Two Kisses for Maddy: A Memoir of Loss & Love (12 page)

“With the money you have, if you live conservatively, you’ll be able to stay here for about three years,” said the adviser.

Three years sounded like a long time to me, but then what? Would I have to get a second job? Would I have to short-sell my house, or, even worse, walk away from my mortgage, take the hit to my credit, and move in with family members? According to the financial adviser, I was eligible to collect some form of Social Security benefits on behalf of Madeline, and as Liz’s surviving spouse I’d get a small onetime payout. I wasn’t exactly eager to deal with any sort of government bureaucracy so soon, but I knew that it would ease some of the financial stress and anxiety I was already feeling, so I made an appointment.

I arrived at the Social Security office in Glendale and took a seat near a couple of old women, both probably in their seventies. I figured that they were there for the same reason I was: their spouses had died, and they were hoping to find some financial assistance in this dismal office. But I couldn’t help think how lucky they were to have had forty or fifty good years with their husbands. It was all conjecture—I really had no idea why these women were there, and frankly, I didn’t give a shit. All I could think was that I’d had twelve great years with my wife, and now I would have maybe forty or fifty without her. I couldn’t believe how much my life sucked.

I lifted Madeline out of her car seat and held her in my arms, talking to her about where we were. I’d been doing that since I’d brought her home, talking to her like she was an adult who couldn’t see or hear what was going on around her. I probably sounded like a complete lunatic to those around me as I laid out the scene for my newborn. The old women moved closer to us.

“You have such a beautiful baby. Is it a boy or a girl?”

I thought that to be an odd question, considering Madeline was covered in pink from the neck down.

“It’s a girl, and its name is Madeline,” I said snidely, already pissed off at them based on the story I’d made up in my head. I could tell they completely missed the fact that I was patronizing them—old people often didn’t understand my sense of humor.

The women took turns touching her cheeks and cooing at her with the kind of baby talk I’d sworn I’d never use with my child. Thankfully, before Madeline’s brain was fully turned to mush by their inane chatter, my name was called. Someone led us through a doorway and directed me to sit down at a desk across from a young woman who shook my hand, introducing herself with a name I forgot immediately. Without making eye contact or acknowledging the baby I held, she began to read from a sheet of paper in front of her. Just as the financial adviser had promised, she informed me that I was eligible for a onetime payout.

“The Social Security Administration will directly deposit two hundred fifty-five dollars into your bank account…”

Two hundred fifty-five dollars? That’s it?? Two hundred fifty-five dollars??? Are you fucking kidding me? I tried to find a proper response to the woman’s words. No amount would have taken away the pain of Liz’s death—but seriously, couldn’t they have at least given me enough to buy a couple of month’s worth of diapers?

During my internal rant, I missed the end of her script. I zoned back in when she finally asked if I had all of the necessary paperwork to get my benefits claim started.

“I hope so,” I said, trying to lighten up the mood. I reached into Madeline’s diaper bag to grab the manila folder full of documents that had come to rule the last few weeks of my life. I handed her Madeline’s birth certificate and Social Security card, but hesitated before pulling out Liz’s death certificate—the grim reminder that the two most important dates in my life will forever be connected.

I didn’t want to give her the death certificate; I didn’t want to show it to anyone. It was a private thing, and it took an emotional toll on me every time I had to watch another bureaucrat scan it for information. I hated that the death certificate would now be the defining document of Liz’s life. And really, I didn’t need to be reminded that my wife was dead; the emptiness in my heart was reminder enough.

I wondered if I could get away with not handing it over—after all, I was able to describe its every last line by heart. I knew every square inch of it like it was the ceiling in my childhood bedroom, and I knew every word like it was my favorite poem. I could tell this woman that the seal of the state of California was in the lower left corner of the document, and that the city of Pasadena was incorporated in June 1886, according to the city seal found in the lower right corner. I could tell her that Evonne D. Reed was the coroner who signed it, and that Takashi M. Wada, M.D., was listed as the health officer at the bottom. I could describe in great detail the way the colors faded from pink to blue from both the left and the right sides, and the ornate patterns created by the blue and white lines bordering the entire paper. I could tell her that in Box 8 was the number 1511, noting Liz’s time of death at 3:11 p.m., and that Box 41 listed the letters CR/RES, indicating that she had been cremated and that her remains had been removed from the state. I could tell her that Box 107 listed two causes of death, and that the document had been issued on April 1, 2008, one week to the day after Liz died.

But I knew that for the Social Security Administration, this recitation would not be proof enough that my wife was dead. I reluctantly slid the document across the desk and sunk deeper into my chair.

“Did the marriage end in death?” she asked, still reading from her script, still not looking at me.

What kind of question is that?
What the fuck do you think?
I wanted to scream, but what came out of my mouth was far less eloquent: “Technically, yes, but I’m still wearing our rings, so no. Well, yes. Um, never mind.” Jesus.

Even though Liz was dead, I really did still consider myself married, but to this woman, there was no room on the paperwork for any explanation. All she wanted was a simple yes or no so she could check the correct box on the form in front of her. She finally glanced up, making eye contact for the first time since I had sat down.

But all she did was look at me. I felt like I was back in elementary school, taking part in a playground staring contest. I lost.

“Yes. The marriage ended with her death.”

I overthought and had a hard time with the rest of her questions, but ultimately answered in the way she wanted. When the interview ended, she informed me that we’d be getting just under $1,800 per month to be used to provide for Madeline. After the paltry $255 death benefit, this amount made me feel as though we’d just won the lottery. Mostly, I was thrilled that Madeline wouldn’t have to join the workforce just yet, and that we might be able to stay in our house longer than I’d anticipated.

With the formal interview over, the woman became almost human and began making small talk with me. I would have obliged her, but at that moment, I smelled something awful. While she was still talking, I grabbed Madeline’s car seat and stood up.

“I have to get going. My daughter just shit herself.”

The woman looked flustered, obviously unprepared for my crassness. If only she could have read my mind during her interview, she would have known just how unrefined I really was. Pointing to her right, she said, “Uh, you can use that conference room to change her.”

“Thanks.”

I walked into the conference room, closed the door behind me, and pulled out the changing pad that matched the diaper bag now permanently attached to my shoulder. For the first time since bringing her home from the hospital, I changed Madeline’s diaper in public, right there on the middle of the table. As I dropped the diaper in the trash can and walked out, I smiled at the thought of someone else entering this room and wondering where the shit smell was coming from. Hilarious—especially after the interview I had just endured.

Chapter 14

sometimes it feels like

yesterday.

other times it feels

like a lifetime ago.

i’m having a hard time

remembering her voice,

but i find myself

saying things that

liz

would have said if

she

were standing next to me,

looking at our child.

like cute.

and pretty.

T
he people I encountered in public had no clue what I was going through. It’s not that I expected them to—obviously strangers don’t generally know what’s going on in another stranger’s world—but my entire life had fallen apart, and it felt crazy to see everyone around me continuing on as if nothing at all had happened. Drivers honked and gave me the finger when I hesitated at a green light because I was thinking about the last time I’d driven down Fairfax Avenue with Liz. Baristas turned up the snark when I took too long deciding between Earl Grey and Darjeeling because I was lost in a memory of drinking tea while we watched the sun rise over the Himalayas.

Sometimes, though, strangers could be the greatest source of comfort. I went to my bank to make a deposit, and as I approached the bulletproof glass that cascaded from the ceiling to the counter, I couldn’t help but think about all the times I had visited Liz at her college summer job as a teller in Minneapolis. I did my best to hold back the tears, but when I was about to speak to the young woman at the counter, I completely broke down. “Are you okay?” she asked. I looked up and made some sort of unintelligible sound that clearly indicated I wasn’t. I’m not sure if it was the noise I made or the sadness plastered across my face, but the teller immediately started crying and looked at me with an expression I would never have expected from someone I didn’t know. It wasn’t pity—she didn’t even know my story, so it wasn’t shock, either. It was the purest and most sincere form of sympathy a human could relay. When I pulled myself together, I told her all about Madeline’s birth and Liz’s death. I told her about the uncertainty I felt and the fear I had about my financial situation. I must have sounded like a total fucking lunatic. But if I did, she never let on.

On another occasion, I was picking up some supplies at Home Depot and the person who was helping me, a tough-looking Hispanic guy wearing an orange smock over a white muscle shirt, his arms and neck covered in tattoos, took one look at me and knew there was something wrong.

“You okay?”

“No. Not really,” I replied.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“My wife died a few weeks ago and I’m a fucking wreck.”

“I’m sorry. I lost my son in a shooting last year. It’s not the same, but I know pain.”

Just feeling that hurt was something that a lot of people couldn’t relate to or even fathom, but by simply asking me if I was okay I knew that this man
got it
. He knew that no matter how tough or together you tried to look, there were moments when nothing but a good cry would do the trick. And that helped.

When I walked down the street with Madeline in my arms, it seemed like everyone was looking at me as if I’d stolen her. When I walked into a kid’s clothing store, I felt like everyone thought I was using her as a prop in order to kidnap their children and use their skin to make lampshades or something. The people I encountered on a daily basis could jump to any number of conclusions: to some I might be a deadbeat dad, babysitting my child on weekends; to others, maybe I was a child predator. But, as is the case in all encounters with strangers, the only way to really know what was going on in my life was to ask questions. And it was always the same one: “Where’s her mother?” No one ever asked where my wife was.

Seriously? A father alone with a baby is not such a rare occurrence in modern society, but it seemed that some people’s attitudes needed adjusting. When was the last time a mother was out with her child and a stranger wanted to know where the father was? The very idea of asking such a question would not only be rude, but it would also be a complete invasion of privacy. Yet I got that question almost every time I went out alone with Madeline.

I always answered the question as honestly and directly as I could, which often made me feel like I had somehow been tasked with pissing in everyone’s lemonade. It’s not fun to ruin people’s days by answering a simple, terribly inconsiderate question, but I couldn’t avoid the truth of my own situation, and I certainly wasn’t about to soften things for someone I didn’t even know.

But it wasn’t just the sad look on my face or the baby in my arms. I know I brought some of this attention on myself by continuing to wear Liz’s rings, but I just couldn’t take them off. They had been on my left pinkie ever since I put them on in the hospital, and I was too afraid to leave them unattended in the house. I would have been seriously pissed off if something had happened to them. Besides, with my unexpected weight loss, they fit perfectly. What dude doesn’t need a few diamonds on his finger? And still, I needed that physical reminder of our closeness; I wanted Liz’s most prized possessions to become a part of me, just as they were a part of her.

When Anya and I took Maddy to the pediatrician, the assumption in the waiting room must have been that we were a very happy family—mother, father, and daughter. But I could feel the other parents’ puzzled looks: Why was he doing all the caregiving? Why was he holding their baby up and pointing at the fish in the tank? Why was he carrying the diaper bag? I mean, the sign-in sheet at the desk had the word
mother
written on every line from top to bottom, with my lone
father
scribbled in the bottom row.

A woman sitting next to us noticed the rings on my finger. She was there with her two children, an infant and a girl about eight years old. “Those are lovely,” she said, then cast her gaze in Anya’s direction. “Why isn’t your wife wearing them?” When I gave her the truthful answer, she couldn’t deal with it; overwhelmed, she left her daughter in charge of the baby and fled the waiting room in tears.

The varied reactions I got from total strangers were something of a surprise, but I suppose my answers to their questions were equally surprising. No matter what the situation that brought forth my story, I found that mothers always had the most extreme response, maybe because they could see their partners in my situation, and that scared the shit out of them.

I met one mother in a coffee shop. Maddy and I were there hanging out with Deb when Windy approached us. Looking at Deb, she asked, “How old is your baby?”

“Three months,” Deb responded.

“She looks so small.”

“Well, she was born seven weeks early.”

“Was it a tough pregnancy?”

“Yes, five weeks of bed rest.”

“Wow. Good luck to you,” Windy said to Deb, as she headed toward the exit.

I was a bit dumbfounded. Dealing with strangers who assumed that I was not Maddy’s primary caregiver was one thing; leaving them with the impression that Deb was her mother was quite another. It was obvious that Deb didn’t want to discuss the circumstances that led her to be
the
woman in Madeline’s life, but hearing her speak as if she was the one who had given birth to Madeline really hit a nerve. I couldn’t believe she didn’t at least hint at what had actually happened.

When I thought about it, though, I understood why Deb had responded that way. My wife was dead, the person who had been my compass for the past twelve years, and I had my own feelings about that. But Deb had lost her sister, whom she had loved and been so close with for her entire life. I addressed the grief in my way, and Deb in hers. There was no right or wrong way to mourn—this much I knew. But in that moment, Deb’s handling of the questions had been unbearable for me.

I felt very upset and more than a little angry, but I wasn’t about to lecture Deb on how to deal with her sister’s death. I got up from my chair, grabbed Madeline from her car seat and said, “I’m going for a walk. I’ll be right back.”

I went out the door and took a left, heading for nothing in particular, just hoping to clear my head. About a quarter of a block down the street, I noticed a kid’s clothing store and went inside. I hadn’t intended on doing any shopping until I saw the place, but I figured I might as well pick up a few things for Madeline while I was trying to distract myself. I spent a few minutes browsing a rack near the front of the store, choosing a pink onesie with a green cartoon character on the front. As I made my way toward the register, I bumped into Windy and her daughter.

“Hi,” I said.

“Oh. Hello.”

“Just so you know, you didn’t get the full story in the coffee shop,” I abruptly told her. For the first time I
wanted
to tell a complete stranger everything, up front and without prompting. This felt different.

For the next fifteen minutes, Windy held her daughter tight as I shared with her that my seemingly picture-perfect family was not what she had been led to believe. When I finished, she wiped the tears from her eyes and reached into her purse for a pen and paper. She wrote down all of my information and promised to get in touch so we could catch up again soon.

Within a few days I heard from her, and she told me that she belonged to an online parenting group. It had started out as a resource for moms who were breast-feeding, but it had evolved into much more, with discussions about everything from what kind of stroller to buy to where to go on a play date. She said it had a huge membership and that it would be really helpful for me to join them. Help sounded great. Windy told me that she was trying to get me into the group, but she warned me that even though there would be a lot of practical information I could use, there would also be a lot of talk about vaginas and menstrual cycles and breast-feeding.

“No problem,” I told her. “I lived with a woman for a very long time. I can take it.”

But the next time I heard from her, she told me that although the overwhelming majority of the women in the group wanted me in, the leaders would not allow it. They had decided it wasn’t a good idea to have a man in their midst because there was so much personal talk among them, and they didn’t want other women to feel inhibited. Bullshit. My wife was dead and I didn’t give a shit about women’s body parts or bodily fluids or any other personal talk. All I wanted was access to their valuable information about parenting in Los Angeles, setting up play dates, and finding good day care.

“Matt, I’m just floored by this,” Windy said. “I know two gay men who adopted, and they won’t let them in, either. So you know what? Fuck ’em. We’re going to start our own group.”

If Liz had been there, we probably would not have been seeking out such help, but without her I not only wanted this support system, I needed it. I knew it would be invaluable as I tried to raise Madeline on my own.

And so Windy and I began to meet for coffee to talk about how the group would take shape. It started small but continued to grow, mostly thanks to Windy’s efforts and organization. The more she and I planned, the closer we got, and eventually Windy shared with me that she was a lesbian. Strange as it may sound, that gave us a lot of common ground to walk on, as neither of us was necessarily what people thought us to be when we passed them on the street with a kid. The potential assumptions about me as the father of a baby girl were obvious: he’s lazy; his wife must be at work; he doesn’t do shit. As for Windy, most would figure that she was a stay-at-home mom, that her husband was the breadwinner, and that she and her partner were just friends.

One day while we sat at the coffee shop talking, Windy’s daughter, almost two at the time, was in the playroom with some other children. A guy walked in and saw her picking up toys. “Your daddy must be so proud of you!” he exclaimed.

We looked at one another and just burst out into raucous laughter. I felt I had more in common with a gay parent than I did with anybody else, and Windy became part of my chosen family. It was a fantastic feeling—no matter how different we might have seemed, we had a bond. Without Liz, I was now the one responsible for creating a community for Madeline and me. Without her, I was learning, I had to be the friendly one.

When I started to blog again, my community expanded even further, and my encounters were no longer limited to people in my geographic location. I hadn’t thought that blogging was something I would continue after Liz died. On March 28, A.J. posted the obituary that his wife had written about Liz, the one that I still have trouble getting through. I believed at the time that it might be the blog’s final post, but a few weeks later I found myself turning back to it in hopes of some kind of emotional release. In the days after Liz’s death, writing my thoughts down—like the thoughts that had turned into the words written on her funeral program—had been really effective in helping me deal. As time passed and I continued to write, the blog just seemed like a natural place to put them.

It felt great. At first I thought there would be nothing much to say, but with Maddy home, something in me wanted, or maybe needed, to record everything. Were my posts revelatory? Not exactly. But having an outlet where I could say whatever I wanted and work through my constantly shifting emotional state was invaluable. I knew it when I wrote that first post after Liz’s death; I knew it again the next day, when I wrote a post about how the better of Madeline’s parents had died; and I knew it every day thereafter, as I rambled about life with my daughter.