A wise person once said, "Wherever you go, there you are." My theatre teacher wrote that to me in my high school yearbook after my senior year. When I first read it I remember thinking, "well, DUH, Mr. Hoffman!" As the years have gone on and life's trials have battered me, I keep coming back to those simple (duh!) words. Wherever I go, there I am.
Where am I now? Physically, I'm in Charleston, South Carolina, Sitting in our apartment, listening to my husband put my 4-year-old to bed. It is a long and arduous process... (before Teddy died we could just read him a story, put on his nightlight and lullaby and peace out after maybe 20 minutes. It has now graduated into a 2-hour routine of arguing, coaxing, ignoring, placating, dance party, fort-building, reading of several books + made up stories of Silly Squirrel and Pea the Chickadee (a legacy from my father). Then some snuggling until you can skillfully maneuver your way out of the bed, down the ladder, across the room and out the door.)
There is an emptiness that sits just below the surface, and lately the emptiness seems to want to swallow me whole. Last week, on Wednesday, July 31st, I was busy working away in my office with my team, wildly prepping for a program event that night that we had spent weeks planning. Around 12:40pm I got a call from my mother. God bless my mother, but if she ever calls me I know something is terribly wrong. And this call was awful. My wonderful, bear of an uncle had died maybe an hour earlier. All the activity in my brain and everything I was working on fell away, and the black hole of death rose up. He had recently been diagnosed with cancer (which I found out about during this phone call - again- god bless) and had his first round of chemo just two days before. He had woken up short of breath and called the hospital to arrange his arrival. They scolded him and told him to call the medics. He passed on his way to the hospital.
Let me tell you about my wonderful Uncle Dennis. This man has been such a solid presence in my life. He is like that rock that is there beneath your feet, holding you up. Always a smile and a joke. The consummate Norwegian, who, like my father, is not keen on physical displays of emotion, but whose good humor, love of life, and love of his family always shone through. I have known him my entire life. He was a bachelor till the end, spending holidays with my family. He was my father's little brother, and the closest family relationship my brothers and I had with any of our extended family aside from our maternal grandfather. My uncle was a giant man, well over 6 feet tall, with a head of beautiful, full, salt-and-pepper hair and a constant mustache. He and my dad were so alike...
I have so many memories - as a little girl, going on adventures in Marina and Santa Cruz, CA, where he spent much of his time. He would play a finger trap game with me where I would struggle to get my two pointer fingers out from his strong grip. I never won! When I was 10, traveling across a continent and ocean from Oregon to Germany to visit him for the summer galavanting around Europe with my family. The ever-consistent jokey Christmas card with enough money to cover my rent for a month. He was so generous and just....there. He never got to meet Teddy in person, but I know he was so happy to have two great-nephews! One of the last videos I have have of Teddy is him and Logan playing Uncle Denny's card that had a reindeer picking his nose and singing a silly song over and over again! I don't know what happens after we die, but I hope he is holding Teddy on his lap while they laugh together.
Can I just say, death sucks. It fucking blows. Did you know, everyone dies!? Every single living thing. And what happens to us after? Nobody knows! Some people think they do, but no one really does...
Being in this new place, with new people, new surroundings, new jobs, new everything, has made Teddy's absence so big. So utterly tremendous that if I let myself sit down and think about it I turn into a sobbing wreck and literally can't breathe. There's this strange peace that comes at the deepest part of the sob, when your entire body has been wrung of air and there's not a sound that can escape, where your face is frozen in a mask of torture and the tears and snot are flooding out, that for a moment, the pain opens up to the infinite and there is a calmness that comes... until the next breath. I don't know if any of you has ever felt that, but it is cathartic...for a moment.
When I would think about moving down here when we were still in New York, I would think, "oh, I'm going to go to the gym and pool all the time, cook healthy food, eat on a regular schedule," blah blah blah. Turns out, when I got here I was still the same! Sure, life is certainly easier. I can hop in the car and run down to the store to get whatever for cheaper than I ever could in NY, but I still have that same tendancy to want to stay home. I force myself to do things sometimes, and I have noticed that when we do go out it feels really good, but some of the other stuff - the working out, the cooking, I am still really struggling with. I don't know how to force myself to make a nutritious meal! Why is it so damn hard!? Get lettuce, put on plate, eat. Not fucking rocket science, but I still have so much trouble. And then there are the energy peaks and valleys. Some days I have so much energy, and others I feel like I can't even move.
Lots of people say the second year of grieving is harder than the first. I haven't made up my mind, but it's all just really, really hard. Add in the move, starting the new job, trying to figure out how to handle Logan and all his ginormous feelings, dealing with Rummy (our 17-year-old cat who is pooping everywhere and not eating), Paul's new job, new schedules, etc. etc. etc. It's a lot. I don't know how we are doing it, honestly.
For now, I will post this blog, say a little prayer for my family, my Uncle Denny, my Teddy Bear, and all the others who have left this world, and read my murder mystery book until I fall asleep...
Please enjoy the photos - My Uncle Dennis, and then some of our adventures these past few weeks.
Dennis Paul Dyrud (10/16/1949 - 7/31/2024)
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