perspective to keep fighting to stay grateful and positive.
In December “Elephant Journal” asked me to update “My Story” by diving deeper into some of the lessons that I have learned. They published my updated version (here); which I am also posting below. Thank you for reading 🙂
Living with a significant loss for more than half of my life now, I can attest that this is not entirely true. While it is true that the pain of the open and gaping wounds does lessen with time, traces of the pain are always there. It’s taken decades for me to finally gain the perspective on how to best channel that pain.
For almost 30 years now the words, “three more weeks and we will never have to say goodbye again,” have echoed in my head.
In 1987, I was a sophomore at the local community college. I kept seeing this cute girl walking to class who had the biggest, most beautiful smile I had ever seen. I was head over heels, but far too shy to approach her on my own.
I would see her often talking to a girl who I had known since elementary school. So I cautiously asked my friend about her. She said, “Oh, that’s Dana. She is such a sweetheart.” A few days later, she gave me her phone number and said that “Dana would love for you to call her.” I called her that afternoon, we talked for two hours. We went on a date three days later.
Dana (pronounced Dan-na) was different from all the other girls I had known. She was smart, a straight-A student. Funny and genuine, with the biggest, most wholesome smile I had ever seen. She had that classic, all-American, girl next door quality to her. I was in awe. We became serious “girlfriend-boyfriend” immediately. I had dated some but never had a true girlfriend, and I was her first boyfriend.
We were both majoring in Business at Bakersfield College. I was a sophomore, Dana a freshman. We learned that we both had our heart set on eventually transferring to the hard to get into Cal Poly San Luis Obispo School of Business, which was about 140 miles from our hometown of Bakersfield.
I was accepted into Cal Poly and went away that next January. Dana joined me there in September. We were inseparable. We had many classes together, studied together, and spent all of our spare time together. We enjoyed all of the best that the college town of San Luis Obispo and the surrounding central coast of California had to offer.
We were that couple who everyone looked up to—always together, laughing, and having fun. We knew that we were blessed to have met each other. So thankful that we had each found such a soul mate to spend the rest of our lives with. It truly was a fairy tale, a one in a million type of relationship.
I graduated two semesters earlier than when she was set to. Once Dana graduated in December, we would be closer to living happily ever after. I stayed busy diving into my new job. Upon graduation, I went to work for my parent’s grocery company. I moved back into my parents’ house while Dana was finishing out her remaining two semesters of school. We decided that I should buy a house. A house I would live in by myself until we got married in a year or so. It would then become our first home.
Dana drove home to Bakersfield on the afternoon of Thursday, November 8th, 1990. The next day I closed escrow on this house. We were so excited. It was perfect for us.
That evening we went to our good friends’ wedding. On our way from the church to the reception, we brought my parents and several friends by the house to show it off. We were so proud. The remainder of the weekend focused on doing fun things for the house. It was Veteran’s Day weekend, so Dana didn’t have to go back to San Luis Obispo until Tuesday morning.
Monday night, after spending time at the house, we stood out in front of Dana’s house to say goodnight. We hugged, kissed, and talked. We had so much to talk about—the house, the wedding we went to, what our wedding was going to be like. Life was perfect and we knew it. As I was about to drive off Dana said, “three more weeks and we will never have to say goodbye again.” I smiled, gave her one last kiss, and said, “I love you.”
That was the last time I saw Dana.
The next morning, she was just outside of Bakersfield, driving toward San Luis Obispo. The details are still hard to talk about. A car took a left turn too carelessly. It clipped the back of Dana’s car, spinning her out of control. Her tiny car was then swallowed by an 18-wheeler coming from the opposite direction. She died instantly, with her car and the truck finally resting in flames on an elementary school playground.
The memory of the phone call from her dad to tell me that Dana died is etched in my head in slow motion like it was yesterday. The following days, months, and years blended together with such a painful fog. News of Dana’s death spread quickly. She was three weeks from college graduation, she had a good job at a local bank waiting for her. The story of the perfect, bubbly, all-American girl dying young had the media all over it. Reporters were calling ruthlessly. The driver who caused the accident did not stay at the scene, so there was a criminal side to the story too. I understood their need to report the story but they seemed so heartless with their approach.
The funeral was a blur—a sad yet beautiful ceremony, a lot of crying, and a huge crowd. I could tell right away that people had no idea how to handle me. I was not her husband. We had not even officially announced our wedding plans. I had been looking at rings and plotting in my mind the perfect proposal weekend for January, but nobody knew that or really seemed to care when I tried to explain.
She was just my girlfriend to them. I was young, I would “get over it.” We weren’t married. We didn’t have kids. They would say that I would be fine and that I had my whole life ahead of me.
How in the world was I expected to “get over” the sudden loss of the person I was going to spend the next 60 plus years with? The small number of people who stood by me were the ones who acknowledged what happened was horrific and that it could not be fixed or cured. They were simply present and they listened. At such a young age, I was seeing first-hand how society was so inept at handling how to deal with the grieving.
I had a lot of friends, but most of them could not relate to me at all. I was the downer who they wanted to either cheer up or have no part of. They could not accept that I wasn’t myself anymore. Increasingly, my phone stopped ringing.
Here I am, almost 30 years later, to tell you that I have never gotten “over it.” I was able to learn to live with it, but not get over it. I moved forward—I didn’t move on.
We were not yet married. For many years this technicality bothered me. I felt marginalized as “just her boyfriend.” I felt like I could not be part of, or contribute to, the widowed community because I didn’t exactly match up with the widowed definition of losing one’s spouse. Technically, she was not yet my spouse and I let that affect how I felt I was viewed. It was not until I recently began writing and my blog began appearing on top global widow blogs lists that I finally felt validated as widowed.
Platitudes hurt. I can’t emphasize enough that it’s hurtful when someone utters a phrase that puts an optimistic spin on a tragedy. If you can’t think of what to say, just simply say that.
“I have no idea what to say right now, but just know that my heart breaks for you.”
Saying this is much better than coming in as an expert with a useless, trivializing platitude.
Big changes can be good. Two and a half years after Dana died, my parents sold the family business and bought a new one, two thousand miles away, in Western Kentucky. Once settled, I was able to start focusing on a new life. The newness was fresh and exciting. I began creating my own memories again.
After Dana’s death, I had become friends with a girl named Shelly. She had been part of Dana’s extended high school circle of friends. She understood what I had lost, and didn’t preach to me on how I should feel. I could be myself around her, with no judgment. Her friendship had really become a blessing.
I told her she should come visit over her holiday break. She agreed and was excited at the thought of visiting me and seeing somewhere different and new. When she stepped off that plane and I saw her for the first time in over six months, I hugged her—immediately realizing that my feelings for her had changed. This scared me like crazy. This was one of my dearest friends so I needed to squash those thoughts! But as the week progressed it became clear that feelings had changed for both of us. I was surprised at how normal and comfortable it was to me.
I knew Dana would approve, as she would definitely not want me to continue to be miserable and alone. Dana had liked and respected Shelly. Shelly knew my whole story; I did not have to explain a thing.
Our relationship progressed quickly, as we had such a solid foundation built from our strong friendship. My parents and my closest friends understood and were happy for us.
Within two months Shelly and I began making plans to get married. Everything moved quickly from this point forward. Our relationship changed at the end of December and we were married the following May. I was certain that the last thing I was doing was replacing Dana with Shelly. My heart had expanded to allow Shelly in it, but Dana would always remain in my heart and my love for her would never diminish.
Vulnerability allows us to love once again. The layers of my friendship with Shelly were deep and real due to the rawness and vulnerability I allowed myself to share with her. I needed a friend to share my darkest thoughts without fear or judgment. She responded with a genuine ability to care. A romantic connection was the furthest thing from either of our minds at first. Our relationship changed organically—a special friendship built the foundation to a love that was unique and special.
The evolution of our relationship that eventually led to our love story was easy for the two of us to understand. We were surprised, but it seemed natural to us. But some of those closest to Shelly, Dana, and myself could not understand it at all. Their judgment was deeply rooted before we could even begin to explain.
The heart expands, and my heart has two deep loves inside of it. People struggle to understand that. Society believes that once you fall in love again you have replaced the one who has died, but this is a big fallacy. What actually happens is that the heart has the ability to open up to love two people. The love for the person lost doesn’t diminish, but the ability to deeply love and have a great relationship with the new love flourishes in an amazing and complex way. I feel fortunate that this is what happened to me. Without what I experienced with Dana, I don’t believe that I would be able to love Shelly the way that I do.
Shelly and I have been blessed with two boys, Dylan and Taylor. They have given me tremendous joy and happiness. But the anger and the rage from the pain of my experience and the way I was treated lingered for well over 20 years. I cringe when I think of some of the situations that this anger and rage created. I was always a ticking time bomb, and I hated the angry, bitter person that I had become.
It took another tragedy for that to change.
On January 17th, 2013 I was at work and received a call from Shelly saying she had been hurt. It was hard for me to understand at first. There was an explosion in the kitchen, she had been hit in the face.
She sent me a picture of her swollen, bloody, black and blue face. I was horrified. On the drive home, I received a call from a nurse. Shelly had managed to scrape the ice and snow off of the windshield enough to be able to barely see to drive herself to the nearby urgent care. The nurse said she needed to be driven quickly to the hospital in the next town, which was about 15 minutes further north. They were worried about her eye and nose. The nurse drove her to the hospital and I met Shelly there. I was shocked seeing Shelly so battered and bruised. It turned out that her eye was fine, but her nose was broken. All else was reported as being okay, we felt thankful and drove home.
Shelly had made some homemade ginger ale, and she put the finished product in empty two-liter bottles. One bottle ended up at the back of the refrigerator. Shelly discovered it one day and decided to pour it out. She sat it on the kitchen counter, got busy, and forgot about it. It sat on the kitchen counter, slowly turning into a bomb. At the exact second that Shelly passed the kitchen sink, the bottled exploded. The force of the blast knocked Shelly to the ground, unconscious.
All seemed fine as Shelly’s face continued to heal. About two weeks after the accident, Shelly was suddenly struggling to walk and talk. We saw a neurologist the next day, and he told us that Shelly had a traumatic brain injury. She was like a soldier who had been hit by a bomb at war. He also told us her life would most likely never be the same. Ninety percent of those knocked unconscious never regain consciousness.
We were told we should consider ourselves lucky.
The journey since has been one that has amazed me with Shelly’s grace, strength, courage, and positivity. She has had to learn to walk and talk again. Many pieces of both her long-term and short-term memory are gone. She struggles to multitask. Her brain is in constant panic mode from the severe PTSD she is saddled with, but she never feels sorry for herself or asks “why me.” I have become her caregiver, as she cannot do many things on her own.
My own transformation began happening in the months after Shelly’s accident. Here she was, in such a seriously injured state, but with such a remarkably positive attitude. With this inspiring survival story happening right next to me, how could I possibly be feeling such anger and self-pity? In the simplest of terms, witnessing Shelly’s strength and grace made me come to the realization that all of my rage and resentment needed to go away.
Gradually, much of the anger that I was carrying for so long subsided and turned to both gratitude and perspective. I began to realize that I have a story to tell and a gift that I can begin to use to help others. I must admit that some of that anger has turned into sadness. Sadness that Shelly has to struggle in such a way, as well as sadness that Dana lost her life so long ago.
But I have found that my heart has become filled with much newfound gratitude.
Gratitude that Dana shared all of her heart with me in the short time she had here on this earth. Gratitude for Shelly, with whom I share tremendous love and happiness. She gave me such a reason to smile once again. Gratitude for the handful of people who stood by me through those darkest of days. Gratitude for our two sons, as they have given me such a true purpose to get through each day with.
And immense gratitude that Shelly is still here to continue on this journey with me.
~
A version of this was originally published on my blog, Ten Thousand Days.
The seven-year anniversary of my wife Shelly’s traumatic brain injury (TBI) is fast-approaching.
Her life was forever changed in a split second on a cold day in January of 2013.
A freak accident happened within our home. A homemade bottle of ginger ale was taken from the refrigerator to the kitchen sink to be poured out. Shelly was busy and didn’t pour it out right away.
As it sat on the counter for a few days, it went from cold to warm. The ingredients of lemon, water, ginger, and yeast slowly fermented and turned into a bomb. The bomb happened to detonate at the exact instance that Shelly walked passed it in the kitchen. The force of the blast through the tiny opening of the two-liter bottle knocked Shelly unconscious to the ground. We estimate that she regained consciousness about 20 minutes later. She was bloody, her face was swollen, and there was ginger ale splattered all over the kitchen.
Dazed, she called me immediately. I was at work, running a natural foods store in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. It took me a bit to understand what had happened. She sent me a picture of her face. I was horrified at the sight of her swollen, bloody, black-and-blue face.
We lived in tiny and remote Victor, Idaho. I called neighbors to see if any were home who could take her to the doctor. Everyone I talked to had already made the commute to Jackson Hole for the day. I look back now and realize how foolish I was in not calling an ambulance. But nonetheless, Shelly got herself to the car. The car was covered in ice. It was zero degrees outside. Between scraping the windshield and running the defroster, after several minutes she was able to see out of a tiny corner of the windshield and she drove the mile to Victor’s lone health clinic.
The nurse and doctor who saw Shelly were appalled at the sight of her face. They immediately thought she had been a victim of some type of violence. Shelly was able to explain the freak accident that had happened and the doctor quickly called me. I was on my way to cross the mountainous Teton Pass on the 30-minute drive home to Idaho. The doctor was extremely concerned about both her eye and nose, thinking her nose and eye socket were broken. She told me the nurse would be driving her to the small hospital in the town of Driggs, which was 10 miles north of Victor.
I navigated the ice-packed roads to meet Shelly at the hospital. I could not believe how black, blue, and swollen Shelly’s face was. The result of the CT scan came quickly. The emergency room doctor explained that her nose was broken, but her eye socket was fine. She told us how fortunate we were for this to be the only extent to Shelly’s injuries.
We went home confused as to how this kind of accident could happen, but we were also feeling lucky that this was the extent of it. As we entered the kitchen, we saw sticky ginger ale everywhere. I also saw the two-liter soda bottle lying on the ground, intact. The bottle cap was in the dining room. I cleaned up, Shelly rested, and we counted our blessings.
The next day, Shelly went back to work. She had recently started a baking business that had really taken off. She shrugged off her injuries and dug into her many baking orders at the nearby commercial kitchen where she rented space. As the days passed, her nose and face hurt, but she was healing up and life was getting back to normal.
Fifteen days after the accident, Shelly called me at work to ask me to bring food home for dinner. She started to talk, but couldn’t get the words out. Panic-stricken, I quickly left work and drove home. I called the doctor and told her what had just happened. She told me we needed to see a neurologist right away. The neurologist only visited our remote valley twice a month, but she explained he would be there tomorrow and for us to come in.
As I rushed into our house, I was greeted by Shelly sitting in the living room. She struggled to talk and could barely move, let alone walk. I felt numb with shock.
That next day, we visited the neurologist. He told me that Shelly was much like a soldier who was hit by a bomb at war. She had a traumatic brain injury and she would not be getting better. This was our “new normal,” and I needed to adjust to it. He said this all in such a matter-of-fact way, which lacked any sort of bedside manner.
From this day forward, the true journey began. I quickly realized that I needed to seek better care for her. She was having to learn how to walk and talk again. Parts of both her short and long-term memory were gone. I was trying to juggle all of this at home while working 60 hours or so a week.
We had no family nearby. We had moved to the Tetons less than two years earlier, so Shelly had not made close friends yet. We were isolated, alone, and facing bigger hurdles than anyone could imagine. We had two children who quickly stepped up and helped however they could. Dylan was 17 and Taylor was 12.
The closest large city to us was Salt Lake City, Utah. It was five hours away. I made an appointment at the University of Utah Neurology Department. Shelly was furious with me and did not want to go. She did not realize how severe her situation was and how she desperately needed help.
In Utah, I learned we were extremely fortunate that Shelly did not lose her life that January day. She had been knocked unconscious for what we estimate to be approximately 20 minutes. The neurologist explained we were fortunate that she woke up.
I was falling apart. I would cry uncontrollably as I drove to and from work. I was certainly not a stranger to tragedy. My fiancée had been killed more than 20 years earlier, and now I was driving down the road crying and saying, “Why me again?” and, “Why Shelly?” But as I walked through the door at work or at home, I tried to appear to have it all together.
I had never considered Shelly a very patient person. But I was becoming amazed at how patient Shelly had become with herself and her situation. I was feeling sorry for her and for myself, but she would have none of that. She started working each and every day toward improvement. Baby steps were being made. Fairly quickly, we discovered that Western medicine does not know how to really handle traumatic brain injury. Their answer seemed to be to overmedicate every symptom, having limited answers on how to truly treat the root of the problem.
Shelly has what is called an “invisible injury.” Her face had healed up nicely, so she looked great. People cannot understand how severely injured a person can actually be when they look great. Friends and family started to think she must be fine, since she looks so good. That was hard, because we needed so much help, but people didn’t understand that at all.
We gradually eased away from Western medicine. There were a couple of local “alternative” medical providers that started to do wonders for Shelly. One provider worked on manipulating her central nervous system in a way that was re-wiring her brain cells. The other did amazing work with acupuncture and acupressure. We traveled to Arizona to learn “neuro-feedback” treatment that we could do from home.
We would constantly experience small milestones. Milestones such as driving to the corner to pick up Taylor at the bus stop, cooking a simple meal, or walking to the mailbox down the street. Shelly kept working extremely hard and was aware of each improvement she had made. The milestones achieved gradually started becoming bigger and bigger.
We had become tremendously close as a family. Myself, Dylan, and Taylor were the only people who truly knew what a courageous battle Shelly was fighting. The strong bond that was established between the four of us is hard to adequately put into words.
On the rare occasion that we would see friends or family, they would only get a small glimpse of her struggle. It was hard for them to truly understand the magnitude of the battle.
Nearly four years ago, we moved back to Arizona. I feel like this has been the single best thing for Shelly. Friends, sunshine, and familiar surroundings have been amazing for her.
So many areas of her injury have improved. The post-traumatic migraine headaches occur far less often. In my estimation, her motor skills are now 80 percent of what they were prior to her accident.
Her mapping skills are gone. She struggles with any type of multi-tasking. Simple math has become difficult. Areas of both her short and long-term memory are still affected.
She spends hours each day doing brain exercises that help her continue to make improvements.
The toughest lasting ramification from Shelly’s life-changing traumatic brain injury is her PTSD. When it hits, it is literally crippling for her. Her brain goes into panic mode and a wave of terror hits and immobilizes her. When this happens, it usually is sudden and unpredictable. It can be caused by many different situations, such as the loud banging of a plate in the kitchen, having a close call driving down the highway, or the radio being left extra loud when the car is turned on.
Our boys and I try to safeguard all that we do to keep these sudden situations from happening. Occasional instances do occur, but they are far less often than in the early days after the accident. I feel awful when something I accidentally do causes her to immediately shift into panic, as I feel that my most important responsibility is to keep her safe from these debilitating triggers.
She found ways not to miss Taylor’s basketball and football games, using earplugs and sitting away from the band and the majority of the crowd. She is able to drive the surface streets in our far western Phoenix suburbs and for a few miles on the freeway when traffic isn’t heavy. But she certainly cannot drive across town on the interstate. The two worst nights of the year for her are the 4th of July and New Year’s Eve, as the fireworks put her in uncontrollable tears and fear.
There are so many examples of things that trigger her PTSD. To see her so quickly engulfed in fear is both helpless and heartbreaking to me.
Shelly knows that her life will never be the same as what it once was. But instead of lamenting the past, she counts her blessings for what she still has, with tremendous gratitude for the ability to continue her life.
She mourns that many pieces of her independence have been taken from her, but she refuses to let the new realities define her. She lives by the motto of “no pity-parties.” She challenges herself to constantly make strides for the better, but she is always aware of her limits and of looming triggers.
I am her caregiver, as there are so many things Shelly can no longer do for herself.
I can’t properly express how inspiring she is to me in her courageous daily battle. She deals with the ramifications of her brain injury and PTSD with nothing but positivity and grace. I am in awe of her strength and optimism daily.
Shelly has taught me that although we can’t control the challenges that life throws our way, we can control the outlook, energy, and perspective we use to both combat and live with those challenges in a positive way.
For well over a year I have been working on a book that chronicles my resilient journey through adversity. I am more than 75% done with the first draft. I’m working hard to find the proper time to meet my goal of having the first draft done and to my publisher early in the new year.
Where I am now in my book is a particularly humbling time within my journey (about a decade ago). As I reflect and write about that, it’s given me the opportunity to dive into and expand on a post I wrote and shared back on the first day of 2018.
I thought I would share it again below, as some valuable lessons can be found within its words. Thank you for reading 🙂
——–
The simple definition of resilience is “the capacity to recover from difficulties”. I have constantly heard how “resilient” I am throughout the differing degrees of adversity that I have been faced with. When I look back at how I reacted and carried on through these situations I am struck by the fact that I could not have moved forward on my own.
Back in 1990, at 23 years old, my life was quickly thrown upside down. Up until that point I had lived a life that I would say was charmed. Then tragedy struck when the love of my life, and the center of my amazing life, was suddenly killed in a car accident.
I look back now and reflect on how was I able to get through each of those early dark days. Most people in my life at that time did not handle the situation very well. They said the wrong things. They expected me to react in an unrealistic manner. Or they avoided me all together. But in those darkest of days unexpected heroes emerged. People that allowed me to be me, but also forced me to continue to live life and move forward. While I was living through those days I didn’t stop and think about how much certain people were doing for me. It wasn’t until many years later that I could look back and put into perspective how those handful of people had such a part in my initial ability to exist and my ultimate resilience.
Something I learned at this early age was perspective. Most people my age did not yet have life experiences that could relate to mine. It was very isolating to be the one that had something so tragic and final happen to. The heroes that emerged in my life didn’t try to say they knew how I felt. They just let me be and they listened. But they also didn’t throw a “pity party” for me. They lived and laughed with me too.
Some people are fortunate and manage to go through life fairly smoothly. They don’t lose a partner or a child at an early age. Their parents and siblings live a long and healthy life. They are healthy themselves. But this is really the exception, rather than the rule. Most people we encounter on a daily basis have some burden and pain that they are carrying with them. This pain and these realities of life do enable us to become more aware and more empathetic human beings.
I look at the life circumstances that have happened to me since Dana’s death and they are big in their own way. In 2005 I was running the fastest growing start-up supermarket chain in the country. This was “my baby” that I had helped develop from the beginning. As I was working like crazy, a power-play was emerging with my “right-hand man”.
To make a long story short, I was blind-sided and pushed aside. At the time I put all of the blame on those within my inner circle. But as I reflect now, I realize that I was dealing with so much anger and rage back then; my out of control temper was also sabotaging me. I had stock in the company. I thought the document I had proved a certain amount of stock options. The owner had a different idea on what that document said. He ultimately won that argument and the millions of dollars that I thought would be mine never materialized. Eventually the company was sold for several hundred million dollars.
How did I handle this? I handled it with plenty of anger and bitterness. But I also had perspective from what I had gone through earlier in life. Sure this was my career that I had worked so hard to build and this was a lot of money. But it couldn’t compare to losing the love of my life at 23 years old. I made it through that so I certainly could make it through this.
I pulled my boots up and reinvented myself. Rather than listen to the calls from grocery industry headhunters who had opportunities in other states, I changed gears and went into a whole new line of work. I had some time with a severance package. So I took that opportunity and I got into the mortgage business as a mortgage loan originator (loan officer). I took a class from a young, twenty-something originator named Kyle. He taught me the business and I quickly thrived. In my first year I made more money than I had made in the previous year as a grocery executive. I knew a lot of people that respected and trusted me. I built a strong business out of referrals developed from this respect and trust. Kyle and I became business partners, and he patiently helped me get my complicated loan files closed. Business was good and I loved the freedom, flexibility and the ability to make a positive impact on others in my new line of work.
My wife Shelly and I bought a beautiful house and had it remodeled into our dream home. But not long after doing this the housing market and the economy began to crumble. Property values fell dramatically. Banks started to fail. This was a nationwide crisis, but here in Phoenix the depth of the crisis was as bad as anywhere in the country. I had plenty of clients that wanted to refinance their loans. But values plummeted in such a way that people suddenly owed more than what their homes were worth. I couldn’t get many loans closed. My income was 100% commission, so my income drastically declined. The housing industry was in a catastrophic situation. The economy was suffering in a way we had not seen in my lifetime. It was like I was right in the middle of another bad dream. But again, with the perspective I had, I did not let these new challenges overcome me.
I did need to figure out a way to make more money than what I was struggling to make in the housing industry. So I jumped back short term into retail. It was an opportunity running a Halloween store for Spirit Halloween. I worked night and day. Setting up and running the Halloween store and continuing in the mortgage business at the same time. The Halloween season came and went quickly, but I sure appreciated the money, challenge and fun while it lasted.
Once the Halloween season was over, I again needed to supplement my income. The economy had gotten so bad that grocery jobs weren’t even available. I had a realtor friend that had started driving a taxi-cab for the biggest local cab company. She was making some decent cash. I quickly decided to do this. I didn’t hesitate at jumping into the opportunity.
It’s amazing what you will do to provide for the family when your back is up against the wall. I quickly became the best possible cab driver I could be. Initially my plan was to stay out of the unsafe areas of the city. But that plan quickly changed as I chased the most lucrative fares throughout the fifth largest metro area in the country. Shifts were 12 hours long. Sometimes I’d work day shifts, but I found that I preferred 5 PM to 5 AM. I would do this several days a week, and then work on my mortgage business during the day.
I found myself meeting people from every walk of life and background. I could be driving a wealthy lady on a series of errands to minutes later driving a homeless person with all of their life-long possessions to a city park for them to spend the night. Or at 4 AM I could be waiting to pick up a fare on a dark side-street in the most crime-ridden square mile of the city.
I have always been a competitive person that enjoys challenging myself to new inner-goals. It was no different driving a cab. The hustle and the unknown of what each shift would bring became fascinating to me. I soon had return clients calling me from all areas of the city and was quickly making $250 to $500 a shift. The long-time “cabbies” said my success was unheard of. I found that the more relaxed, humble and talkative that I was, the more money that I would make.
This six-month experience was life changing for me. I remember driving in the middle of the night thinking how much more rewarding this was than being the big-shot executive that I had once been. At that point, I was one of the biggest names in retail side of the fast-growing natural foods industry. Five years later I was anonymously driving a cab through the “mean-streets” of Phoenix.
Society would say that this was a tremendous fall. I was losing my house and was in constant danger; hustling in the middle of the night to have just enough money to pay some of the bills and put food on the table. But the realization that I wasn’t alone and that I needed to count the blessings that I had hit me like a ton of bricks. So many of my passengers had such sad or inspirational stories to tell. I would listen and sometimes share different aspects of my story of resilience with them. I started learning that people were generally good. Most people just want someone to listen to them and treat them with respect. I was discovering that people were generally the same, whether they were in the wealthiest or poorest parts of the city.
Halloween season came along and I was asked to run a number of stores for that season. I found that I had become a better manager after my experience in the cab. I had become more empathetic and understanding. I also had done tremendous work on my temper.
During this Halloween season I got a call and was asked to do a grocery consulting job for a natural food retailer in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. A couple of weeks after Halloween I took a five-day trip to Wyoming. This store owner had just bought the store. He had never been in the grocery business before and was realizing that he quickly needed help. There were so many areas of opportunity where I helped him with the business while I was there. He kept me on retainer to keep helping him once I returned to Arizona.
About a month after my visit to Wyoming he asked me what it would take to move up there and run the store for him. I threw out a crazy annual pay number to him. That number didn’t faze him a bit. Suddenly I had a lucrative job offer to get back into the grocery business in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. I told Shelly and she thought that it was a ridiculous idea. But I was a realist and knew this was much better than any opportunity in Arizona. The economy was at rock bottom. The mortgage business had become so tough and there weren’t any adequate opportunities back in grocery. I had connected well with the owner of the store. He had been a successful entrepreneur and had the finances to run the store in the right way. He respected my knowledge and success in the natural food business and was eager for my help. On a personal level, he had lost his wife five years earlier, so we seemed to bond with our similar experience of loss.
Five weeks later I left the 70 degrees of Phoenix for the winter wonderland of Wyoming. Shelly and our boys, Dylan and Taylor, stayed behind until summer. The family was not thrilled to leave Arizona, Shelly and I always made it a priority to not move the boys from their schools and familiarity. But these were desperate times. Eventually, with differing degrees of enthusiasm, they all three embraced the new adventure.
It seemed every move I made with the store became a success. Sales and profits skyrocketed. Per square foot we had become one of busiest natural food stores in the country. My natural foods “swagger” was back! I built a team of the smartest, most passionate people I had ever been around. As the small town local grocer I became a well-known and prominent member of the tight-knit mountain community. I was asked to be a board member with three of the local non-profit organizations. I became the host of a popular weekly alternative music radio show on KHOL 89.1 FM (with the help of my son Dylan) that we named “The Hole Enchilada”. The warmth of the community and the beauty and peacefulness of the landscape was again life changing for me.
Shelly, being the amazing baker that she is, started a small baking business. She really missed Arizona, but had gotten busy and was meeting people through her business. We had battled back and were finding success in our new surroundings.
Then one day everything changed once again.
On January 17th, 2013 I was at work and received a call from Shelly that she had been hurt. It was hard for me to understand at first. There was an explosion in the kitchen, she had been hit in the face. She sent me a picture of her swollen, bloody, black and blue face. I was horrified. I was thirty minutes away, I made some calls to try get her a ride to the doctor. To no avail, I rushed out of work and toward home. I had severe winter conditions to battle on my drive up and over the Teton Pass to our home in Victor, Idaho. On the drive home I received a call from a nurse. Shelly had managed to scrape the ice and snow off of the windshield enough to be able to barely see to drive herself to the nearby urgent care. The nurse said she needed to be driven quickly to the hospital in the next town, which was about fifteen minutes further north. They were worried about her eye and nose. The nurse drove her to the hospital and I met Shelly there. I was shocked seeing Shelly so battered and bruised. It turned out that her eye was fine, but her nose was broken. All else was reported as being fine. We felt thankful and drove home.
What had happened was that Shelly made some homemade ginger ale. She put the finished product in empty 2 liter bottles. One bottle ended up at the back of the refrigerator. Shelly discovered it one day and decided to pour it out. She sat it on the kitchen counter, got busy and forgot about it. It sat on the kitchen counter, slowly turning into a bomb. At the exact split second that Shelly passed the kitchen sink, the bottled exploded. The force of the blast knocked Shelly to the ground and unconscious for twenty minutes or so.
All seemed okay as Shelly’s face continued to heal. About two weeks after the accident Shelly called me at work to tell me what to bring home for dinner. She could not get the words out. Again I quickly rushed home. Shelly was suddenly struggling to walk and struggling to talk. We saw a neurologist the next day. In a very non-compassionate manner he told me that Shelly had a traumatic brain injury. She was like a soldier that had been hit by a bomb at war. He also told me her life would most likely never be the same. 90% of those knocked unconscious never regain consciousness. So we were told that we should consider ourselves lucky.
The journey since has been one that has amazed me with Shelly’s grace, strength, courage and positive attitude. She has had to learn to walk and talk again. Many pieces of both her long-term and short-term memory are gone. She struggles to multi-task. Her brain is in constant panic mode from the severe PTSD she is saddled with. But she never ever feels sorry for herself or asks “why me”. I have become her caregiver, as she cannot do many things on her own.
Since this accident there has been so much new adversity for us to battle through as a family. The medical bills piled up. My employer didn’t have as big a heart or prove to be as good of a person as I initially thought him to be. We were a thousand miles away from the support of close friends and family. Good medical care was five hours away. It was such a long, lonesome and painful road for Shelly to adjust to her “new normal” in a strange and remote environment. But we became an even stronger and closer family, and I became even more empathetic.
In late 2015, the opportunity to come back to Arizona presented itself. Kyle, my old partner in the mortgage business, had stuck with the business through the toughest of times. The housing market eventually corrected and the economy came back to life. He had worked hard and had become a big success. I have so much gratitude that he asked me to get back down to Phoenix and join the busy branch that he was managing.
I have reinvented myself once again both personally and professionally. It took time, but I am starting to thrive again in the mortgage business. But most importantly Shelly is thriving back down here with her friends and the comfortable surroundings of the city she loves.
What a battle and journey it has been and continues to be. I look back through it all and can’t believe how far I have come as a human being. I continue to take it one day at a time and strive to be the best person that I can possibly be.
Thank goodness for resilience, because without it I can’t imagine where I would be.
November seems to come around faster with the passing of each year.
On November 13th it will be 29 years since Dana died.
It’s just one quick year away from the milestone of 30 years.
On one hand, this is mind-boggling to me. But on the other hand, I do feel like it’s been every bit of the ten thousand-plus days that it’s been.
I wrote a piece called “This Time of Year” last November about how tortuous yet necessary each November is for me.
Today I feel some added mental exhaustion as I head into the weekend, as I just finished a particularly grueling work week.
As I turned the page on the calendar this morning I felt an overwhelming sense of weary anticipation as the next several days approached.
“Here we go again,” is what I instinctively said to myself.
Starting on November 8th I know that I will replay the details of that final weekend of Dana’s life in real-time. Comforting memories will be constantly battling with raw pain for several days.
That final long weekend is perfectly preserved in my mind and I am grateful for that. Each day was packed with memories and details that I have managed to somehow hold onto.
On the 9th I closed escrow on purchasing what would have been our first home together. That evening was spent at the wedding of close friends, which was the last time many people (including my parents) ever saw Dana. The remaining days were spent primarily on doing fun things together for the new house.
She was set to be graduating from college in 3 short weeks. That, in addition to closing on the new house, gave the weekend a triumphant, celebratory tone.
As I have mentioned often before, the last thing she said to me was, “three more weeks and we will never have to say goodbye again”.
I know that those words and that final conversation will hit me hard on the evening of the 12th. It always does.
But each year as the details of November play out in my head, I seem to react a little bit differently. I never quite know which way it’s going to go.
I am going to work hard on having the comforting memories win the battle this year, as gratitude-filled nostalgia is much preferred to the darker side that I often times find myself falling into.
