Instead, Dwell on Cake

I spent some time with my brother tonight. I saw Rick's obituary photo on his fridge. I saw the Christmas card from Rick and me on there too. I smiled. We talked about work stuff. Nothing sad. It was for the best.

I came home to my cats and took a shower. In the shower, I cried. I ended up on my knees, slamming my hands into the sides of the shower wall, crying tears that mixed with the hot water. The switch of emotions is devastatingly shocking at times. Grief is a strange, strange beast.

When I got out of the shower, I felt lighter, as though I had already poured all my grief into the void the way I do on my blog at night. Like a little chime in my head, I heard Rick say, "Then post something funny tonight."

So I will.

I found this excerpt from an old blog post from 2010.

Rick has written "vanilla cake?" on the store list (complete with a question mark).

Arielle questions this.

Rick (with a thoughtful look on his face): "Well, I was thinking...since you're going to be going to grad school, I thought I should learn how to make cakes."

Apparently I make him so many cakes and now won't be around enough to provide for his needs.

So he bought ingredients, he asked me some questions, and when I came home from my mom's on Sunday, a two-layer frosted cake was sitting beautifully on a glass cake pedestal in the middle of the kitchen counter.

Very humorous. But very impressive for a man.

He totaled up the ingredients and decided that with oil, eggs, frosting, etc. it had only cost him about $3 to make his own cake, therefore he plans to do this on a regular basis instead of buying a cake if he wants one.

My husband is HILARIOUS. I love him.



He may be dead. But my husband is hilarious. I love him.

Gravity.

Tonight, Rick's brother and his family were back in town from Florida. They took me out to dinner with them.

I left work, picked up more fluid bags for the cats at the vet, got home, and fed them before Keith came to pick me up. I was preoccupied with something when he got to the door and as I looked up to let him in, my house felt a little better for a minute. I was seeing something I haven't seen in a while - a piece of my life back in place. It sounds silly, I know, but I haven't seen my husband now in 46 days...and his brother was like a flash of Rick again right in front of my face. I felt like I was kind of seeing him again. So much resemblance, so much similarity.

It was so nice of them to include me. A good distraction. Pleasant company. I have a blog - so my vulnerability is out there. Everything is on the table with me and my grief. They can see me laugh, but they know that I cry. They make me feel like family.

What can you say to a woman who lost her husband to suicide?
What can you say to a man who lost his only brother?

There isn't really anything that makes sense or holds weight. All at once, 46 days feel like 4. And then they feel like 460. I still don't know how to contend with the concept of time.

The last time I saw Rick's brother, he was here for the funeral. Between that week and this one, I feel as though I've aged 10 years - not in looks, but in soul. I feel as though so much has transpired. We went on living. The world kept turning.

It's almost a shock to the system. Like when I hug my brother-in-law, I think, "You're still here," as though he might disappear from the periphery of my life simply because Rick ceased to exist.

Different rental car, different season, Keith comes back to my driveway and enters the Grief Zone. It sounds so dramatic on a blog, but the gravity is real. The definition of gravity is: extreme or alarming importance; seriousness. And that's what I feel when I'm with the only brother of my husband. Nothing has changed since the last time I saw him, yet everything has changed.

The good news is that beyond the gravity, there is lightness. There is humor. There is kindness.

Rick is gone...and life is just so strange. But I would rather it be strange in the company of Bairs than all alone.

So I'll pay for my dinner with a blog post. Thank you for letting me know I'm still family.