After my wife's death, I finally found peace in her memory. It's been almost five years since my wife Lori passed away, and as the cool weather sets in, my mind begins to wander back to the memories we shared. The first year was the roughest, but I've learned to celebrate her life and cherish the holidays once again. Lori's resilience and joyful spirit shaped our memories, even during her illness and in her final days. Remembering her adventurous life helps me embrace joy and cherish the holidays once again.
Lori lived with a brain tumor for 23 years, and the first year after her death 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. On her last birthday, I made her a three-layer cake filled with strawberries and covered in a chocolate ganache, prepared her favorite pancakes, and gave her chocolate from her favorite shop, a cubic zirconium engagement ring, 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 last year, it finally happened. On what would have been her 55th birthday, I was reading Lori's diaries, 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, we thought we would invite friends and family to the summit of our favorite ski resort so we could renew our wedding vows.
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, wearing her snowman pajama bottoms and a top she affectionately called her 'Thug Muppet.' 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 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. 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.
I've 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.
