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One helluva month August was

Well, hell, August is over and all of the ‘firsts’ following my bride’s passing have come and gone.  And now I feel…I don’t know.

It’s very, very weird.

I thought a switch might go off.  Anniversary, check. Birthday, check. Christmas – you get the picture     But when the one-year anniversary (is that the right word?) of Patricia’s death hit on August 5th and was followed mid-month by the 365th day after her funeral, I was left still feeling numb.

Patricia in one of her favorite places vibing on the energy of the Rocky Mountains

Not sure what I was expecting. A switch to turn off? Or on? A locked door to swing open? “OK, pal, you’ve done your time. Move on.”

But nothing significant changed.

The sun set. Then rose again. Oh, the grass over her grave is thickening up. And there are a surprising number of new neighbors near Patricia’s spot. Younger, older. Various backgrounds. Death is very open minded, it seems. No prejudice or playing favorites.

When it comes to how I feel, though, or how the world feels without her in it, it’s pretty much the same. A little less raw, maybe. But raw enough to sting. I haven’t come up with any great insights on this.  Other than I know the world would be a better place with Patricia in it.  That’s a no-brainer. But I have to go back to what she said on this front in her final days: “I’m not going to ask why.”

She just wanted to focus on the joys she had in her life.

So do I.

And, in keeping with her advice, to keep embracing the joy in life today. I’ve had a lot of that over the past year. With my girls, my oldest friends, newer ones. Even strangers over drinks in pubs.

The numbness always finds its way back though. And I was dreading what impact it would have on me and my girls on Patricia’s death day.

August started as perfectly as it could have. Such a relief as I had been so anxious about how I would feel. And worse, how my girls would feel as D-day got closer, then hit. I’ve learned over the last year that I can be ready or not, but the emotions churn up the gut every time there is a milestone.  Sometimes it feels like a machine agitating butter to make cream. Other times it’s like waves pounding to shore before a hurricane.

There’s no stopping it or dodging it.

That’s why I was thrilled that Anna and Kristina wanted to go on a trip together to mark the day.  And I was blown away when they suggested Oregon, home to one of our great family vacations when my girls actually were girls. Patricia planned that early adventure to a tee. She booked a cabin on Cannon Beach. And once in Oregon, we did loads of day trips including one to Portland.

But much of the adventure was getting there from Edmonton. Patricia plotted out a roadie using one of those old school AMA Trip Ticks where we had to actually unfurl real maps. Night one was in Spokane, Washington. Then we spent some time in Seattle before meandering down the coast, making loads of pit stops on the way. She made sure to plan one stop in Astoria, Oregon- the town where they filmed The Goonies. If you haven’t seen that flick, I don’t know what’s wrong with you 😊.

This time around, Kristina, Anna and I flew. The ladies and I stayed at the Woodlark Hotel in the heart of Portland. I arrived about mid-day, Anna and Kristina didn’t get there until early evening. So I spent my time walking around, reacquainting myself with the city.

I love it.

It’s a city of grit, art and soul. In many ways like Edmonton vibe-wise.

Oh, and heart. There are people struggling post – Covid and they are visible. And there are loads of folks lending a hand and welcoming you, keen to fuel whatever interests, whatever you need. There are also loads of places to get a coffee or a beer where people are eager to chat.

But my best conversation came on day one at the Woodlark. After exploring and just ahead of the girl’s arrival, I sat down at the lobby bar. The fella running it was a great conversationalist as many in his trade are. He was something special, though. In the convo he asked what brought me there. I explained Patricia’s death and the reason for the trip. Blurted it out, really. I do that sometimes. It often meets with awkward responses.

Understandable.

Not with my new friend, though. We carried on chin wagging until Anna and Kristina arrived. More talk followed over the coming days. Same thing with everybody else there. A real welcoming bunch. They are in the hospitality biz, so I suppose that makes sense. On the night before we checked out, however, there was a postcard      in our room from the team. It explained that they heard why we were there and wished us much love and healing. They peppered that with three ‘Someone in Portland loves you’ fridge magnets.

That choked me up.

The trip was so amazing.

Fantastic dinners, a scotch bar, a ghost tour of an 1800s hotel. On August 5th we hired an Uber driver to bomb us around some wineries and just see the sites. At one, we sat in the sun overlooking a classic vineyard. At Remy Wines, we plunked down on a deck and heard amazing stories from our host over several glasses including their Three Wives rosé. Turns out that this place not only makes grapes but works to promote diversity and inclusion by holding workshops among other things.

Patricia would have strongly approved.

That night we toasted my bride, the girls’ mom, at the Woodlark’s restaurant.

The next day we rented a car and went on a mother of a roadie. First stop, Multnomah Falls. So striking. We climbed past the main viewing area. And on, and on. Up and up. Eventually we were mostly on our own. So gorgeous. Such beautiful air to breathe.

On from there to Cannon Beach.

Not an Interstate Highway drive. Views of the Columbia River, a mountain climb, then that most inviting town we spent so much time in and around – Cannon Beach. We hunted for parking then went for a bite and a beer at the Wayfarer Restaurant right on the beach. A table magically opened up for us with a view of the iconic Haystack Rock.

We walked off the meal on the beach. It was busy but had cooled off a bit so not crazy. We just kinda took it all in. Memories hitting each of us in waves. But these were gentle waves. Healing ones. We spent a lot of time walking, stopping and just drinking it in. People were flying kites, making sandcastles, stuff we might have been doing all of those years ago.

With Patricia.

I’m not going to say she touched my shoulder from the next life, or spoke to me through the breeze. But I sure felt my bride there.

The drive back to Portland was satisfying.

Fittingly, perhaps, we did the ghost tour that evening at what is now Old Town Pizza but was an early bar and hotel. I was open to a tap from Patricia there, too, but, alas, none came. The tour was less about specters and more about Portland’s history and the way some folks in the 1800s were tricked into setting sail to work on     board ships. We capped off the evening on a rooftop patio in the Old Town, Tope.

The haunted hotel above and a look at Portland from Tope’s roof-top patio below.

We also managed to fit in a trip to the magnificent Portland Japanese Garden, a tour of an early city founder’s home (the Pittock Mansion) and, of course, time in the massive and wonderful Powell’s City of Books (been there twice now, got the t-shirt).

Then it was all over. Back to Calgary, Edmonton and Toronto the next day. But filled up to full with the memories.

I realized how my bride lives on through Kristina and Anna. It’s not just a cliche     . And I see how they are becoming stronger. Both for themselves, for      me, and each other. I remember what it was like when my mom died at 58. I was a year older than Anna was, two years younger than Kristina. I worry about them, knowing how hard it was, but then I see how much stronger they are than me at that age. How well-equipped Patricia made them for everything.

The weeks since then have been wonderful, horrible, exciting and frightening. It’s interesting, if infuriating, how fast the switch can flip. Me and Dobby      (our mutt) have been on some great walks, including to Elk Island and Banff (joined by Anna) National Parks.

More healing, and fall walks are planned. And Calgary trips. And Toronto. And???

And writing. Another book is pouring out and I continue to hunt publishers for the first two.

I guess I’ll just keep my feed moving, drink in the joy, learn from the pain and share the stories.

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No regrets with this load of hurt

Something surprising struck me as the impending one-year mark of my bride’s death pressed down on my chest with the pressure of a beached Blue Whale.

I have no regrets.

Which seems weird as I mourn      the essence of Patricia no longer a part of my day-to-day life. The feel of her hand in mine, mine in hers. The different sound of her voice through a range of moods and emotions.  The lushness of her hair as I would run my hand through it, exactly as it was the first time I had the courage to touch it during an early kiss.

Me and my ladies — Patricia, Anna and Kristina. Everything.

The sound of her voice. They say this is the first thing you lose after somebody dies. But I purposely haven’t played a recording of my bride – not sure I can take that yet – and still I hear her perfectly in all of her inflections. 

OK, this last piece is no longer true. It was when I began writing this, but then a friend of Patricia sent me a video. In it, Patricia records Anna in her then-     new apartment in Calgary. Anna had just moved in a few weeks before we rushed my bride to the Royal Alexandra      Hospital. In the recording, Patricia pans the lens to show the entire suite while she describes it from top to bottom.  You never see Patricia in the video. But her voice is a gem, nuanced, playful, matter-of-fact      and clear. And somehow sexy, even as she describes cabinets and lighting fixtures.

The voice is exactly what’s been in my head these last 11 months. I stopped the recording, played it one more time then sat, speechless for maybe a minute. Then I cried harder than I ever remember weeping.

I can’t roll on     to her side of the bed. Her night table stands unchanged from the morning she last awoke in our home, a pair of glasses in a holder I bought her for her last Mother’s Day, some jewelry, a photo of the two of us in Mexico.

Yet I can’t muster up regret.

As I miss her, mourn      her and deal with fits of rage over her death, regret remains absent.  I’m angry that our time together is over so soon. I wish I hadn’t done some things, that I had done others. Regret, though? No. It feels like regret would be counter to the great life that we had together.

Since August 5 of last year at 5:23 pm I’ve spoken to a lot of people whose partner died. Some really do have regret. Those aren’t my stories to share, and I’m so thankful I’m not wearing that on top of everything else.

It’s not me.

Our life was filled with passion, which has many forms. Sometimes it’s messy, often it comes with heart-pounding joy. It’s never boring. And it’s so simple despite seeming so complicated. I don’t regret a moment of it. Life needs spice and some spices can make your eyes water and your skin sting. But it balances out with the sweeter spices to leave a great taste when all is said and done. And when all was said and done with Patricia and me, there were no more words that needed to be said. We were holding hands and I was stroking that luscious hair as she breathed her last breath.

I have no idea how I got so lucky to be that sad. Sad seems like a sad word to describe the end of a long, beautiful marriage and the knowledge that your amazing daughters are being just as broken in different ways. But every other word for sadness that I can think of just doesn’t do the trick. Whatever the word, to feel as horrible as I did – as I do – is a fantastic gift.

Weird, I know.

But it’s like the end of a great book, or trip. It’s over, but, damn, what a ride!

I’ve had a lot of conversations with friends and acquaintances going through divorce. We connect on the grief of loss,      but it’s so different when all of the other elements come into play. When something broke apart rather than being ripped away.

To feel is to live. To feel so much pain of so much loss is to have lived incredibly. I’ll take that.

Life is funny in a sometimes-sad way. But it’s still funny. And I’ve turned to humor in a big way to heal.

First of all, I’m not embarrassed to say I’ve been seeing a shrink. One with a sense of humor and who doesn’t mind me calling her a shrink. It’s great to have a pro talk me through the mental bruises and breaks. A session isn’t complete without at least a few tears chased by a laugh or two.

Second, I took some stand-up comedy classes and will do my first show later in the summer. All the best comedians are broken, right? Even if it’s a bomb show, who can hurt me now?

And finally, I’ve turned to the wisdom of comedians to heal. No offense to the great spiritual gurus out there, but I’ve found the words of fellas like Canadian funny man Jim Carrey is just what the doctor ordered.

He talks about faith in ways a lot of Sunday morning preachers could learn a few things from.  There is some cool stuff out there on the web with Carrey speaking to a graduating class about life happening for you, not to you. About having faith, asking for and believing in what you want in life and working toward it without worrying about the how. No talk about hunting down converts or any particular kind of religion.

Just taking a chance on faith.

It sounds a lot more like what I’ve read that’s been attributed to Christ and other spiritual gurus than the stuff I’ve heard booming down from pulpits.

I’ve had some folks over these last 11 months suggest that dying ‘before your time’ doesn’t jibe with their brand of faith.

“Didn’t you pray hard enough?” they imply. “Didn’t you believe strongly enough? Don’t you believe in miracles?”

I do. I believe in the miracle that creation gave the world Patricia, and I feel blessed to have had her in my life as long as I did.

Life isn’t measured in hours, it’s measured in quality. That I’m sure of. And Patricia packed in a high measure of quality in her years. That was clear to all who knew her but it was also clear in how she lived her last days:      with grace, satisfaction and gratitude.

Zero regret.

Would she have happily taken more time? Of course.

But there was no regret in the life she lived, and she refused to ask “why is this happening to me?”.  My love told me this explicitly from her hospital bed at the Royal Alex not long before she left this life. With tubes inserted into her to do the job her body was no longer able to do and not physically strong enough to get up on her own, she said: “I won’t ask why. I’ve loved my life.”

How the hell can I have any regret? I loved – love – my life with her. I have no regret, only gratitude for every      millisecond I spent with her on this planet and having her           now and forever implanted in my heart.

So, even gone from this earth, Patricia is impacting the way I live here. Because I now realize I don’t regret the things in my life I was sure I regretted. I don’t love everything that’s happened, but I can’t regret them. They’ve shaped me. And can continue to shape me if I just let them.

I just have to listen to my bride. And Jim Carrey.

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A table for one…

Today is the 25th anniversary of the best move I ever made.

It marks the day Patricia and I exchanged vows, put rings on each other’s fingers and had a Lutheran preacher read some beautiful words penned by Chief Dan George.  All as a small group of friends and family watched on and our young daughters joined us for the walk down the aisle.

Nothing was ordinary or boring with my bride.

So why am I surprised to be alone today in the house we shared, quietly celebrating our life together while she charts her course through the afterlife?

I shouldn’t be.

My mobile keeps buzzing with the many reminders I left myself to ensure I wouldn’t forget to book a table, to arrange the mother of all flower arrangements and to set up a surprise trip to a spot in Mexico that was a slice of heaven to us. I kept forgetting to turn off the next reminder I’d set up so I got multiple alerts to the celebration that wasn’t to be. 

And here we are. Or hear I am.

She’s here, too, in the plants I’ve somehow kept alive, the fall colors in our backyard and the presence I feel in every sight, sound and scent in this now castle-feeling four level split.  Please don’t feel sorry for me, though. As sad as it is to be without her, it’s that much more beautiful to have had her in my life to miss.

Last Friday was two months since Patricia’s passing by calendar days, Friday to Friday. By date, the two months will be marked tomorrow.  She left this life on Friday, August 5th. At 5:23 pm. But who’s counting?

I am.

The first few weeks following Patricia’s passing – after just four weeks from the discovery of the cancer threat to her last breath — I was surrounded by people without effort. There were lots of visitors, planning the funeral, the funeral itself.

Then I got back to work. And my friends and girls have been fantastic calling me, texting and getting together face-to-face. I’ve been in Calgary a bunch scooter-hopping between bars, heading out for meals, and I have trips planned with my buddies and my girls.

It helps to keep the mind busy.

But there’s no avoiding the quiet moments in this house with just the presence of Patricia. And I’ve found it’s all how I frame it that matters. I can let sadness engulf me, or I can embrace the joy that comes with that presence. Whatever you believe or don’t believe about the afterlife, I can tell you the presence is real. Whatever it is.

And it’s heightened my senses to the presence of others I’ve lost, especially my mom and dad.

Oh no, you’re thinking, Seefeldt has lost it. Don’t worry, I wasn’t working with a full deck before, so I should be able to handle a bit more madness. But I’m pretty sure it’s clarity, not crazy, that I’m feeling.

What has started to drive me mad is some of the responses that I didn’t see coming.

99 per cent of the people I’ve dealt with since my bride’s passing have been so fantastic. They’ve lifted me up, cried with me, given my head a shake.

Whatever I needed.

I’m humbled by the folks who’ve reached out from my past and distant acquaintances from my present who’ve offered so much help and support.

But those one per cent?

Wow.

Fights with the blatantly bureaucratic at Motor Vehicles. Self-serving advice about selling things or not selling things from various ‘experts’ who somehow have learned of Patricia’s passing.

Sheesh. I’m still just trying to catch my breath.

They’re actually helping me too, without realizing it, though. Getting fired up helps keep me sharp and, well, alive. Life is for the living after all. And that’s what I intend to do passionately, for my girls, for my friends and for myself.  

As for today, I’ll pour two G&Ts, clink glasses with my bride and smile as I think about all of the great times we’ve had.

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Bye, Bye Love…

You just never know what the next tick on the clock will bring. For me, at 5:23 pm on August 5 it brought the end to the time on this earth for my soul mate and true love.

That’s when Patricia Renee Raidt drew her last breath after a gut-wrenching one-month assault from cancer. And my heart will never be the same.

It wasn’t a fair fight.

Pat had a history of cancer attacks and did all the right things. She made great lifestyle choices and had regular screenings and visits to her doctor and specialists. And still…

The last time I blogged – my return to blogging – was to signal my attempts to publish a new novel and the featuring of a short story in a magazine. Now that all seems so, well, meh.

It’s cliqued, but it’s amazing how quickly things can change. Below is an excerpt from my diary on July 31 to show you what I mean:

It’s the last day of July, a month that started with so much promise.

I had two weeks and change off from work, from Canada Day through July 15th. Pat was back home from taking care of her dad in Calgary and we were going to have our first long stretch alone together since she started looking after her parents back in November. First her mom was ill, then her dad was diagnosed with cancer. Kristina was coming home on the 9th and Anna was going to be in town, too.

July 10th was going to be spent hanging out with our girls before they hit the road to Calgary where Kristina would see Anna’s new apartment in the central neighborhood of Eau Claire. They’d do some Stampeding. Pat and I were going to pop down as well. Visit some friends, do some Stampeding of our own, and see more of the girls.

The first week went well. We had a fantastic time together, though Pat’s pain from the hip issue she’d been suffering from – and seeing docs, physio and naturopaths about– limited what we could do. But we were together. Kristina landed on the 9th as planned. I picked her up myself because Pat’s hip was hurting. Back home we had a great reunion. It was the first time seeing each other without a screen between us since Christmas.

The evening ended well.

We’d see Anna in the morning.

Instead, Pat’s pain intensified Sunday morning. Her breathing was tight. Alarmingly so. Kristina called an ambulance.

Today, I sit watching my bride lying on a bed in the Royal Alexandra Hospital’s Robbins Pavilion. She has a beautiful view of downtown Edmonton. If she could get up, she’d see a lovely park that she has no hope of ever visiting.

Pat is dying of cancer that has somehow savaged her entire body. Confoundingly, they tell us this is the work of the cancer she bravely battled –and beat, we thought – seven years ago. That took a hysterectomy, chemo and radiation. But the damn thing came back.

And it rapidly spread. To her left lung, her spine, bones throughout her body, her kidney and on and on. But it seems like it’s the kidney that’s going to get her. Perhaps in days. Maybe weeks. No more they say. 

They doubt she’ll make our 25th wedding anniversary on October 4th. I’m holding out hope, if it doesn’t cause her too much pain. Her birthday on November 11th will almost certainly be a Remembrance Day of my time with her. Christmas? There really seems no way.

We’ve been together exactly 30 years. We started dating the same year my mom died of cancer at 58. Now, as my daughters follow in my footsteps at almost exactly the same age, my heart is ripping out from multiple directions. 

What helps is my many talks with Pat over the last few days. Her breathing is difficult but through the gasps she exudes a bravery that, when it comes right down to it, seems based on both the simplest and most profound of things.

She’s content with the way she lived her life. Goal number one was to walk, really walk with our girls through their lives. To be there in every sense of the word. Hear them out, share, talk through problems. Really and truly. To go on fieldtrips, to volunteer in every event, be on the sidelines or in the crowd at every concert, competition, and ceremony. To cry with them when they needed to cry – day and night, 24-7. To move them to Toronto, to campus, to Calgary. Help set up apartments and clean them up. To cry and laugh. At the right time. When it was needed, wanted, no questions asked.

Pat did that. And she thanked me this week for helping her do it.

She told me that she won’t ask why this is happening to her. She’d love more time. But she says she’s content. She’s run a good race- a very, very good race. She told me she’s thankful for this and that’s enough. My bride refuses to be bitter. That, I’m sure, will help her into whatever is next.

Pat did this all while being a hell of a bride. She supported me through everything. Everything. Through my career whipsaw, my stroke recovering, and my writing. She was the first editor on my first two, as of yet, unpublished books. Her pen was on my blogs, on feature stories, and short stories that I’ve published.

She consoles me even now, while she’s in her hospital bed dying. She’s still giving advice and support to our girls. She called a counselling session to help her parents cope. She makes silly jokes to console us. Like a play on the old Arnold Schwarzenegger movie Kindergarten Cop. There’s a line Arnie delivers when the kids are driving him crazy and he has a headache. A kindergartener suggests that it may be a tumor.  Schwarzenegger says, in his thick Austrian accent: “It’s not a tumower.”

One day, out of the blue, Pat tells me and the girls, with a smile on her face: “It is a tumower.”

And for 30 years, I’ve tried to get her to fist pump me. She always explained that she doesn’t fist pump. But now, seeing the pain and fear in my eyes, she consoled me with regular fist pumps including an added end-of-fist-pump move that included a spreading of her hand and a ‘bowww’ sound.

What a woman.

This was the last day Pat saw Anna. Anna was to start articling at a law firm in Calgary and Pat insisted that she not put it off. She wanted to know, I believe, that before she passed, Anna had moved on to launch her career. Kristina remained with us, on a break from her post in Toronto. Pat now knew that both girls were launched full throttle into their career paths.

By the end of the following day, the love of my life slipped into a coma. I talked her ear off for the next week, as did Kristina and her friend Mary, before she passed away that Friday. It was beautiful that Pat was able to pass with that peace surrounding her. Her hands held; her hair stroked.

I was with her every day, all day from the time she was admitted, over night for the best part of the final two weeks. Before the coma, we had lots of great talks, though they were stilted due to the pain. In a weird way, they were some of the best days of my life. And I’m so happy for the peace she had knowing she’d run a great race and left this world with a great connection to her girls and me.

Now she’s ready for whatever is next…

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