Slouching into Oblivion

It’s strange to wake up alone. Even stranger to wake up alone in a big house with only my two dogs, Milo and Kira, sleeping soundly on their beds next to mine, the bed I used to share. It’s strange for the dogs, too. I see them wandering around in unused rooms and then looking at me and cocking their heads like the dog on the old RCA Victor albums as if to say, “Why?” I shake my head and reply, “Guys, I got nothing.” They wander away looking for the kitchen. They don’t know much but they know where to find the food. In the evenings, I usually open the doors and windows and listen to music, read, and type gibberish until something spills onto the screen that someone might find useful - maybe not to win at life, but to keep from losing completely. “There are too many lonely people without anything to do with their nights,” I thought, as I mouthed the words. As if I was talking about some faceless soul out there. Then I smiled, knowingly. I was describing myself, a newly

If you read this blog regularly, you may be tired of hearing about my grief. I am tired of living it. The waves of pain and overwhelming sadness and fear overcome me for reasons both known and unknown. Since the death of Lorena, my love, I have mostly stayed at home. For good reason. The two public events I have attended since Lorena passed away, both birthday parties, were unmitigated disasters, if only because weeping openly at a birthday party doesn’t further the celebratory vibe. I tried to turn my back to the crowd so the people wouldn’t see me cry, but they saw anyway. Having friends over to my home has netted no better results. I know they are helpless to change my experience, or my feelings, and they know it, too. The discomfort on both sides of the table is palpable, especially as the tears flow, but the words do not. And so, for the good of my friends and the general public, I mostly remain in my home, the one I bought to live in with the most kind, gentle, and

“Life changes in an instant. The ordinary instant.” - Joan Didion I talk to my deceased lover, Lorena, everyday. Usually as I look at a photo of her beautiful face or a picture of us in an embrace or holding hands. I ask her to come back. I plead. “Please, baby. I need you.” I know that is my only chance for happiness. Then I wonder if I am going crazy. Joan Didion, in her memoir about grief after her husband’s sudden death, confirmed that if I am going insane, I am in good company. In her book, “The Year Of Magical Thinking,” she reflects, “I needed to be alone so that he could come back . . . I was thinking as small children think, as if thoughts or wishes had the power to reverse the narrative, change the outcome.” And so, I have photos of Lorena all over my home, not as a shrine, but as a call to return. I have also discovered first hand that grief takes its toll not only on the emotions, but also on one’s basic cognitive abilities. And again, I am not alone

I lost the woman I loved one month ago today and I can’t remember my last words to her while she was still conscious. I believe they were, “I love you.” I do remember there was no indication on the day I said whatever words I said that she would need to be moved to intensive care where I was prevented from seeing her until she was unconscious and on life support. I said whatever I said and walked out of her hospital room that day knowing I would see her again. Soon. I’m sure I said, “I love you.” I always said, “I love you.” But I know I didn’t say those words as I would have said them if I thought there was any chance I would never talk to her again. On reflection, I said, incorrectly, that the day she died was the worst day of my life. But that is untrue. Each successive day since she died has been the worst day of my life. “Jim, time cures all. And it is only been a month,” more than one friend has told me, confidently. I don’t know if that is true or feel good bullshit

Readers of Slouching Into Oblivion know that my love, Lorena Alcala, died from complications of leukemia three weeks ago. I have been a mess. Totally broken. To those who called or emailed and whose calls and emails I have not returned, I ask your patience and forgiveness. It is hard enough to be in constant pain and even harder when you recognize the impact of your pain on others. I was in the grocery store a couple of days ago shopping for vegetables. Without warning, I remembered Lorena and I joking at the same spot a few weeks ago. I broke down. Not a few silent tears. I wept uncontrollably. I tried to hide but I wasn’t successful. A woman walked up to me and asked urgently, “Do you need an ambulance?” In times like this, you are honest, even if you don’t want to be. “I don’t want an ambulance,” I whispered as I gasped for the next breath. “I want Lorena.” I saw the distress, the sadness, and the helplessness in her eyes. She didn’t know Lorena, but she knew.

If you want to know who your friends are, write the story of a tragedy, your own. Email or text the story to everyone you know describing your pain and your suffering and your desire to grieve alone. Then, wait. “ First voicemail received at 1:24 a.m.: ‘Jim, I just read about Lorena and I am so sorry. I also read your email about wanting to be alone. Sorry, pal. That ain’t happening. You can either return my call or pick me up at the airport tomorrow at 11:20 am on American 311. You know the number.’” “ Second voicemail received at 6:21 a.m.: ‘I can’t believe it. She was only 58. What the fuck, Jim! God damned it!! You haven’t been happy in years until the last one or two and now this!? I don’t know what to say. But you need to call me. Now.’” Email received at 8:48 a.m.: “Jim, we haven’t spoken in years but I read your poem about Lorena and it brought memories and tears. I lost Christie, my wife of 45 years, to cancer three years ago. When I say I know the pai

“I am sorry this world could not keep you safe. May your journey home be a soft And peaceful one.” - Rupi Kaur The last five years have been the worst, and best, of my life. The achievements, victories, or luck, whatever you want to call it, were met with existential battles. Some won, one lost, with most ending in a draw. Anything resembling a normal life ended in a massive bank fraud. My ex-wife, brother, and several friends were victims. To the tune of several million dollars. Instead of accepting an offer far less than our losses, we went to battle against a 3 billion dollar bank. That meant full time focus along with lawyers and a public relations firm. We fought in the courts and in the court of public opinion which found us on NBC News, The Today Show, Bloomberg, and other media outlets. The violation of trust by a banker in whom I had not only a professional, but a personal, relationship, left me wondering if there was anyone left I could trust. As with mo

My dearest Lorena, You have been dead a week now. It seems more like a month or two or ten. Time drags when you are sad. It was just two months ago that we moved in together. Into our new home right here, baby. Here. And, I am still here. When I met you now two years ago, I remember thinking you couldn’t be the one for me. You were a nice girl, kind and reserved. I was the opposite. “I want to find my life partner,” you told me, matter-of-factly. On our first date. I remember trying to talk myself out of a relationship. “I’m not sure she is educated enough, knowledgeable enough,” I told Nina, my therapist. Nina stopped me dead in my tracks, as she has a tendency to do. “Have you ever considered that maybe Lorena has more to teach you than you have to teach her? You know a lot of ‘stuff,’ Jim, but knowing a little about a lot of things isn’t the same as knowing the two or three most important lessons of life. Listen to what Lorena is telllng you, and keep your eyes