MishMath

I touched on this in Goodbye, Dad, but I wanted that one to be mostly about him, so I didn't talk about the rest of my trip, which was all about my wife. It's time.

[From Altered Carbon, "Force of Evil"]
No matter how long you live, you never finish. You have to let the world continue; accept that death is part of life.

I've been struck, recently, by how much of what I've written here started in an email. Countdown erupted from an email to my therapist, and Farewell started with an email to my dad, except the epilogue, which was an expansion of something I wrote to the folks who owned the vacation house we rented in Maine.

We knew (in our hearts, if not for a fact), once she tested positive for the BRCA2 gene mutation, that my wife would grow frail, but she'd never grow old. Ten years later, stage 4 pancreatic cancer was our last warning: we should do as much living as possible before we were consumed with the rigors of dying. This mostly manifested in 2016—a few months after her final chemotherapy treatment—as an extended vacation, which included visiting family in Rhode Island, a week in Rome, and a week in Maine. While Rome was amazing, Maine was what really mattered (to me, anyway); a place overflowing with 20 years of memories. Which brings me back to those folks in Maine—I'll call them Jack and Diane.

Our first trip was in '96. I don't know what made my wife choose Camden, or how she found the "cabin" (a misnomer if there ever was one), but we immediately fell in love—with the lodging, the town, the food, the miles of hiking trails in Camden Hills State Park, and, of course, Diane and Jack. We rented the same cabin (when it was available, one of its siblings when it was not) numerous times, until they sold the property, and we shifted to one of their vacation homes.

*     *     *

Long before she died, I told my wife that, after she was gone, I was going to spend at least two weeks at the house in Maine while I grieved her loss. (We never shied away from conversations about her death, but I wonder, now, what it was like for her to think about me being there without her. Was it cruel to talk about things she would be missing out on? I was never deliberately callous, but I may have been unwittingly so.)

Twenty-four years after our first visit to Camden—nearly two years after she died—as I was leaving my house one day, I saw a box that had come in the mail. I'll tell the rest of the story through the email that I sent two days later to our friends Diane and Jack.

I received the box on Saturday, and when I saw the return address I knew it would be bad, and I was right. I hope you'll forgive me these few minutes of sentimentality before I close the door on yet another piece of my life. (In a coincidence that is both extremely significant and utterly meaningless, Saturday was also our 22nd wedding anniversary.)

The box contained a small gift, a 'thank you' for being long-time guests, which they sent because they were selling all their houses and ending their vacation rental business.

I spent much of Sunday, continuing into today, wandering my memories (and photos) of our numerous trips to Maine. Truthfully, it's incredibly painful, because they are the best memories, and I desperately yearn for them. She and I never vacationed anywhere else. From the first stay in the cabin, we had found our home away from home; our refuge. In the early years, we were all about Camden; breakfast at Marriners, grab some sandwiches from the deli, and hit the trail. Six or eight hours later we'd race back to the room with dinner from The Lobster Shack (and usually some peanut butter fudge from the little shop south of Lincolnville, from the old man who's been gone so many years now).

I don't know what year you sold the cabins, but I remember the crushing disappointment when we heard, then the cautious hope when you offered the house, and then never looking back. I suspect it was around then that we transitioned from being Camden people to Belfast people. Camden became a drive-through spot, an obstacle between us and The Market Basket in Rockport. Some pâté, brie, fresh-baked bread, and a bottle of wine were ideal when we wanted a change from lobsters but still preferred the comfort of "home", just the two of us, at the house. Throw in Dot's and the occasional early morning run to Chase's for sticky buns and muffins, and life was perfect. One of the enduring truths of our relationship was that, more than anything, we wanted to be together, alone.

*     *     *

In 2012 my wife was working a consulting project in Maine, and we'd stretch her business trips up into Camden/Belfast when we could (even if only for a couple of nights). I believe the last trip that year was in April. Two months later—the night of June 20th—I got up to use the bathroom and found her on the floor outside the bedroom; she had suffered a cerebral hemorrhage. She was soon diagnosed with a rare disease that affects the carotid artery; she had brain surgery (STA-MCA bypass) the following month. Recovery took time, so we waited until January to visit her parents in Hawaii, a trip we stretched to four weeks. By the time we flew back to Rhode Island, we had decided: we were moving. The hemorrhage was the final catalyst… in addition to the constant threat of cancer, we now had to wonder if something would simply burst in her brain and put an end to her. We had already sold our house and business, and I was 3 credits away from my teaching degree. It was time. We landed back in Hawai'i on March 10, 2013.

*     *     *

We came again in '14, the year after we moved to Hawai'i, when we still thought we'd be able to visit once a year. Then came the cancer diagnosis in '15, surgery and chemo, which ended in March of '16, then the big trip that summer… first Rome, then back to Maine so we could rest from our vacation. I'd like to say, "I wish we'd known that was the last trip, ever," but if we had, nothing would have been different. We hiked as much as she could handle, and we ate at The Lobster Shack (seven nights in a row). We did one of Chase's full breakfasts, plus sticky buns, so we really did everything we loved doing, and nothing we didn't. It was glorious.

The summer of '17 found us in the throes of construction on our new house; the summer of '18 was our first summer in our new house. In both cases, we decided that traveling didn't make sense. Then she got the blood test in November of '18, everything unraveled, and she was gone three months later.

I wrote to you early last year, after I lost her, that what I really wanted was to come spend 2 weeks in the house, but my schedule wouldn't allow it. I had my stepdaughter's law school commencement, and then I needed to get home in time for commencement at my school. I made that sacrifice, but things happen, and ultimately I was not able to attend my school's commencement, and by July my stepdaughter was no longer speaking to me. Had I known that a global pandemic… ah, well. I guess it wasn't meant to be.

And that, as they say, was pretty much that. The rental house, which was so filled with memory that it ached just to think about it, would no longer be available. (I can still close my eyes and transport myself onto that long driveway, up through the trees, past Jack and Diane's gorgeous residence, and across to the rental. I still remember the code to the key safe, the look and feel and smell of the house, and that sense of pure relaxation that comes after 5 hours on the road, with six days of perfection stretched out in front of you.)

[From Lord Of The Rings: The Return Of The King]
How do you pick up the threads of an old life? How do you go on, when in your heart you begin to understand… there is no going back. There are some things that time cannot mend; some hurts that go too deep… that have taken hold.

*     *     *

The story doesn't end there, of course. The house was unavailable, but Camden and Belfast were still there, as were the hiking trails, Dot's, Chase's, and The Lobster Shack. I'd been anticipating this trip for years—since before she died, before she even got sick again. For nearly 3 years I was angry with myself that I hadn't just said fuck it and gone in May 2019, while I was on the east coast.

Then, on February 9, 2022, fate intervened: my dad died. I didn't travel for the funeral, because I don't go anywhere that has daytime temperatures below 70, but in June I finally made my way back to the east coast.

*     *     *

I drove up to Maine on a Friday. My wife's long-time friend and business partner is in Portland, and I hadn't seen him since she died, so I met him for lunch on the way up. We had become friends over the years, so we had a nice lunch and a good conversation, and it felt really comfortable, and yet… the only reason I know him at all is my wife, and she wasn't there. As has been true on numerous occasions—like every time I have dinner with her family—she was conspicuous by her absence. So it was nice, and bittersweet, and something that I had wanted to do since she died. From an emotional standpoint, however, it was strangely unsatisfying. It was a box checked but also—unbeknownst to me—a preview of what was to come.

With my 'Road Trip' mix filling the car, I continued up to Augusta, followed Route 3 east into Belfast, then turned south on Route 1, coasting past all the familiar landmarks (or the spots where they used to be), including the turnoff for Jack and Diane's place [heart clenches], and on into Lincolnville. I was back.

*     *     *

[From Lord Of The Rings: The Return Of The King]
End? No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass—and then you see it… white shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise.

Saturday morning, I walked up to Bald Rock. This was usually our first-day hike anyway, but it's also where I took the photo of her that I included in Farewell, and I was anxious to see it again. Like so much else, the hike is terribly familiar, and my anticipation heightens as I near the top, and suddenly there it is:

[From Corduroy, by Pearl Jam]
Everything has changed
Absolutely nothing's changed.

And then reality set in. Just like 4 days earlier, when I walked into my dad's house for the first time since he died, or yesterday, when I had lunch with our old friend, what I felt, mostly, was nothing. I stood there thinking about that second photo—how it stabbed at me every time I looked at it—then I pulled it up on my phone, and I contrasted the image of her presence with the reality of her absence, and still… nothing. I knew then, in my heart, that I needn't have come. I was not going to find any answers in Maine, at least not in the way one thinks of 'finding answers'.

I didn't allow myself to think about it; I still had five full days of hiking and eating and reminiscing ahead of me. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe, if I kept looking, I'd find that magical moment—that cathartic movie moment—when I'd fall to my knees and weep (or even wail!), and she would materialize, flash a reassuring smile, and give me one last hug. Then she would drift off into the misty mountains, I would know that everything was going to be ok, and I would finally be released from my grief. And… scene.

*     *     *

I entered from the other end of the park on Sunday and did another hike that we loved, mostly for its length (i.e., lack of people). It begins with a steep climb up to Maiden Cliff, then across 2.5 miles of Ridge Trail. I pause at all three lookouts along the way, where we had rested dozens of times to hydrate and snack and watch the vultures ride the thermals. I drift by the Jack Williams, Zeke's, and Slope trailheads—stoic old friends, who offer no solace as I pass—and continue up toward Megunticook and Ocean Lookout.

As impossible as it seems, I lost the trail at some point, and I crashed around the woods for about an hour. Worse, this was not the first time—twenty-six years earlier, she and I had gotten lost near Summer Bypass Trail, and we had crashed around the woods for an hour—startling a flock of deer along the way—before we finally wised up and oriented ourselves with the sun (to make sure we weren't walking in circles). The outcomes in both instances were oddly similar; we/I stopped for water and stood, slightly wild-eyed, pondering our/my fate, and then I spotted a blue blaze on a tree. We/I had come to rest within a few yards of the path without realizing it.

Back on the trail, I managed to find Ocean Lookout, where I ate and rested and ruminated. I continued to learn nothing, so I did the only thing I could do: I headed back. Along the way, I realized that I wasn't really enjoying myself. I just wanted it to be over, not to have another 2 hours of walking before I could crawl back into the car, go get my lobster and clams, and return to my room to hide. When I finally reached the parking lot, there was no sense of satisfaction or accomplishment, just relief.

I think it was around then that the idea began to coalesce: it wasn't just that hike—I simply wanted the whole trip to be over. I was scheduled to stay through Friday, and I still had One Big Task to complete, but I was starting to think I might leave as early as Wednesday. I couldn't understand it; we loved Maine, everything about it, and here I was doing all the good stuff, and I just wanted to go home. In retrospect, it's sort of amazing how obtuse I was being. It's almost as though I—wait for it—couldn't see the forest for the trees.

It rained Monday, so I did a few indoor things: I visited Windsor Chairmakers, where we had purchased our dining room set and barstools twenty years earlier. I had a strangely poignant conversation with the new owner, who had been one of the craftsmen back when we bought our pieces and had probably built them. I also went to a quaint little shop where we had purchased a wooden bowl and an oil lamp, both of which now sit on that same dining room table. Finally, I went to the local sporting goods store for some proper hiking underwear, because I was starting to chafe on the long hikes and still had one more I had to do.

*     *     *

I haven't written about this before, but my wife's ashes did not all fit in the urn we purchased. When I went to pick them up, the funeral director placed the urn in front of me, then he pulled out a blue felt bag containing two plastic bottles—essentially oversized prescription bottles, about 5 inches tall—which contained the extra. "Dense bones," according to him. I made a vague reference to this ("save for a bottle of dust on my desk") in Farewell. The point is, a portion of her ashes had, in fact, been sitting on my desk for more than 3 years.

I'm fairly proud of the things I've written, but if I had to pick a single favorite passage, it would be the epilogue of Farewell. It's a sort of reimagined account of the two of us taking our final hike on Sky Blue Trail. (If our life were made into a movie, that's how I would end it.) Which brings me to Tuesday.

Sky Blue runs between Snowmobile and Cameron Mountain Trails, and it has always been my favorite. It is fairly remote, lightly traveled, and incredibly peaceful; perfect for my last Big Task. I had the two bottles of ashes in their felt bag, and then inside a ziploc—less dignified than I would have liked, but better than accidently spilling her sooner than planned.

I came in from the Cameron Mountain side and walked until inspiration struck. There was an ideal landmark, one that will be easily recognized (at least for my lifetime) should I ever want to return to the scene. I took a screenshot of my GPS coordinates, a couple of photos, and a 360-degree video. Then I took a video as I walked off the path, to ensure I could identify the tree under whose protection I would leave her.

I had purchased a trowel that morning, and I used it to dig a hole between two large roots at the base of the tree. I only went down about a foot—more didn't seem necessary. No one else would ever find her here, even with the GPS coordinates. I opened the bags and discovered that the caps on both bottles had loosened, because of course they did, though only a bit had leaked out. I took one out, removed the cap, peered into the bottle, and thought, "OK… now what?" There was nothing to say—nothing I haven't already said, anyway. Neither of us believed in anything, so there was no prayer that would avail me (nor her, it would seem), and there was no one around to hear it anyway. It was just me and a surprisingly gritty collection of dust and shards that couldn't possibly be what's left of my wife. (I don't know how to explain the feeling, but I'll try: to look at a pile of ashes while thinking about the vibrant person they once belonged to is to descend into madness.)

I upended the bottle, and she dropped into the hole. There ought to have been something, goddamnit; a sound, a tremor, a rush of birds, the mournful wail of a solitary wolf, but there was—in keeping with my theme—nothing. The only thing that struck me was that the bottle hadn't seemed very heavy, yet suddenly it felt dreadfully light. I emptied the second one (with that same sensation of unexpected lightness), then I did my best to empty what had spilled into the felt bag. I gazed at the little pile in the little hole, and then, for reasons I can't explain, I took a picture. For a few moments longer I continued to stare, then I thought something akin to, "Huh…", and I filled in the hole.

I would dearly love to say there was something more. There was not. I kicked some twigs and pine needles over the spot, stood and looked down at it for another minute, then turned and walked away. I'd like to say I felt hollow, but it wasn't even that interesting. I continued the loop back to Snowmobile Trail and down to my car. I went up to Lincolnville for lobster, down to Camden for ice cream, wandered around town for a while, and that was the day.

I didn't go home on Wednesday. As always, I didn't want to be hasty and then have regrets. Instead, I embarked on one final hike: I walked the same path I had the previous day, but in reverse. Despite coming from the opposite direction, I easily recognized my landmark when I came upon it, and I had no trouble finding my wife's new final resting place. I stared at it for a minute, then another, but soon realized that there was still nothing to do or to say—nor would there ever be—knew that nothing was going to happen, and I walked away.

[from The Night We Met, by Lord Huron]
I had all and then most of you
Some and now none of you.

I met Jack that afternoon at Dot's for coffee. He is a delightful man, and we had an excellent conversation, a mix of catching up and reminiscing. The details don't matter, and would be boring in the retelling, but that hour in itself made the trip worth it for me. Then he was gone, and I went and had my final lobster, my final vacation ice cream, and my final walk through town. There was no longer any doubt; it was time to go home.

*     *     *

Technically, I mean home to Rhode Island—I wasn't flying back to Hawaii until Tuesday, I needed to spend a little more time with (what's left of) my family, and I still had a lunch date with an old friend and coworker—but spiritually, I wanted to go home. The journey began with a 5-hour drive.

To get to Camden/Belfast, you can take the highway north and cut east, as I had done, OR you could take Route 1—The Scenic Route—along the coast. Our first trip, when we were young and stupid, we did just that. It's lovely, I guess, but the traffic sucks, the speed limit drops in every fucking town you go through, and it just meanders its way along. I don't meander, and I don't appreciate those who do. Most of the time.

However, this time was different. I was alone. I had the Road Trip mix. And, while I was pretty sure I was never coming back, and I was ready to go home, I wasn't in a particular hurry to get there. I decided to meander.

I headed out and almost immediately got lost—not for the first time—at the idiotic one-way circle that is Rockland. Once I got back on track, I started to feel a strange sensation: I was seeing places that I could never have pulled from memory yet were familiar as I encountered them. Towns and shops and landmarks, yes, but also the way passing zones suddenly appeared in the road, and for 600 yards everyone was a NASCAR driver before they maneuvered back into a single file. Then I came to the bridge over the Kennebec River in Bath.

The moment it came into view, my mind raced back through the intervening twenty-six years, to 1996, our first trip, when she had learned of an ice cream shop that was right at the end of the bridge. She rarely ate ice cream, but I've always loved it, and she always took care of me. We stopped and ate ice cream before we proceeded across the bridge and on toward what would soon become our favorite place ever. Now I was back, literally reversing course, and I was overcome by the memory; not with sadness, exactly, but more… wistfulness. I felt as though I were rewinding through our life.

I held onto that feeling as I continued through Brunswick (a town we had frequented during her aforementioned consulting project), and soon I was on the highway, backtracking through Wells (where lives The Maine Diner, a frequent stop over the years), Portland, that little corner of New Hampshire, Boston, and Providence. Somewhere along the way the feeling dissipated, as though it had been a dream.

That's all there is. I'd been wanting it for so long—associated so much emotion with the place—and now it was over. The only thing I really learned was that I hadn't needed to go there at all, but I had to go there to learn it. No regrets. I spent the next 3 days with my brother and stepmother and whoever else wandered in, had my lunch date on Monday, and flew out Tuesday morning.

*     *     *

I don't know how long it took me to realize—far longer than it should—why I hadn't enjoyed Maine. Why hiking our favorite trails so quickly became tedious. To finally understand why you can't go back. The trails are still wonderful: the sights and sounds, the singing of birds, the mountains and the ocean, the sunlight and the shade, the sense of mild adventure and healthy living. All those things are still there.

But she is not.

*     *     *

[from The Lord Of The Rings, by J.R.R. Tolkien]

When Summer lies upon the world, and in a noon of gold
Beneath the roof of sleeping leaves the dreams of trees unfold,
When woodland halls are green and cool, and wind is in the West,
Come back to me! Come back to me, and say my land is best!

When Winter comes, and singing ends; when darkness falls at last;
When broken is the barren bough, and light and labour past;
I'll look for thee, and wait for thee, until we meet again:
Together we will take the road beneath the bitter rain!

Together we will take the road that leads into the West,
And far away will find a land where both our hearts may rest.