A Year of Pluck

A year ago this week, with shaking hands and tears in our eyes, Michael and I hit publish together on the first Plucky Day newsletter. This is not at all how I thought things would look a year later.

There are dozens, perhaps hundreds, of moments each day where I am reminded of the considerable absence of Michael’s presence. A few days ago I had been sorting and packing our books in the living room while also pushing the laundry through our tiny washer and dryer. At the end of each load, I’d dump the clean clothing onto my bed to deal with later. After a long day of physical work, I found myself exhausted and longing for sleep. Entering my room and seeing the pile of work still to complete was distressing. I’ve been having my sons take on more of the household tasks and I know they would have helped, but they’d both already gone to bed. This was all on me.

Early in our marriage we discovered everything worked better when Michael and I worked as a team. We never stopped trying to get better at it. One of us would take out the trash while the other would put a new bag in the garbage bin (interchangeable roles). One of us would cook (generally me) and the other would do all the dishes (always Michael, it’s a Chase family thing). When it came to laundry, it was me sorting and doing the actual washing and drying, but Michael did all the folding and matching of socks.

During his year of treatment, Michael could not help with the trash (handling garbage was not advised), nor could he do the dishes (risk of bacteria exposure plus general weakness). It was hard on both of us, this strange shift to me carrying the bulk of household responsibilities on top of caring for him. He hated to feel helpless or weak. Folding clean laundry though… that was a safe activity which he could do while sitting comfortably. He took complete ownership of it. The beautiful thing about Michael was his attitude toward this task… one of shockingly genuine enthusiasm.

I hate matching socks so much that I leaned long ago into sandals so there’d be a few less to deal with each laundry day. When the kids were small there were so many socks and I had so little patience for pairing them up. One time I walked away in the middle of the task, frustrated. I forgot to go back and finish. Michael got home from work and found that pile of socks on our bed. I improvised: I saved them for you to finish as a special treat because I loooooove you so much! He leaned into it and anytime I didn’t get around to folding up our clean clothes, he would grin and say, “Wow! Look how much you love me!” Before long, it just became his thing. I don’t recall a single time he complained about it, an act of love in itself.

My distress over folding all the laundry myself this week wasn’t really about the chore itself, though I still despise matching socks. Instead it was over the way Michael and I worked for three decades to be excellent teammates, to love each other well, and to continually support each other through the frantic tedium of daily life, including chores.

There is an extraordinary amount of work heaped on me at the moment, from packing and sorting our whole home to dealing with financial institutions which are making my life an absolute misery. But the most exhausting bit of work is simply being in a state of grief and mourning while doing anything else. Even walking our sweet tiny poodle Lucy Rocket has become a Herculean task. I’m forced to see my sad, frazzled reflection during the elevator ride down to the sidewalk. When we get there, Lu is forever hoping this walk will be the one where we finally meet Michael at the bus stop. I have to drag her away, crying every time. Because I live in a small community, it’s almost a guarantee that I’ll see someone else I know getting off the bus while I’m choking back a sob. I do not look or feel especially plucky at all. I feel like a wreck.

For years after losing my Mama, something small would often trigger a wave of overwhelming grief. I would turn to Michael who would hold me tightly, anchoring me physically before telling me a wonderful memory of her, “Remember how she would give the boys giant bowls of ice cream right before bed and tell us to mind our own business when we protested?” I would smile and my breathing would return to normal. Now I find myself breathless, drowning in sorrow with a giant hole where my Beloved would normally be waiting with open arms, standing with me in the darkest season of my life. He is unable to comfort me in my grief because he is the one I am grieving.

In the absence of another person here to tell me a wonderful memory of Michael while I try to take calm and steady breaths all alone, thank you for reading this small memory of my own. He was truly the rarest of husbands, relishing every opportunity to serve his family — even while going through some of the most grueling things a human body can experience. How genuinely awesome it is to have been loved by him so completely.

More soon.