It’s been almost five years since my wife Lori passed. But, as the cool weather sets in and fall’s kaleidoscope of colors paints the landscape as far as the eye can see, my mind begins to wander.
From the time the last leaf turns brown and falls to the ground to the time the first flakes of snow land, I know the clock is ticking down to December 24 — Lori’s birthday.
She lived with a brain tumor
The first year was the roughest.
My most recent memory of her birthday was her 51st, only a few weeks after the doctors said there was nothing left to do but wait for the inevitable. But Lori ignored that. For 23 years, she lived with a malignant brain tumor and was told this is it. And then, it wasn’t.
On what would be her last birthday, I made her a three-layer cake filled with strawberries and covered in a chocolate ganache, prepared pancakes (which was her favorite food group), and gave her chocolate from her favorite shop, a cubic zirconium engagement ring because her actual engagement ring no longer fit on her fingers, and a needlepoint kit that she could use from her wheelchair. And when she went to sleep, I cried.
This was the memory stuck in my head. This was the memory that haunted me. And every year since she died, I hope that on the anniversary of her birthday, the memory of any one of the other 33 birthdays I celebrated with Lori would somehow show their face, and bring a smile instead of tears. For three years I waited.
I read her diaries from time to time
And then, last year, it finally happened. On what would have been her 55th birthday, I was reading Lori’s diaries, which I did from time to time, pretending I could still talk with her. I came across a passage she wrote about her 35th birthday. I smiled. Lori had just recovered from yet another brain surgery and radiation and told her doctors that, come the first snowstorm, she would be skiing. It had been 10 years since we got married, and as a birthday present, I thought we would invite friends and family to the summit of our favorite ski resort so we could renew our wedding vows.
And the memories started rushing in.
I remember that day vividly
It was December 24, 2005, at 6 a.m., and there were already a couple of inches of snow on the ground. The forecast was calling for 12 more. The house smelled like last night’s fireplace. I looked at Lori sleeping next to me. She was wearing her snowman pajama bottoms and a top she affectionately called her “Thug Muppet.” It’s essentially a super-soft, fleece-lined hoodie with neon orange drawstrings.
I hated to wake her, but if I didn’t give Lori her birthday gifts immediately, we wouldn’t have time alone again until the next day. She had spent the day before her birthday wrapping her ski poles with plastic flowers. There were orchids, roses, lilies, and lace to hold it all together. She put Powerpuff Girls stickers on her skis and laid out a little black dress (her standard evening uniform) as her outfit for the evening.
I leaned over and gently kissed her on the forehead, telling her it was time to wake up. As usual, she asked for five more minutes, telling me it was still dark outside. I whispered, “It’s snowing.” Lori’s eyes light up. “Will we have time to do a run in the terrain park before the ceremony? I have a new trick I want to try.” I ask if we can try to avoid her breaking something until after the ceremony is over.
She rolled out of bed, saw the pile of presents on the floor, and immediately started tearing the wrapping paper off. Leaving a trail of crumpled paper throughout the house, Lori starts telling me the trick she wants to do. She blurts out, “It’s better than the one yesterday!”
The day before, she had jumped off a “small” set of rocks while skiing in the trees. Usually, she follows me in the trees, but she decided I was moving too slowly. She was about 25 yards ahead of me when I heard “Woo Hoo!” and then she disappeared.
I was so focused on trying to figure out where she went that I barely had time to brace myself before I, too, was in the air. My arms swing wildly like I am jumping rope in midair and just praying I don’t face plant when I land. I see her now. Giggling, covered from head to toe in snow. Her skis and poles are strewn all over the snow in multiple directions. She looks like a yeti. Her smile is intoxicating. I can’t help but start laughing too.
“Did you see that? I was flying.” I lie and say it was amazing. I usually can’t watch when she does these tricks. I keep thinking she is going to crash. The parade of horrors that awaits reads like a top 10 list for what happens when stupid human tricks go bad. To Lori, these are just details. After all, she is supposed to be dead already. At least according to the doctors.
Now Lori wants to launch herself into the air and try a 360° spin before she lands. Who am I to tell her no? Diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor shortly before our third anniversary, Lori and I never thought we would see our 10th anniversary, let alone her 35th birthday, and now we were going to renew our wedding vows in a blizzard at the summit of a ski resort in front of our friends and family, but not before Lori tries to stick the landing.
It’s been 20 years since we renewed our vows
I can’t believe it will be 20 years since that day. Time does pass quickly, and yet, at the same time seems to stand still. All my memories feel as if I am remembering something that happened yesterday.
I can still hear Lori’s voice, giddy with excitement as she wonders what the next unwrapping will reveal. I feel this warmth flow through my veins, remembering how I could not resist the urge to tell her my journey of how each gift came to be, and watching her try on or play with every gift as it was removed from the box it came in.
And yet, it so long ago, that I have already forgotten the stress of figuring out how to get 25 people to the summit of a mountain when none of them ski, finding a justice of the peace willing to stand and perform the ceremony in the middle of a snowstorm, and mostly wondering whether it was even a good idea in the first place because Lori’s head had not quite healed from her surgery.
But, in the end, what matters most is that I no longer cry on Christmas Eve. I expect that this year, for the first time, I will actually be able to celebrate Christmas Eve as a time of joy, knowing that I can finally experience it that way. And I have learned that if I am willing to let myself remember the good times, I might have many more happy days that were once sad. And that is Lori’s greatest gift to me: a lesson. Don’t lament fate or dwell on what you have lost; instead, enjoy what you have and look forward to tomorrow.
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