girl drew

On my birthday in 2013,  Ramón and I went to a place where we drank wine and painted. For the next several years, Ramón insisted that his painting was better than mine, despite the fact that I’ve never seen a hibiscus with roaches for leaves. We kept them on display (Don’t ask why.) and requested opinions when people came over. I asked simply and directly, whereas Ramón would phrase it more like this: “Which of these do you like better? The one on the right that’s kind of bland — or the one on the left that has more personality and creativity?” One day, when we were getting ready to move from that condo, I came home and Ramón asked me if I noticed anything, gesturing toward the paintings. His was missing, so I asked what happened. He told me that a guy who came by to do some work (which did in fact happen)  complimented them. Though I wasn’t there to witness it, Ramón claimed that he wanted to buy one. The guy chose his painting and insisted on paying him five dollars, at whic...

This day last year, Ramón walked out of our house for the last time. In the days leading up to his transplant admission, he spent more time than usual loving on the dogs. He assured them how much he loved them and said what I deemed – even at the time – to be his final goodbyes. It was wearing on me because I didn’t want to think about Ramón’s mortality; I'd already spent more than my fair share of time thinking about death. Also, after all that I’d learned about acute myeloid leukemia (AML), the cancer itself wasn’t really something to take his life out of nowhere. Instead, in Ramón’s case, maybe in the months or years [or decades] after his transplant, we’d learn that the cancer had recurred, at which point we’d try more treatment options. On one of our many hospital walks during the previous admission, Ramón asked me what actually caused people with AML to die. From what I’d read, the most frequent cause was infection and the body’s inability to fight it due to lack of immune sy...

Check out my latest update:   http://fightcf.cff.org/goto/drew .

In the fifth year of marriage, I'd finally gotten the hang of identifying as "married" after never having envisioned that for myself. Now I find myself checking another box. It took a fraction of a second to create that X, yet the route that it signifies spanned almost 9 years. Sealed with an X.

 “People ask me how you’re doing,” my dad said on a walk one morning. “I tell them you’re doing surprisingly well.” As I nodded in agreement, my dad asked if it was a choice I’d made – to handle Ramón’s death well. I wasn’t really sure how to answer that question because I didn’t consciously decide, “Boy, this sucks, but I plan to handle it well.” Instead, my life has been a revolving door of grief, and, though it never gets easier, it becomes more familiar and less permanent, even in times of deep despair. My grief experience began at a young age when I started living with the anguish that cystic fibrosis would cut my life short. When I was a junior in high school, my first good friend with CF died. The day I moved into my college dorm freshman year, another friend died. Less than a year later, it happened again. On the subsequent go-round (Are you losing count?), I got to go say goodbye at the hospital. The next time was another hospital experience, though we didn’t arrive in tim...

Nine years ago, to the day, I met this guy for our first date. Five years ago, to the day, I married this guy. Five months ago, to the day, I said my final goodbyes to this guy, thanking him for everything. If I could do it all over again, I would. Ramón made my life better in countless ways, and he often reminded me how lucky I was to have him. I balked at his remarks, but I knew they were true. Others might view today – and the coming holidays – with sadness for me, knowing things look vastly different. Though it’s true that life is unrecognizable this year, the past nine years (and counting) have affirmed Ramón’s viewpoint: I am pretty dang lucky. 

Last week, after checking my temperature, the dental hygienist led me to my exam room.  “How’s your husband doing?” she asked with the best of intentions. “He died,” I responded nonchalantly, voice as steady as can be. It’s impossible to know when the words will come out casually or when I’ll be caught off-guard – as though I’m the recipient of the news leaving my mouth. Grief is finicky like that.   Thanksgiving was the first big holiday without Ramón. The pandemic made things just unusual enough that his absence wasn’t as detectable as it might have been another year. However, based upon the quantity of leftovers, it was clear that Ramón and his appetite were missing. Despite the outrageous surplus of pumpkin pie, it was a good day.   I checked Ramón’s email today to see if anything important has trickled in, and I stumbled upon an email he sent while hospitalized in February. I am going to copy and paste a portion of it without editing anything, as much as th...

A friend gifted me this leather bracelet in August. She conspired to get a sample of Ramón’s handwriting, and my mom had a note from Ramón thanking my parents for everything they’d done to help us since his diagnosis. I first opened the bracelet the day we got back to Atlanta after scattering Ramón’s ashes in Michigan. Seeing his handwriting made me pause at first. It reminded me of when I went to clean out his office in August and saw notes to himself on his desk. When he wrapped up work that day in February, nobody had a clue that was the last time Ramón would wear his “judge outfit” (a term I used to be annoying) or the final time he would exit the building.  I used to incessantly tell Ramón he wrote like a serial killer. I haven’t been in many written exchanges with serial killers, but something about Ramón’s handwriting looked so calculated and methodical – like he had a strategy. And you know he usually did. Mr. Particular. I would often try to mimic his handwriting by adding...

How am I doing? Well, I’m exploring new places through travel, music, and books. I’m sitting on hold with countless financial institutions and utility companies. I’m enjoying the cooler weather while walking the dogs, running, and sitting on porches. I’m partaking in adult-like phone calls and signing documents, much to my dismay. I’m doing freelance work and napping when inspired. I’m enthusiastically watching baseball and miserably watching football. I’m catching up on appointments I’ve neglected since Ramón’s diagnosis in May 2019. I’m snacking on Starbursts and seaweed (separately).  I’m routinely looking up at the sky and the clouds, admiring the beauty of it all. I’m wearing comfy sweatpants, festive shoes, and even a bona fide smile. I’m draped in acts of love and kindness from people and animals alike. I’m constantly wishing I had the bandwidth to thank everyone who has said, done, or sent something thoughtful. I’m reminiscing about the last nine years and channeling my ene...

When home between hospitalizations in late March, I heard a song that  resonated with me. As my anxiety about COVID-19 a nd transplant steadily escalated, I kept wondering why life couldn’t be easier. The song, “Rainbow” by Kacey Musgraves, is about believing things will improve despite the storms that enter your life. In those unnerving days of vulnerability and despair, the lyrics reminded me that, though my feelings were entirely valid, they were also transient. When it rains, it pours, but you didn't even notice It ain't rainin' anymore, it's hard to breathe when all you know is The struggle of staying above the rising water line Well, the sky is finally open, the rain and wind stopped blowin' But you're stuck out in the same ol' storm again You hold tight to your umbrella, well, darlin' I'm just tryin' to tell ya That there's always been a rainbow hangin' over your head I listened to the song many more times that night, sometimes wit...