Letting go of my marriage

On what would have been our 19th wedding anniversary, I went to Whidbey Island with my parents and the kids to scatter some of Andy’s ashes. This was the last place we went as a family, the last place where there was joy. I had planned the entire day, visiting all of the key places that had significance to Andy, the kids, and us as a family on Whidbey.

I drove off the ferry boat and headed to the VRBO Andy rented the spring before he died. It was emotional just driving there, knowing how peaceful he found this place. Colin and I were sad as we sat by the campfire area, the memory of all of us being together here over Memorial Day. I remembered the kids were laughing as they played around the campfire and we made s’mores. Natalie threw the chuck-it ball for the property owner’s young lab puppies, who Andy had learned to love.

Next, we drove to the quaint downtown area of Langley, and I felt the fatigue hitting me again. Possibly induced by the post-sugar coma from eating Mighty-O Donuts we picked up in our neighborhood in route and consumed on the ferry. Or from the familiar feelings of grief. We stopped at the bookstore, where Natalie got the sequel to the robot book Andy had gotten for her here and I selected a book of poetry from David Whyte, a local poet from the island. The book included poems on marriage and transitions, some on grief of the author losing his mother. This felt appropriate as an anniversary present to myself, one to help me as I was reflecting on my own marriage, losses, and life transitions.

Our last stop in town was at the glass store, which sold hand blown glass art bowls and sculptures. Andy loved blown glass and it felt fitting to stop here. My dad bought Natalie a glass bunny to remember all the bunnies the kids saw on Whidbey when they were there with their dad. My mom suggested naming it Whidbey, which Natalie did.

We left Langley and drove to the Greenbank Pantry and Deli, another place the kids had fond memories of spending time with Andy. They were excited about going to the deli and sharing this place with me and my parents; they kept raving about the sandwiches and how good they were. Big meaty sandwiches piled high, with thick sourdough bread and a pickle spear on the side. We placed our order and tried to find some shade on the picnic tables outside while we waited. It was hot and we were starting to get tired. An hour later, our order was ready. We opted to escape the sun, pack up the sandwiches, and head to the sculpture park where the cool forest could protect us from the mid-day sun. We sat in folding chairs in the parking lot and ate the sandwiches before walking on the path around the park.

The sculpture park is set in a forest, with a dirt path leading to each sculpture. I couldn’t help but think of Andy’s joy at being here. One of the last places I knew he visited, where he appreciated the artistry and community that supported this free park. We stopped at each sculpture, and the kids noted the ones they remembered they liked when they saw them with Andy. Saw - past tense. No possibility for a repeat visit with him.

Toward the end of the path I encountered an Icarus sculpture with flying feathers. Andy had never mentioned this one before. Grief hit me hard. I lost my breath, and started crying. I couldn't control the tears. I remembered Andy saying to me,” I'm like Icarus: I flew too close to the sun”, a reference to his ambition and burn out at work. My dear husband, yes, you flew too close to the sun. Your life burned out. Much too early.

I gained my composure but felt the fatigue taking over. My dad offered to drive and I took him up on the offer. I was feeling physically and emotionally drained. I knew what was coming up next. It’s both what I wanted and what I desperately did not want to do. Visit Fort Ebey and release some of his ashes.

We pulled into the parking lot at Fort Ebey and I was transported back in time to the year before, when the four of us were all here together. The day was so similar; hot, dry, peaceful. Time seemed to move slower here. The air was still and calm. A gentle breeze came and went, kissing our skin, nature’s attempt to cool us down.

This place was so special to Andy. It has a beautiful, panoramic view of Puget Sound and the Olympic mountains in the west. By the time we arrived the sun was just starting its descent, but still high enough in the sky to cause shimmering reflections on the water. “Sparkly water” as my mother-in-law refers to it.

I stood out on the bluff where Andy took my photo the year before. I began to let him go. I could see down into the ocean, crystal clear greens and blues with birds floating and flying everywhere. I started releasing the ashes and they tumbled down the bluff, circling back towards us with the up currents. Natalie also took a turn, letting the ashes scatter in the wind. It was beautifully sad. I told Colin it was our anniversary; he said he didn't know. I told him this really marked the end of the marriage for me.

I knew in my heart that Andy would love that I chose this magical place for him. It felt right that we were leaving him here, returning him back to the land and the sea.

Yet I was also disoriented that this was even happening. I could not believe my husband was in a box, and was reduced to ashes. My husband. Who was living flesh and blood mere weeks beforehand. It seemed like just yesterday we were all at Fort Ebey together. It was unfathomable that he wasn't with us and never would be again. I felt a deep, hollow sadness for myself, realizing I would never share this or any other place on Earth with him again.

The kids walked up to a place further up on the bluff and I took a few minutes for myself to say my private goodbye. I told him I missed him and that I loved him, that I would always love him, and that I wished him peace. Then I walked up the path and met the kids and my parents. My mom held me in a hug. I let myself be comforted by her, as if I was once again a child, needing my mommy. But I didn’t let myself linger long, I kicked back into my own “mom mode” just a few minutes later.

I found Natalie who was trying to fly a kite, the one Andy first flew with her here at this exact location. The memory of that day burned into my mind. I could picture it as if it was yesterday. One of my last memories of Andy, basking in the joy of doing this together with his daughter.

The memories were too raw for me to reflect on with happiness; it was too soon. But I desperately wanted to get to that place. I was experiencing many “firsts” with memories: places, songs, restaurants. Each new memory was an emotional pull to remembering what I’d lost. It was painful, overwhelming. Fort Ebey held such significance to Andy, and to me. The last day I was here with him I felt myself falling in love with him all over again.

This day - our anniversary. I was still in shock; this wasn’t how I ever imagined spending an anniversary . Yet there was something very symbolic about choosing to honor Andy and our marriage in this way, on this particular day, in this place, on a day with optimal weather mimicking the last time we were here, and with support from my parents.

Before we departed, we took a detour to the beach area at the park, a place I had never been. The symbolism of the newness of the experience, a fresh start, a new memory where Andy wasn't present, struck me. While Colin told me the story of how he had seen sea otters running down the trail and into the ocean when he was there with Andy over spring break, this place held no memories for me. Newness, I would come to learn, held comfort for me. A reprieve from the pain of a shared memory.

Colin and I picked up a rock to take home from the beach, a memento of this memory. Colin climbed a felled tree that hung over the shore and skipped stones while Mom and I walked the stony beach, feeling the sand and pebbles rubbed smooth by the ocean currents under our feet and between our toes.

We drove down the road, replaying a playlist I created for Andy’s memorial. Music was such an important part of his life, and he was frequently the DJ playing the soundtrack of our lives, cueing up the next songs suitable for the occasion. We played Andy's tunes on the beautiful drive back through the country to the ferry terminal, soaking in the amazing views, watching naval aircrafts that looked like the Blue Angels flying low and slow. We took in views of fields and the ocean and mountains passing by. Life started flooding back into the car. Natalie was began making faces and taking photos, laughing. And we all remembered Andy as we listened to the songs that colored our lives, the lives with him in it.

On the ferry, Natalie asked to go to the back of the boat. We watched the turbulent water escape from the engine behind us and the island receding into the distance. It felt like we left Andy there, a place he loved and a place he wanted to be. I remember having a similar feeling when I left home for Seattle after Memorial Day, a feeling that we were an incomplete family without him. His absence, then, was pronounced. It felt odd to not have him coming home with us. Except this time, it was different. We were at a fork in the road, and despite my desire for him to be with us, he no longer could be. We had to go forward, without him. We had to leave him behind.

I had read about separating with our deceased loved ones as part of the grief process. I felt that physical separation for the first time that day. I had a mental image of two pieces of velcro. The array of "hooks" and "loops" kept us together, tightly forming a strong network. Initially, pulling them apart was difficult, inertia was required to pull the pieces apart. I hoped the inertia would carry me to a day when it became easier and not hurt as much.

On the ferry, I started to let go. I knew I had to say goodbye, but it was so, so painful. Especially since Andy and I had spent months before he died working so hard on our marriage. We had been trying to develop secure, healthy attachments; regain trust with each other; and remember how to be there for one another. All the work I poured into our relationship to strengthen that attachment now had to be undone so I could move forward with my life. I felt the blow; emotionally I was catapulted backwards to a realm of weakness and insecurity. I had no choice but to start over.

The next day, we started page one of our next chapter, with new beginnings. The rituals of looking backward in remembrance were complete, we were moving forward. Making plans in the future - plans that no longer involved him. It’s what we needed to begin living our lives, one day at a time.