Slouching into Oblivion

Fifteen months and fifteen days ago my life ended. Or, I thought it had. The woman I loved, Lorena Alcala, died of leukemia. It was only then that I understood Camus’ admonition: “There is but one truly serious philosophical problem and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering that fundamental question of philosophy.” I pondered that problem for months. I read innumerable books and articles on grief, all of which assured me that I was not insane to think about such things, but rather, normal, that grief is a “process” and that while I would never “move on,” I would, one day, learn to live again, that I would decide life is, indeed, worth living. Today is that day. Just as Lorena taught me what mature love means, the pain that has tracked me like a wounded animal since her death has taught me that life is worth living, that there are people who care that seem to come out of nowhere, people who have helped me selflessly along this mo...

It has been a year since Lorena, my love, my partner, my hopes and my dreams, died. It seems like yesterday and an eternity. I have grieved. My sadness, punctuated by hopelessness and anger, has been unrelenting. Friends ask whether anything has changed in the year since leukemia ended her life and our future together. Nothing really, except that I have gotten used to being alone, really alone. I cry daily, often in public, and am no longer ashamed. Tears and regrets have become somehow normal, another example of man’s inexorable ability to habituate to any circumstance, no matter how wonderful or terrible it may be. I spend most of my time at home, the one I bought to live in with Lorena for the rest of our lives, a home filled with photographs, shadow boxes, her things, our memories. She is my first thought every morning and my last thought every night. I do not will my circumstance, but accept it without self-pity. It is simply the way it is. A wise friend, who also...

I will keep this short. I had planned to spend Christmas with my one true love, Lorena. Death intervened. It has been six months now. Lorena died too young and was deprived of a beautiful life. And I was deprived of the life I dreamt of. And I have cried a million tears. This year my parents invited me for Christmas. Hard to believe, I know. My parents are still alive. 90 and 99. And so I am here. Back in what they, and so many Americans, call the “greatest nation.” A couple of hours ago I went to get them a sandwich at Subway. Standing in below freezing weather was this woman. I sat in my car and watched as people came and went from the sandwich and neighboring shops with not one giving her a dime. I approached her and handed her some money. She asked God to bless me and I smiled and thanked her. And then the tears began. Not hers. Mine. I heard myself say, “I am so sorry. No one should have to live this way, to do what you are doing. Not here.” She put her sign...

I have been married twice. My first marriage lasted 20 years and my second 25. And, on reflection, I am ashamed to admit that while I was fond of both, in retrospect I was in love with neither. My first marriage could be summarized in a photo of two children pretending to be adults. She was, and is, a fine woman. The truth is she deserved better than she got. My second marriage was pure heat. Nothing less, but mostly nothing more. When I began dating Lorena Alcala after being separated a year from my second wife, I knew. I knew that everything I had ever believed about love was altogether wrong from the start. While objectively she was not the woman I was looking for, I knew deep within she was the woman I wanted. I needed. She said the words first. “I love you, Jim.” And I felt ashamed I had not told her first. Because I did love her. And I knew it. I was a coward. I knew I had a good relationship, the best I had ever had. And so I feared something bad was going ...

A question I have often asked since Lorena died. And I arrive at different answers depending on the day, the hour, even the minute. On those days I am distracted by friends or business, I want to live just to see how it all turns out. On days I stare at photos of my lost love, I think not. There will never be another like her. I know that. But I have concluded there is more to living that my desires and my needs. I wake and see Milo and Kira, my long-time canine companions, sleeping in their beds next to mine. And I know they need me. I have three amazing children and while they are independent and no longer need me economically, there is that occasional call looking for my thoughts and experience. I have a handful of friends, many who have been essential to my understanding and acceptance of what has happened. So, while I don’t always have a desire to continue, I have a need to do so. For others. Perhaps ending one’s own pain is selfish when compared with the pain others wil...

I’ve written a lot, perhaps too much, about the grief that has devastated me since the death of my love, Lorena. This will be the last on this topic for a while. But before I finish, I need to answer a question that many of you have asked, “What was so special about her?” She was simple, straightforward, and honest. Her ego was always muted, under control, if it existed at all. She didn’t want to compete with me or anyone else. She enjoyed just sitting together. She didn’t need to be entertained. Her life wasn’t a running travelogue. If we went someplace, fine. If we didn’t, also fine. She thought my habit of bringing coffee to her in bed every morning was the kindest thing ever. She spoke well of others. She was beautiful and liked to be pretty but when I told her I thought she was just as beautiful without makeup, she seemed relieved and stopped wearing it except when we went out. She didn’t discuss politics or religion. She was self-motivated. She got up and went ...

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 ...

“Maybe the most difficult, most important thing anyone could do for anyone else was to leave him alone; it was perhaps the only gratuitous act, the act of love.” - Joan Didion I loved Lorena not because of what she did or didn’t do, but because of who she was. The fact is we didn’t do much of anything. We could sit across from each other for hours and not feel the need to fill the air with sound. Just an occasional smile and gently whispered, “I love you.” She crocheted and knitted and I read and wrote. We enjoyed cooking together, dining out occasionally, weekend trips, walking the dogs, holding each other tight, and I anticipated her kiss on my neck as she snuggled up behind me each night as we fell to sleep. I don’t like to use the word “comfortable” to describe a relationship, but I will because we were. Comfortable. Before meeting my one true love, I spent 40 years traveling, chasing planes, working hard to keep rich people rich, and keeping my ex accustomed to the...

My dogs don’t think about Heaven or Hell. I didn’t either, until recently. I have long been an atheist. Not someone who knows there is no God. I don’t know. I am an atheist who finds insufficient evidence to believe there is a God. In the same way I don’t find evidence that My Little Pony is real. Many a non-believer, including me, would like to be wrong on this issue. Fade to black after struggling a lifetime without success to find meaning in this experience Is, well, unfulfilling. But, if I was certain there was a God and a heaven Yesterday And the recently deceased love of my life was there Waiting And that a short pull of a trigger would put us together again BLAM! So I guess I have atheism to thank for living a little longer For this madhouse Not knowing what comes next In this fog of eventuality. Or maybe a Jehovah Witness will stop by when I’m naked and drunk And talk me into believing. BLAM! A more likely result is I will keep plodding When all seems...

I have never written an obituary. I have never wanted to. Especially not for my lover, my partner, and the only woman I ever really loved. I met Lorena about two years ago. She told me on our first date that she was a “house woman,” meaning she liked to spend time at home, knit, crochet, and wasn’t much of a traveler except to the beach now and then. She was refreshingly honest saying she was not looking to date or party but to find “my life partner.” She had been divorced 10 years after what sounded to be a tough 27 year marriage. . We continued dating and over a year or so I felt something for her like no other woman I had ever met. She filled a hole in my heart I didn’t even know existed. We didn’t have a lot to talk about or many common interests, but we became inseparable. A few months ago we decided to move in together and began looking at homes. None were quite right until we walked Into a French contemporary in the countryside outside San Miguel de Allende and ...

First, an insincere apology: I have neglected writing, Some two weeks now. The only excuse I have Is my girlfriend was diagnosed with leukemia. Not just any leukemia But acute myelomonoxytic leukemia. Whatever the fuck that means And what the fuck that means is She is in the hospital now Hooked into chemistry And will be there for the next two months. I predict she will beat the rap Modern medicine may not cure shit But they have figured out ways To let you live with what you have. And at this point, That is enough. Besides I’ve negotiated a side deal with a God I don’t believe in We have an understanding. When she walks out that hospital door It will be the most elevated and lucky moments Of her life And mine, too. The last five years has brought me Agony. Fraud, divorce, and now having to watch a decent and kind person Suffer. Pain changes forms But never stops For anyone. Except those too numb or stupid to notice. I want her to exit this experience...

For the last month I have been moving. Not once. Twice. Sounds like a college kid, doesn’t it? From my home of a dozen years to a rental, and today I will finish moving my worldly possessions from the rental to my new home. Moving is hideous. Everyone knows that. But why? There is the physical reality of boxing up everything I own efficiently, only to find the boxes are too heavy to carry. Which leads to the question I repeat to myself, “Do I really need what is in this box?” And so I open the box and find a stack of plates. Not plates I use. Or have ever used. Rather, plates that were my grandmother’s who got them from her mother. Then the self-talk begins . . . “Tape it back up, bro. The guilt associated with giving them away would be far worse than that numbness in your feet caused by that disc in your lower back. Be a man. Remember, lift with your legs.” “What the fuck does that mean?” “I don’t know but I read it. Lift with your legs.” “Why are all those b...

There is one true love out there. Just for you. If you look hard, you can find him, or her. Your “soulmate.” That thought is romantic, beautiful, exclusive . . . And, it is ridiculous. In a world of almost 8 billion people, the odds of finding “the one,” if, indeed, there were only one, would be the same as winning the Powerball lottery - twelve times. In a row. Yet, when we find someone we are attracted to and compatible with, many of us take our good fortune to its logical absurdity: “I found my one and only.” Proving that love is, indeed, blind. The problem with the “one and only” mythology, besides its mathematical impossibility, is that the belief puts too much pressure on a relationship when conflict and disappointment arise, as they certainly will. But, on another level, maybe there is “one true love,” or loves, that are experienced serially over a lifetime. Anthropologist Helen Fisher identified three different romantic relationships that some experience in a ...