38

Today, 18 October 2005, would have been rog's 38th birthday.

Today is also my parents' 42nd wedding anniversary.  My mother loved that they shared that day with rog's birthday, she always said it was a sign that he was destined to be part of our family.  It breaks my heart for them that now this day will always have a sad association.

This day sucks about as much as I expected.  I was sick yesterday and I'm swamped at work so staying home wasn't an option.  That's probably for the best as lately I'm fantasizing more and more about quitting my job and fleeing to the woods to live alone with my pain.  Apparently cableboxes with DVR are thin on the ground in the Hermit Woods so I don't think I'll actually act on this plan.

I miss him.  37 years wasn't enough.  Not quite 8 years together could never begin to be enough.

I worry about his memory living on through the years, all the little details that made him rog that I remember.  We have no children and neither the dog nor the cat show much sign of plans to write his biography.

So one day no one will remember that he organized a give-away of over 10 tons of government-donated cheese as his Eagle Scout project but that he actually hated the taste of cheese.

No one will remember how much he loved animals and refused to do any harm to animals or bugs or spiders.  He'd get so mad at me for killing spiders instead of ushering them out the door with a blessing like he did.  No one will remember the time we were driving down the road and saw a seagull with its foot stuck in the slats of a wooden fence.  rog calmly walked up to this giant, smelly, screaming bird and freed it.  I swear by all that is holy for months after that seagulls would appear where ever we went. 

No one will remember his insane love for Whining Ovaries Alt Pop and his need to own every bootleg and import ever from Ani Difranco, Sinead O'Connor, Garbage/Shirley Manson, No Doubt/Gwen Stafani.  Or how much he loved the Blues (and how appalled he was to find out I thought Eric Clapton was American).

But mostly I regret that even now people mainly remember him as an alcoholic who lost his battle to stay sober.  But he was so much more than that.  He was the kindest, most loving person I've ever known.  He was insanely smart.  He went out on Saturday mornings to buy me lattes and bagels even though he hated the smell and taste of coffee and didn't really like lox.  He was an amazing cook, usually working by instinct, and made the most incredible chedder-horseradish mashed potatoes.  He was deaf in one ear.  He had a full blood transfusion in utero as part of an experimental study to prevent miscarriages due to RH factor incompatibility.  When he was five his parents were told he was probably mentally retarded and would never graduate high school.  He went to college on a full scholarship and graduated summa cum laude.  He liked chick flicks, and Julia Roberts, and could quote almost all of Pretty Woman, but he thought Kit Deluca was the sexier hooker.

He was my best friend.  He was my husband.  He was my lover.  He made me feel whole and he broke my heart.  I will never forget any of it.

This is my favorite picture of us, taken in October 1997, just a few weeks after we moved in together (and just a few months after our friendship turned into love).

Comments

[Wes]

That was really good, Shae.

The ludicrous discrepancy between this line and my concept of Rog literally made me laugh out loud: "When he was five his parents were told he was probably mentally retarded and would never graduate high school."

I didn't know he hated coffee and cheese. I'm not going to forget it.

[Keli]

My thoughts today have been filled with the witticisms of a man who came up with the idea of raw toast. I ate some in his honor.

[Shae]

Thanks, guys. And thanks for the laugh, Keli. I had meant to mention the raw toast thing. I need to dig that up and post it.

[philip]

Horseradish Sauce Recipe:
Ingredients: sour cream, grated onion, prepared horseradish, salt... view the recipe