Tre Miller Rodriguez's Blog, page 66

Today’s weather = Winter’s middle finger after...

Today’s weather = Winter’s middle finger after Spring cuts him off at the bar? #GoHome #YouveHadEnough

"My story and your story share a lot of similarities. I too woke up to the love of my life throwing..."

“My story and your story share a lot of similarities. I too woke up to the love of my life throwing up in the bathroom. Between then and the next four days, his gallbladder ruptured…he turned septic…he coded…then he was doing better…then a massive stroke. I felt his body temperature drop and watched his heart weaken on the monitor. I held his hand for hours and kissed him…and then it was time. Time to let go.

He flew away Aug. 5, 2014 at 9:27 am at 37 years old. We had been together for a little over 5 years. I hate everything right now, but I put on a great front for everyone else. You and your words make sense to me…and they’re so very real. Thank you.”

- — Becky, Tennessee (miteyquinn7)

"Understanding your loss means understanding what role the loss plays in your life, and eventually..."

“Understanding your loss means understanding what role the loss plays in your life, and eventually being able to integrate the loss into your identity. It means reconstructing your identity, and your world, after it has been forever changed. Understanding your loss may sound as if it involves thinking a lot about what has happened in the past, but it is really more about deciding how to live your life in the future.””

-   — Sameet Kumar, “Grieving Mindfully”

Do the Thing (You’re Most Dreading)

Woke this morning aware that March 15th was falling on a Sunday, and that the weather would be not unlike the day he died. I was in no rush for this day to start so I set no alarms and slept through all the early morning time stamps associated with this Sunday morning in 2009.

One look at the gray, blustery sky and I’m in no rush to transfer the ash from his urn to a Ziploc either. Quite handily put off that task until there are no more dishes to wash, clothes to put away, showers to take. With nothing left to delay the inevitable, I do the thing I am dreading.

And quickly follow it with the thing I’m not dreading: calling his mom in Miami. We catch up on Hilda’s world and I share my plan for the day. I confess that the grumpy weather is apropos but disappointing, and promise to send her photos of the ritual.

I dress with neither hurry nor enthusiasm, but as I’m lacing up my Chuck Taylors, sunshine spreads across the apartment. I text Hilda: The sun just came out!!! First showing all day!

Her reply: The sun coming out was a wish from me, your “Next Best Thing.” I love you.

I am now speed-tossing things into my bag, queuing up Alberto’s playlist and tying my scarf in the elevator. Five minutes later, I’m at the florist, grateful that no one cares why I want the heads lopped off this bouquet of freesia. The sun follows me to 24th and Tenth, where I pass a sticker in the style of a graffiti artist whose work Alberto and I used to follow. (Bonus: heart shape.)

I walk faster.

So do the clouds.

The wind is strong and the sun is gone by the time I cross Westside Highway. I don’t know exactly where I’m spreading him, so I wander the empty Hudson River Park in hope that the sun will return by the time I figure it out.

I stumble on a cluster of stone boulders in black sand, which strikes me as a puerile version of Stonehenge. 

As I finish shooting it, the sun reappears.

I’ve learned not to squander the sunshine on days like this, and the Hudson is but a few steps away, so I pull out my words and Ziploc bags.

I release them into the body of water that was the backdrop for so many of our summer memories.

And will continue to be. 

The Sound (not Fury) of a Deathiversary

In early winter, the contract for my audio book was drawn up. While many authors have a strong urge to narrate their own book, the first 60 pages would be impossible for me to artfully record. There’s a reason I don’t read those pages aloud at author events: they come with mild PTSD’s accompanying flashbacks, hyperventilation and tears. 

I had a strong conviction that those pages would be better read by a professional voice artist who doesn’t remember what it was like to perform CPR on my dead husband or shut his casket or deliver his eulogy. So I negotiated the right to choose the narrator. And pre-coach her. And request do-overs (called “pick-ups” in voiceland) for any mispronounced words.

This past week, I received the rough cut of my audio book. I imagine that it’s surreal for anyone to hear their nonfiction book narrated by someone else: it distances you from the story and allows you to experience it anew. It also propels you back in time, resurrecting the visual memories associated with every thought and line of dialog.  

Reliving this story in early March—the same time of year that the book began and concluded—felt not unlike a cruel joke. Took me 48 hours to get through those first 60 pages—exactly why I didn’t narrate—and I had to skip food in order to finish my notes on the remaining 232 pages. Took every scrap of my Lent willpower to not open a bottle of wine at 11am in the middle of Chapter Four. (Anyone else notice just how much effing wine I drank in 2009? Finally understand why so many readers mention opening a bottle while reading this book.)

Reliving the year 2009 a few days before Alberto’s deathiversary has translated into refreshed memories and a deluge of dreams. But it’s also served as a nicer, kinder reminder that the girl who poured out this book is not the same girl I am now. Through its telling, through its publishing, through the opportunities it’s since provided, I’ve had the luxury of grieving in a community that…lets me do just that. The byproduct is a girl who’s worked through much of the shit with which this book struggles.

There are new, often unexpected struggles—parting with his storage units of memories, turning the same age at which he died, becoming a mom to a daughter he never met—but tonight, 30 minutes into the deathiversary, it’s an odd sort of relief to recognize that you’re less and less the panicky person who wrote this story. A bit more the brave one who flickered through at rare moments. 

Or perhaps this is just a public pep talk for a girl who’s doing something tomorrow—er, today—that she’s never done before: spread Alberto’s ashes in NYC.  Because strange that I’ve sprinkled him in countries he never traveled to and places he visited once, yet not the city in which we fell in love and lived.

But also, a thing that’s remedied as of tomorrow.

Beyond Surface Treatments

I confess that I’m still contemplating tattoo designs for my late husband and brother, but not for lack of exposure to meaningful, aesthetically stunning tributes. The memorial tattoos in this year’s column reach beyond rose-wrapped-crosses and words like “R.I.P.,” and into the realm of the remarkably personal. Some take a high-design approach and some are unassumingly simple, but all use unexpected symbolism to honor the deceased.

Read More →

Glass Full

For the past month, I’ve tried to wrap my head around the fact that on March 6, I’d turn the same age at which Alberto died. 

Like every other wife of a 39-year-old, I had curated Alberto’s surprise 40th birthday. A summer weekend party in Connecticut with eight other couples was planned. Surreptitious deliveries of balloons, Chivas Regal, and dulce de leché cake were coordinated. Alberto had a history of hating surprises, but, by the end of that weekend, he was adorably (and uncharacteristically) grateful.

That was his last birthday. I’ve held onto that memory and placed a shit-ton of “thank-Gods” upon it. 

Lately, I found myself dreading my encounter with that same milestone birthday: definitely taking the day off work, but should I celebrate in L.A. or NYC? Which restaurant? Who should I invite? 

Gayson to the rescue: NYC venue booked, guest list solidified, menu planned, afterparty sorted. All I need to do is show up…right? 

Last Sunday, I made my peace with the fact that neither a husband nor a boyfriend would be at my side that night. 

On Monday, my cousins cancelled on dinner and I did not take it well.

On Tuesday, I shared my 40th-birthday plans with my mom—and choked before finishing the first sentence.

On Wednesday, the unanticipated emotions of this birthday were officially throwing me into a ball of chaos, so I start sharing my messy sadness with the people closest to me. Began confessing my unexpected ambivalence and asking for prayer that I would focus on what I’m grateful for—not what’s missing.

On Thursday night, snowmageddon translates into a spontaneous visit (and birthday spanking) from a man I wasn’t expecting to see until next week but whose flight out of New York was cancelled a few hours before.

The next morning, I wake to a Face Time call from my pal of 27 years, Tony Papa. Two hours into our conversation, my sister-in-law calls to tell me how excited she is about dinner tonight. My parents ring in, put me on speakerphone and hear me squeal like a five-year-old while I open the birthday gifts they shipped. While talking to them, Gayson shows up with a bottle of Veuve and a giggle I can hear before even opening the front door.

By the time we finish it, I’m still in pajamas and the four-o-clock sun is casting pre-sunset orange all over my apartment. The gap between Gayson leaving and coming back with friends for pre-dinner cocktails is a few hours from now, but I’m no longer afraid to be alone in my head. I have a daughter’s call to return, a flower delivery to receive, a mountain of gift-wrap to recycle, a shower to take.

The glow of a day spent among the voices of my favorite people stays with me long after the sun has set on March 6. It carries me into heels I can dance in and the private dining room at one of my favorite West Village restaurants, where 12 people who have made my decade in New York so memorable await.

With Alberto’s sister on my right and my bestie on my left, I order my late husband’s signature drink, Chivas neat. The glass moves when I play musical chairs between courses, following me to other end of the table where eventually a candle is lit and a song is sung. I take in the view from this side of my fourth decade and notice how many chairs are filled instead of the one that isn’t. I raise my pinot noir to the room of smiling faces and toast them.

Before heading to the afterparty downtown, I clink the ghost glass of Chivas to my wine and leave it behind, glass full.

"Having read your blog from the start to your most recent post, I am overwhelmed by how openly you..."

“Having read your blog from the start to your most recent post, I am overwhelmed by how openly you have portrayed your emotions, and have found nothing but healing and peace through your words. My heart has ached for your losses, but I am also overjoyed for your reunion with your daughter. Thank you for sharing your journey with us.”

- — Georgia, England (wh0le-heartedly)

Kazoos, fact-checkers + cartoonists alight at The Moth...

Kazoos, fact-checkers + cartoonists alight at The Moth celebration of The New Yorker’s 90th birthday. (Great Hall at Cooper Union, NYC)

Kazoos, fact-checkers + cartoonists alight at #TheMoth...

Kazoos, fact-checkers + cartoonists alight at #TheMoth celebration of @NewYorkerMag’s 90th birthday. (at Great Hall at Cooper Union)