Today marks the 2nd anniversary of Aimee's suicide.
Two years needs some perspective. For me, two years represents about 5% of my life.
For Elliot, age 2 years 3 1/2 months, it is the majority of his life.
For Max, almost 8 years, it is nearly 25% of his life.
Even for Owen, 10 1/2, those 2 years mark around 18% of his life.
I talk to the boys about Aimee from time to time, usually when they approach the subject. I am honest and direct when I do. Owen and I have had some challenging discussions about how she died and the nature of her illness. I know a day will come when Elliot needs to understand things I will not be able to make understandable. For now, he is a sometimes blissful, sometimes cranky toddler with personality and lust for life (i.e., desire to run up and down the sidewalk at full toddler speed).
I remember April 2, 2012 well. It was a Monday. Two sheriff's deputies banged on the door and woke me. The day swam quickly with trips to the junkyard, the funeral home, and the church to plan the funeral... I remember feeling like my dreams were over. My life was irrevocably changed.
True. True.
But here's what I know now. dreams are never meant to survive untouched. Dreams evolve. Dreams undergo constant and steady remodeling. Life's meaning isn't gifted to us when young, so we fight, childlike, against the tide which would wash away our dreams. Life's meaning is something forged through work, heartache, and a lifetime of living.
A number of fans have been upset about the finale of How I Met Your Mother. I am not one of them. Ted Mosby--while a fictional character--has made meaning of his life through the telling of his story. His romantic ideals have survived and evolved. In the end, he knows meaning comes in the making of it--just as he loved the mother so well while she was alive. It wasn't that they were "fated" to be together or "the one," but they made it work. The blue French horn in the end is not the same (metaphorically) he lifts at the beginning of the series; it is Ted's meaning, an all-in romantic ideal which he will chase all his life, even as life forces that ideal to take different shapes. And that, folks, is a beautiful note on which to end if an end must happen. It's the kind of end which doesn't really end.
Life, unfortunately must end--but in that inevitability, we find its greatest gift:
Life is for living now, loving now, forging meaning, now.
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By: Aaron Polson,
on 4/2/2014
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
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By: Aaron Polson,
on 10/2/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: thoughts on life, aimee ziegler, Add a tag
Six months ago today, a pounding on my front door woke me. Two sheriff's deputies and a parish priest were on the front stoop to tell me Aimee was dead, killed when a southbound coal train struck our Honda Civic just north of Lawrence.
Six months. Half a year.
Nearly 2/3 of Elliot's life. He was 3 1/2 months old and is now 9 1/2.
I remember being the Aaron of six months ago. I remember feeling the awful, empty pain in my stomach and chest.
A week or so after she died, I remember telling myself I would feel differently in a month, in three months, in six months. I remember focusing on the magic of time to heal wounds torn open on that April day. I remember well how I knew I could not make "it" happen any faster than it needed to on its own.
Time, the only truly precious resource, had to sweep forward. I couldn't stop time had I wanted to.
And time has brought many changes, some more wonderful than I could have hoped. It has brought grief, healing, and insight beyond what Aaron from six months ago would have imagined. It has brought a new zest for living, a new focus on life, a new perspective on the importance love and understanding and patience play in my life and will continue to play in my life. It has encouraged me to live harder than I thought possible--and I don't mean the "hard" life, but the life lived to "eleven" (with a nod to Spinal Tap).
I sit here, Aaron of October 2012, and dream six months down the road. What will that Aaron be able to say of the one now? What new measurements can he take of his life?
I plan to live and experience and grow every day until I pause again to reflect.
It's a gift for which I am so thankful.
By: Aaron Polson,
on 7/10/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: food, gardening, thoughts on life, aimee ziegler, memories of Aimee, Add a tag
I'm making köttbullar for some friends today--or meatballs as we'd say in English. The funny thing about these is that they are meat-less because the target audience lives a mostly meat-free life. How does one make meatless meatballs? With potatoes (from our family garden), ground almonds, and love.
I've used food as an "I love you" for a long time. I suppose I learned this from my mother--what with her always available chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter brownies, and various pies. During college, I never came home to an empty pan or cookie jar.
My first gift to Aimee, was a peach pie. We'd only been dating for about a month, so I didn't want to get weird or anything. She'd mentioned liking peach pie once. I made one and "sealed the deal." (her words, not mine) I baked scores of pies over the years--peach, strawberry rhubarb, chocolate peanut butter... Aimee's birthday became an occasion for pizza, a different kind of pie. When she turned thirty, I kneaded dough and baked for hours. By her fortieth, I'd learned a few tricks, but every pizza was still a work of my two hands.
When prepping food for friends, I always like to make it from scratch, just like my potato meat(less)balls. Food is special that way--something with effort and care put in that you can actually taste and feel.
Aimee helped plant this year's potato crop, and I'm happy to share this little miracle tubers with friends.
By: Aaron Polson,
on 6/21/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: vacation, family stuff, home improvement, grieving, aimee ziegler, Add a tag
There comes a time during every vacation when I decide I'm ready to go home. Vacation is great--new adventures are great--but home... It's just home. Home brings comfort and routine; I spend less energy at home and can focus on other things. Damn I love those mountains, but until I buy my cabin, home is in Lawrence.
On Sunday night in Estes Park, while packing for home, I sank into a recliner in our rented cabin. A heavy weight pressed against me--it wasn't exactly the "grief landmine" feeling, but something close. I suddenly understood the easy comparison between losing my spouse and homesickness.
The only problem--when your partner dies, you can't go "home" again. Not to the same home.
Aimee has been gone for nearly three months now; an eternity in some ways (half of Elliot's life), but a blink in others. The first few weeks of April were muddy and slow and painful. Part of May vanished beneath "endings" (school, soccer, etc., etc., etc.). June has clipped along with my deck building project, Colorado, camps, art classes, and trips to the swimming pool. Day by day, the new normal takes root. It digs deeper. But this isn't quite home. It's a new place. A move without moving.
Baby steps...
Yes, this is why you learned the Pythagorean Theorem in high school: so you could build a deck. It's also handy for laying tile. I'm well beyond this point (attached the joists today), but I thought my students need to know that math is real. Look--I'm doing math. Math is helping me guarantee a square corner. Yay, math!
(Somebody tell me to bend at the knees next time. My lower back is killing me.)
By: Aaron Polson,
on 6/19/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: family stuff, Owen, Max, Elliot, aimee ziegler, memories of Aimee, Rocky Mountain National Park, Add a tag
I feel another "significant" post brewing, but it will wait for another day. Today, I bring pictures from our recent trip to Rocky Mountain National Park and one of my favorite stories about Aimee.
National Parks were/are an obsession of ours--I still have our map of all National Parks hanging in the basement (with color-coded pins indicated which family member has been where). In 2000, Aimee and I took a road trip to Yellowstone and Grand Teton. We camped for five nights--four of them in Yellowstone--and enjoyed all the sights. The view of the Tetons from Jackson Lake... spectacular. We rented a boat, a small craft with an outboard motor, and headed onto the lake. The boat's owner gave us a bit of advice which caused contention:
Stay within a mile of shore.
Of course, Aimee (being the adventurous type she was), aimed the boat for the mountains and gave it the gun. My knuckles whitened as I clutched the gunnels.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Staying a mile away from shore like he said," she said.
"No. No. No." I glanced over my shoulder at the swelling waves. The tiny boat would easily capsize in the middle of Jackson Lake. "He said within a mile of shore."
She didn't agree, of course, but the look of sheer-animal-panic on my face convinced her to turn our ship around. Aimee and I weren't able to share enough National Park adventures before her death (could there ever be enough National Park adventures?), but the boys and I will keep going...
I hiked to Fern Lake early on Saturday morning, the date which would have been our 11th wedding anniversary. Aimee and I made the same hike on our 6th wedding anniversary (June 16, 2007), just over a year after Max was born. I was early enough to miss the crowd (it's a tough hike, but a popular one) and have some alone time with the lake, the trees, the mountains, and my thoughts.
Elliot was not impressed by the lack of oxygen above tree line.
Max, Owen, and I on top of the world. Okay, at least on top of a granite formation on Trail Ridge Road.
Max and Owen showed me how to scramble on the rocks near a waterfall. Going down was easier than up.
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By: Aaron Polson,
on 6/18/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: vacation, Colorado, family stuff, Owen, Max, postpartum depression, thoughts on life, aimee ziegler, postpartum psychosis, Add a tag
And I spent it in Colorado with my sons. Owen, Max, and I climbed rocks for a beautiful waterfall view, played our third round of mini golf, and snapped photos of a bull elk outside our cabins.
Pictures forthcoming. I promise.
Many folks have already read the article in yesterday's Lawrence Journal-World, but for those who haven't, here's the link: Lawrence Father Recounts Wife's Eight Year Battle...
Thanks to Karrey Britt and Nick Krug for their professionalism and care in putting Aimee's story together.
By: Aaron Polson,
on 6/16/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: wedding, anniversary, family stuff, grieving, aimee ziegler, Add a tag
Today, Aimee and I would have been married for eleven years.
Eleven years ago today, in my room at the Holiday Inn, I dressed in a tuxedo. I drove with a carload of groomsmen to the bed and breakfast to pick up a key, and then on to the church. I stood in the sacristy and munched on Scooby Snacks. A lump clogged my throat as I watched Aimee walk the long center aisle of St. Pius the V Catholic Church. Words swam in my mouth as I recited our vows.
It was, simply, one of my best days on Earth.
Here are three of my favorite pictures from that day eleven years ago, each scanned and coated with a tiny bit of dust. Nothing passes time without a little wear.
Two of my best friends, Aaron Ouelette and Jason Wollenberg, while I'm "faith-healing" on the dance floor at the reception.God, I look so boyish.
Miss you, Aimee. Thanks for ten + years of adventure.
By: Aaron Polson,
on 6/12/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Pink Floyd, family stuff, thoughts on life, aimee ziegler, thoughts on death, Add a tag
Last Saturday, I stumbled across a picture of Aimee and me dancing at a friend's wedding. It was late 2001, only six months after our own wedding. Aimee's back was turned to the camera, but it was her, wedding hair, red bridesmaid dress and all, while I'm facing the camera. I hardly recognized the boy in the picture--me. My hair was dark and full, my face bone-thin, and my grin full of boyish wonder. I was twenty-six.
Nearly eleven years later, I'm thirty-seven, my hair is a bit more grey, my face fuller, the grin more knowing, the smile of a veteran on the eve of deployment.
There's a line from Pink Floyd's "Your Possible Pasts" (from The Final Cut, their often overlooked last album with Roger Waters) which reads, "I was just a child then, now I'm only a man." I've always liked the song, despite its bleak, rather bitter take on life, and I feel that line more now than ever. I don't know when I became a man--or the man I am--sometime between the photo from that long ago wedding and now. When I look back and think about the years in between, when I think of my journey with Aimee, the birth of our children, our ups and downs, good times and bad, and her death, I realize how much has changed for the boy of twenty-six dancing with his beautiful, newlywed wife.
What would I tell that boy now if I could go back? What could I tell him about what life brought to his stoop, about the challenges he'd face, about the heartache and all the rest?
Keep smiling, I suppose. Love your beautiful wife with as much passion as you can. Life, at its best, is far too short, so live with passion. Embrace it all--good times and bad--and love like your life depends on it.
By: Aaron Polson,
on 6/8/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: grieving, aimee ziegler, soccer, family stuff, Owen, Add a tag
Last June, Owen had a chance to sign up for Premier soccer (sort of the top-shelf league in Kaw Valley Soccer). Coach leaned pretty heavily and Owen wanted it. Aimee and I discussed... We talked about our as-yet unborn child, the strain on the family's budget (Premier is fairly costly) and time (most games are in Overland Park--45 minutes away by car).
We decided--as a unit--to wait. Too much travel, too much stress on the family with a baby due. Owen was disappointed. Aimee and I felt like we made the right decision. Parenting is hard sometimes. Damn hard.
Tomorrow, Kaw Valley is hosting Premier tryouts. Owen isn't attending--his decision. He wants to play club at least one more year. I told him it was his choice. I'm proud of him, regardless of what he chooses and how he plays. He's a great kid. So is Max... and Elliot. (Elliot's only six-months old and just popped his first tooth--how can he not be "great"?)
But damn, it's hard doing this alone.
I need my partner.
Miss you, Ziggs.
By: Aaron Polson,
on 5/30/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Owen, Max, grieving, Elliot, thoughts on life, aimee ziegler, thoughts on death, Add a tag
Every summer, I go through a period of "existential crisis." Not a big, scary crisis as in "life has no meaning," but a baby one, as in "I no longer have a job to do and feel lost." I'm sure it's a common feeling for many teachers, although most might not choose the term "existential crisis."
Again, I defer to Wikipedia if you're unfamiliar with the phrase "existential crisis." While the wikis have their shortcomings, it is a good source of group think and common knowledge. Let's examine the first line of the entry:
An existential crisis is a stage of development at which an individual questions the very foundations of his or her life: whether his or her life has any meaning, purpose or value.
I'm not very fond of the word "crisis." It sounds too much like "emergency," as in, if you don't resolve this crisis, bad sh*t is going to happen. Soon. Guess what... Bad sh*t has already happened.
I doubt there is any way to be truly prepared for a loved one's death, especially a spouse. Aimee and I chose not to include a unity candle lighting at our wedding because we both felt the idea of two people becoming one was a bit old-fashioned. Here's what I learned after nearly eleven years of marriage: you will become pretty damned entwined with your partner. If not exactly "one" flesh, the you learn the other's moves before he/she makes them. Losing Aimee has caused a major rift in my thinking about myself and my place in the world--in addition to the pain and grief of her death.
All relationships change over time, regardless of how intimate the relationship. But most changes are gradual, even if at times marked with periods of sudden, but small shifts. A death is a sudden, violent change. Think a football thrown to a receiver--the ball follows a perfect, arcing path to its target, and then a defensive player reaches up to tip the ball, sending it into an awkward, end-over-end spin out of bounds. Or think of what might happen to a planet should another object knock it from its orbit.
I'm out of my orbit. I'm the football tumbling out of bounds. Sure, I have plenty of meaning in my life--right now my boys, especially Owen and Max, need me to be emotionally present. Elliot's needs are fairly simple (although ever-present). Fortunately, he's going to day care during the summer to keep a consistent schedule. The other guys really need me right now.
And that is good--it is as it should be.
But my life, my meaning, is more than father to those boys. I've spent so long as Aimee's friend, lover, partner, and yes, caretaker, that I have to reexamine myself. And by "have to" I mean I have no choice. The change has come, regardless of my wishes, and here I am.
So this year's existential angst (a little more accurate than crisis) brings a good measure of "who am I, now?" with an eye toward the future and "what will my life be like a year from now?"
Baby steps, Aaron. Baby steps.
By: Aaron Polson,
on 5/25/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: grieving, thoughts on life, aimee ziegler, school, family stuff, Add a tag
Yesterday, I checked out of my classroom for the year. I put away all my materials, removed my personal items (photos, books, etc.), and carted them...
To my car.
The outgoing counselor still occupies my future office, and my "replacement" (how I hate that word) has already come to make my old classroom hers. I'm without a home at school.
The rest of my life feels the same... The last two weeks have been obscenely busy, what with end of the year/season parties for soccer, kindergarten (Max), and graduations. But even beyond that, I've felt like a bit of a vagabond since Aimee's death. I've been reeling, readjusting, redefining what my life is, how it will be, what paths I will walk now...
Our principal is retiring. He's had a wonderful impact on school, and I'll miss him especially because his philosophy aligns with my own. From day one, he's been about relationships--you can be the biggest "content expert" on the planet, but fail as a teacher because you fail to make a connection with your students. On Wednesday, he said, "We aren't a factory taking in raw materials and producing a single product... We take in unique materials and produce unique products." How true.
He also went "singer-songwriter" and played/sang a tune with guitar accompaniment. As an ex-band teacher, he's done this before. Sometimes, the songs have been tongue-in-cheek about the budget, angry parents, and government regulations. This time, it was serious--the chorus repeating, "will they [the students] remember my name when they tell their children the story of their lives." He choked up a little when he sang, and I appreciate his honesty.
Those words hit me in the chest, the biggest grief landmine I've found in the last two weeks. I thought of my own kids and how I'd share stories about their mother, and I couldn't stop my own tears. I wouldn't want to.
Here's the nice thing about being a vagabond: when you're on the road, you notice things you wouldn't standing still. A lot of people talk about the "next chapter" of their lives. I don't see the chapter breaks, just a hiking trail with me wondering what lies beyond the next corner. My boots are laced, my bag packed, and a song circling my head.
Let's go.
By: Aaron Polson,
on 5/16/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: hope, grief, aimee ziegler, memories of Aimee, Add a tag
I'm not a huge Emily Dickinson fan, but I do like image from "Hope is the Thing with Feathers"--hope brought to life as a bird. Hope is also an action, something we, as humans, can do. Something we should do.
In graduate school, I was fortunate enough to enroll in a course titled "Positive Psychology". The first lesson: most of the historical study of psychology has been focused on finding what's wrong with a person rather than what is right. Positive psychology turns the focus to what is right with a person--protective factors and strengths one might possess, just as a physically healthy person might be able to run several miles or compete at a high level in a given sport. Everyone has strengths and weaknesses--positive psychology attempts to recognize strengths. Hope is one of those strengths.
Research studies have shown hope can help you lead a healthy, fulfilled life. Hopeful college students are more likely to obtain degrees. Hopeful public school students are more likely to score high marks and graduate at the top of their classes. I didn't need a class to explain what I knew at the core of my being--hope can pull you through some hard times.
Hope consists of agency and pathways, the willpower and the waypower to make something happen. Hopeful people have the energy--agency--and can find ways--pathways--to make their dreams real.
Aimee's death has knocked me down, hard. Once, I hoped for a family and a long, happy life with the vibrant young woman I met in front of the post office. When Aimee was sick, that same hope pulled me through, helped me do what I could to take care of her. She lived life with hope--hope for me, for the boys, for her friends and family. I'd like to think she never gave up hope. I proud of the way we fought together, and no illness can tarnish my cherished memories.
I'm slowly building hope again--hope for my boys, our future, our family, my future... Things I never imagined putting together without Aimee. I also have hope for her legacy and memory. She spread so much hope and love, it can't help but continue.
Hope is a special kind of inoculation; it can't take away Aimee's death or her illness, but it can help with the way forward. I know Aimee would want us all to continue with as much hope as we can muster.
By: Aaron Polson,
on 5/14/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: Yellowstone National Park, aimee ziegler, memories of Aimee, Add a tag
Aimee and I enjoyed hiking--especially in National Parks. Our National Park map still hangs in our basement, framed and laminated with colorful push pins for each member of the family. The pins indicate where we've been.
In 2000, Aimee and I took a trek to Yellowstone National Park, otherwise known as "Disneyland of National Parks," meaning it's rather crowded and overflowing with RVs. Yes, we drove to Yellowstone in my tiny Honda Civic (and that, my friends, was quite a road trip). We brought most of our food in a big cooler. We camped for a week and found plenty of less-traveled paths (with the help of a few nice park rangers).
Aimee had a nose for water. She climbed onto countless rocks in the middle of mountain streams while I stood on the shore, exhorting her to be safe. Here she is in a common moment of contemplation. In the scrapbook, I wrote a simple note on a Post-it: the road less-traveled.
I like this picture more than any other from Yellowstone. I like to imagine what she was thinking, or maybe that she wasn't thinking at all--just letting the water pass beneath her. It's a peaceful thought.
By: Aaron Polson,
on 5/13/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: family stuff, mother's day, aimee ziegler, Add a tag
This message is for men on Mother's Day, a message in honor of Aimee.
Guys, I'll keep it brief: if you have kids--and I don't care if you are divorced, estranged, never married--find your baby mama and go tell her how amazing she is. Now (as in as soon as you finish reading this post). Find your own mom and tell her how amazing she is, too. See a mom on the street with her kids, wish her a happy Mother's Day and tell her how amazing she is. They're all pretty damn amazing.
The truth? None of us would be here without our mothers. If you're a dad, you wouldn't be a dad without a woman who carried your kid for nine months. Anyone who has witnessed childbirth--the everyday miracle--knows women kick much ass in the toughness department.We say these things often ("you wouldn't be here without your mother"), but we seldom take the time or mental energy to really process what it means.
After you tell her how amazing she is, make sure you take care of her. Not just today, but everyday. Not in some creepy Promise Keepers kind of way, either (that's not my message). Just be good to her. Support her. Burn copies of Time Magazine's Are You Mom Enough? issue on the street just to let people know that yes, your baby mama is more than mom enough.
They all are.
By: Aaron Polson,
on 5/8/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: grieving, aimee ziegler, grief sucks, Add a tag
Evidently there is a bit of controversy as to whether grief comes in loose "stages" or not. News to me. I'm not really operating on anyone's schedule, as my own grief is my own, regardless of what this smart fellow might say (Dr. George Bonanno). Sure, you've studied thousands of people--and not one of them was me. (this, my friends, is a fundamental flaw in most of psychology--it can speak to trends or general behaviors, but not much to individuals) I know what I feel and how I'm working through my experience. I know I miss Aimee. I know that losing one's wife sucks at 37, and would most likely suck at any age.
Emotions are what they are. I can't help but cry--and, during the last two days, shout and howl at the universe. Yes, I've been angry lately. Is it a stage? I don't know, but it's real. I'm angry.
As in "HULK SMASH" angry. I feel it in my bones. My skin itches with it.
The thing about this anger, the really tough thing, is that it isn't directed at anyone or anything in particular. I'm just angry. Angry my life is what it is right now. Angry I don't get to hug Aimee again, or give her another back massage, or just laugh with her. Angry my kids don't have a mommy (in the physical sense). Angry people have to spend their sympathy on me (although I appreciate every good thought and all the help). I'm just angry.
Anger isn't fun. It's not my natural place. I don't want to be angry for long, and that's why I'm writing about it.
Stage? I don't know. I do know it won't last forever.
Nothing does.
Yes, Dr. Bonanno, I will rebound. I am resilient, as all healthy adults can be.
Right now though... right now I'm pissed off.
By: Aaron Polson,
on 5/3/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: aimee ziegler, memories of Aimee, family stuff, sunflowers, Add a tag
A couple of pictures from the vault today: the first Aimee and I took with sunflowers nearly thirteen years ago.
Yes, that's me, baby face and all, sniffing a sunflower. Look how non-grey my hair was back then. And no, sunflowers don't really have a lovely flower fragrance. To take the picture, Aimee asked me to climb a little mound and stand in the middle of the flowers. I paid for my compliance with tiny cuts and hives on my arms and legs. She framed my picture (the one above) and kept it on her nightstand until the day she died.
After that first adventure, we took family photos with sunflowers each year. Usually, we'd pose with random "dirt mound" flowers--the small ones from the pictures above which litter Kansas in late summer. A few times we found commercial fields of sunflowers, the big, fat-headed blooms harvested for seeds or floral arrangements. Sunflowers are stubborn plants, and the wild ones crop up anywhere they can find open soil.
Sunflowers held special meaning for us. I painted an arrangement of sunflowers for Aimee's wedding gift. When we honeymooned in Ireland and I started feeling a little homesick, Aimee found a flower shop in Cork and bought me a sunflower. The boys and I made her a triptych of flowers one year for Mothers' Day.
We'll take a family photo this fall, the boys and I in a cluster of yellow, and share memories of sunflowers past.
By: Aaron Polson,
on 4/26/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: grief, grieving, Triangulation: End of the Rainbow, thoughts on life, aimee ziegler, memories of Aimee, thoughts on death, Add a tag
How do you talk about death with your kids, especially if their mother--mommy--died?
I've wrestled with this quite a bit lately. The boys are doing okay, but I don't want to completely shelter them from their feelings. I don't want to hide my grieving, either, because they need to know it's okay to cry and be angry and sad and...
Aunt Heather loaned me a few books about death/children the other day, one of them being a parable about water bugs and dragonflies. You can find a copy on Amazon or simply read the parable for free online. It's a nice story, and one which I hope reflects how the universe really works. Of course, I have no idea how the universe really works. I wish I did.
Those of you who know me well know how much "existential questioning" I do. Now that Aimee is gone, those questions are heavier. They really pull at me, especially at night when I'm trying to go to sleep or wake up at four AM expecting to hear Elliot (and don't--that kid is a world-champ sleeper).
Last night, I thought of a story I'd written several years ago, "The World in Rubber, Soft and Malleable". It's still one of my favorite stories, originally published at A Fly in Amber and reprinted (in slightly different form) in Triangulation: End of the Rainbow--
I like the way it reads at A Fly in Amber... No explanation of what is beyond the doors. That's where I am right now: on one side of the door. Aimee has stepped through and I can't follow. Not yet. I've got more murals to paint before I join her... Too many to count.
And yes, that is a metaphor from the story.
I frame my world with metaphors.
When I wrote the "The World in Rubber..." I wasn't thinking about death. But it works. It fits perfectly how I feel right now.
I miss you, Ziggs.
By: Aaron Polson,
on 4/23/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: family stuff, aimee ziegler, memories of Aimee, grief sucks, Add a tag
Yesterday, I was doing okay until I staggered into a whole field of "grief landmines". More like I'd been dropped into the middle of the field with a ill-made map.
It all started with the rocking chair in Elliot's room. Made of solid wood by gnomes in upstate Vermont (or handcrafted in a factory... I forget which), it's a beautiful piece of furniture, one which Aimee and I agonized over for hours and several stops at furniture stores before Owen was born. We talked about sitting in it on the porch when we were old and grey... and eventually passing it on to our kids.
That's the part that stuck in my chest: "old and grey." Aimee and I had a lot of plans for being old and grey together--she made me promise to stroke her hair when she was an old lady.
I've been robbed of the chance to fulfill my promise.
And that sucks. Hard.
Friends and family keep asking me how I'm doing. Okay. Awful. Okay again. It comes and goes.
I'm scared.
Confused.
Lonely in a crowd.
And scared some more.
But I'm not ashamed of sharing. Aimee never was--I valued her honesty as much as any other piece of her, and I'm not about to dishonor her memory by clamming up.
Write hard?
Yes. And live hard, too.
By: Aaron Polson,
on 4/19/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: family stuff, aimee ziegler, memories of Aimee, grief sucks, Add a tag
Aimee's laughter, as many friends and family have shared, didn't just tumble from her mouth. It exploded. I've seen her drop to the floor laughing, like when she received in the mail a certain bridesmaid dress with a rather large "ass bow" on the rear. Her laughter infected everyone in the room.
We shared many private laughs, too, many laughs late at night or early in the morning, laughs to heal hurts and lift each other when life sucked.
While discussing The Things They Carried the other day, a student shared a memory which in turn sparked an Aimee memory--these little grief land mines are everywhere these days. I remembered Thanksgiving eve 1999. Coaching duties at Free State High School prevented Aimee from going home to St. Louis for the holiday, so we visited my aunt and uncle in Kansas City. On the eve, we dined at Panda Garden (still my favorite Chinese-American in Larryville), and crashed in her bed later, telling stupid stories and laughing for hours.
She had a way with the kids, too, especially when they were little. Aimee made all our babies spew fiery little baby giggles. She taught us all to lay on the floor, heads resting on each-others' laps, and laugh. (One you should try, folks. Sounds nutty, but it works.)
I still laugh, and I will keep laughing. But it stings a little. It feels hollow and cheap like the ringing of an ill-made bell. I don't know if it's exactly guilt I feel, or something else. I miss Aimee's falling-down and rolling around laughter, but I'm thankful for such rich memories.
By: Aaron Polson,
on 4/17/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: honorable mention, Ellen Datlow, shock totem, Polluto, Historical Lovecraft, aimee ziegler, Best Horror of the Year, Add a tag
I woke this morning to an email from Shock Totem's editor-in-chief Ken Wood. It seems "Wanting It" from Shock Totem #3 made Ellen Datlow's list of Honorable Mentions for Best Horror of the Year Volume 4 (2011). I took a gander at the full list, and it seems two other tales of mine, "Molting Season" from Polluto 7 and "Ngiri's Catch" from Historical Lovecraft, also made the list. An honorable mention hat trick.
Thanks, Ms. Datlow. And thanks as well to Ken Wood and the Shock Totem staff, Adam Lowe and Victoria Hooper of Polluto, and Silvia Moreno-Garcia and Paula R. Stiles, editors of Historical Lovecraft.
Aimee always told me she wished I could stay home and write full time. I just wanted to tell stories, good stories. I wanted her to be proud, too.
I've made "Wanting It" available to read as a PDF for free. Simply click the link below. It's one of my favorite stories, and one which really strikes at the hurt which has burrowed into my chest.
Download "Wanting It"
I hope you're proud, Ziggs. These are for you, especially "Wanting It"; every night now I feel like I'm alone on the farmhouse floor, waiting for you.
By: Aaron Polson,
on 4/12/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: family stuff, aimee ziegler, memories of Aimee, Add a tag
On our first "real" date, Aimee and I shared a pizza at Rudy's Pizzeria. On the night before she died, we had another Rudy's pizza with our boys. Our alpha and omega.
Aimee loved Rudy's--she loved pizza in just about any form. On many trips to St. Louis, we would stop at Shakespeare's Pizza in Columbia, one of her favorite undergrad hangouts. No trip home was complete without ordering Imo's--ultra-thin crust "St. Louis Style" pizza. We still have three bottles of Imo's Italian dressing in our pantry.
But Rudy's was our alpha and omega. Our first and last.
I remember so many firsts with Aimee. The first movie we saw in the theater was The Waterboy. (Yes, I'm a little embarrassed to admit it.) Our first bar hop was to the non-defunct Cabaret in Kansas City. The first trip we took together was a midnight escape to Booneville, Missouri. Yes, Booneville. (We drew it out of a hat). We scared some poor Best Western clerk when asking for a room at 2:00 AM and hiked Missouri's Katy Trail the next day.
I remember the first time I said "I love you" in the kitchen of the 1220 House, a rental on Rhode Island Street in Lawrence she shared with Steve and Erika. I remember the first time we kissed, rather old-fashioned like, on the porch of that same house after a date.
The firsts are easy to remember. The lasts, not as much. I never planned on any of them being the "last."
It's a call to appreciate as many moments as we can. Have a good Thursday. Live big.
By: Aaron Polson,
on 4/10/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: aimee ziegler, memories of Aimee, family stuff, Add a tag
This is how I met my wife, a story I've told many times but never committed to paper (or pixels).
During the fall and winter of 1998/99, I worked at an entertainment store as the book department manager. I'll stop short of calling it an actual bookstore, but with the closing of Borders, Hastings is now the biggest store which sells books in Lawrence. Spend one holiday shopping season in retail and you'll want to run away--far away. Sometime in mid-November, we hired seasonal employees to help with the crush of customers.
No, Aimee wasn't a seasonal hire, but her roommate Steve was. He thought I was cute. And nice. And gay...
After sorting out a few personal details (like the fact I wasn't playing for Steve's team, a matter I tried to explain with the best tact I could muster at twenty-three), he decided (reluctantly--still holding out hope, I guess) he should introduce me to Aimee. Several friends of Steve & Aimee's concurred, including a college buddy who was visiting from Chicago one fateful Tuesday in December.
I'd moved to Lawrence that summer to be with another woman... one who promptly kicked me to the curb for a short guy with a beard who looked a little like her father. That, I suppose, could make another interesting tale. Since the messy breakup, I'd kept odd hours. Let's blame it on a wonky retail work schedule, okay? Wonky enough I found myself at the Vermont Street post office at eleven P.M. on Tuesday, December 8th, 1998. What kind of a weirdo goes to the post at night?
Me. I still do it from time to time.
After slipping my package in the appropriate slot, I stepped out of the building for my car, and who should be passing on the street but Steve. And who was in his passenger seat? Aimee.They'd just returned to Lawrence after dropping that mutual friend from Chicago at Kansas City International Airport, the only "international" airport I've ever known with no direct international flights.
My first impression of my future wife? She was short. Very short despite standing nearly 5'10". See, Steve drove a red Honda Civic hatchback, the kind they haven't made for years. Aimee coached basketball for Free State High School in those days, and, wearing sweats and a hat, didn't want to be seen so she scrunched down in the seat. Steve pulled over--much to Aimee's horror--and invited me to a holiday party at their place that weekend.
Ever since that day, Aimee and I celebrated the second Tuesday in December as National Post Office Day, they day she tried not to be seen and I imagined she was about 5'2".
Ever since that day, Tuesdays have been a special day. Have a good one.
By: Aaron Polson,
on 4/7/2012
Blog: The Other Aaron (Login to Add to MyJacketFlap)
JacketFlap tags: healing, my wife, aimee ziegler, Add a tag
I know one thing after living the worst week of my life: we tell stories so we can live the worst weeks of our lives.
Our (meaning Aimee's and my) friends and I have told many stories this week--too many for me to account. Those stories have saved me, bit by bit. Those stories have propped me and held me and kept me moving through the most unimaginable brokenness.
We tell stories because we are human. Because we hurt. Because we love. Because, in the end, without stories, the vast, unfeeling universe might crush us.
But take heart.
I have a story to tell. Several of them. And together, we will hurt, and love, and keep telling stories.
I plan to share some of my favorites about my wife this year.
Write hard. Love hard. Live a good, full life.
Take care.
You are one of the strongest and loveliest people I know x
I'd never realized how much grief changes a person's outlook until I went through it too with my mom. It's been almost a year for me now and I feel like a different person entirely. The stuff that bothered me before seems stupid, but other things have taken on significance. I'm glad you're doing so well. It's all a journey.
Cate - You humble me.
K.C. - It is a journey. Godspeed with your travels.