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"This is really weird," I said as we walked.
"What is?" Shannon asked.
I told him about the summer before, about the same events occurring in the same time frame.
"That is weird," Shannon said as we watched the smoke column rise.
That was on Wednesday of last week. I slept terribly Wednesday evening. Thursday morning, I woke up feeling raw and exhausted. I stumbled through my early morning training sessions before calling it quits, texting my remaining clients and explaining that I was not having a good day. I felt achy, shaky, light-headed. My ribcage felt too small, like it was caving in on my lungs and my heart. I needed to clear my head, so I hopped on my gravel bike and headed up my favorite climb.
When I reached the end of the road, I sat down in the grass, then lay down on my back, gazing up at the clouds slowly drifting across the sky. I noticed the achy shakys were gone, and my chest felt less constricted. For the first time in days, I took a deep breath, filling my lungs to the brim with the heavy scent of warm pine. I held it for a moment, then slowly exhaled. My heart began to swell with gratitude for all the people that helped me survive the past year, that always answered the phone, always replied to the text, reached out randomly to let me know they were there. I sat up and started sending off text messages of thanks and appreciation.
Friday night, one year ago, I went to bed with menstrual cramps and slept fitfully all night. I woke up shortly after 5:00 am Saturday morning, one year ago, to a dark and quiet house. I thought it was strange that Scott was not yet awake, so I slipped out of bed and made my way to the kitchen. I fed the cats, started the hot water kettle, then went back to the bedroom to wake up Scott. He never woke up.
Friday night of this year, I went to bed with menstrual cramps and had the worst night of sleep I've had since the days immediately following Death Day. I was awake most of the night. My mind kept replaying the scene from Saturday morning, from Death Day. The similarities of events leading up to Death Day and the one-year anniversary of Death Day were uncanny. I finally drifted off in the wee hours of the morning. I awoke shortly after 5:00 am on Saturday morning to a dark and quiet house. As if moving through a scene in a play that I had rehearsed a year prior, I slipped out of bed and made my way to the kitchen. I fed the cats and started the hot water kettle. My ribcage felt tighter and tighter as I stood in the kitchen.
Shannon is alive. You know he is alive. He is sleeping. He is not dead. I shook my head. But there's a chance he might be dead. I shook my head again. It happened once. It could happen again. I shook my head harder as tears started to flow. HE IS NOT DEAD.
I made my way quietly to the bedroom, sniffling softly as I wiped tears from my cheeks. Shannon heard me and lifted the blankets up, inviting me to crawl into his warm, comforting hug. He said nothing, only held me tightly as I cried on his chest. The message from the universe came through clearly: Even when events are almost identical, the outcome can still be different.
Eventually, we got up and started our day. Thoughts of the gravel race the next day floated in my head. I let go of all goals and expectations, unsure of how my body would feel with minimal sleep, high emotions, and now a heavy period. The ride would take as long as it took. I knew I would finish. I just hoped to have fun and enjoy the day. Mostly, I was glad I had the distraction and the opportunity to ride my bike for multiple hours on Death Day. As Saturday progressed, remarkably, I started to feel better. My ribcage felt like it expanded to its normal size. My body stopped aching. I was exhausted but my emotions calmed. Saturday night, I finally slept.
When the alarm went off Sunday morning, I reached over and touched Shannon's chest.
"I'm still alive," he said groggily. We both giggled, embracing the dark, early morning humor.
I got up and got ready to ride.
83 miles, most of it gravel, with nearly 6,500 feet of climbing. I had no idea how my body would perform. I hoped to sit with the peloton for the first ten miles of pavement before we hit dirt and started climbing in earnest. Then I would just see what happened.
The race started at 7:30 am, with all levels starting together. There were a handful of professional gravel racers in the mix, as well as several strong riders from all over the mountain west. When the race started, we all rolled out together. The pros at the front started easy, but a few miles in, the pace noticeably picked up. It picked up again a bit further up the road, and then again, and then again. Riders started falling off the back, but I hung on as long as I could. With about two miles left until the start of the climb, I noticed a man and woman slowly drifting back. I latched on to their wheels and we spun the last two miles to the base of the climb. The pace was much more reasonable, and I had a chance to catch my breath and let the sting in my legs ease before we started the long push up.
As we started to climb, I expected us to drift apart, but the three of us seemed to be riding the exact same pace. We started chatting between breaths. They introduced themselves as did I. Then the woman asked an innocent question.
"Did you do this race last year?"
"I signed up for it," I replied, "but I didn't end up riding it." I immediately regretted my answer. I should have just said no.
"Oh, really? Did something happen?" she asked.
Ugh. What do I say here? How do I reply? Do I really want to ruin their day? I took a deep breath. "Well," I hesitated, "yeah. My husband died the day before the race. Today is the one-year anniversary of his Death Day."
"Oh my God," they both exclaimed. "I'm so sorry. Good for you for being out here today. What a great way to honor his memory. Thank you for sharing that with us. Maybe it's good for you to talk about it." They both continued to offer me sympathy and kind words of encouragement as we climbed and climbed.
They stopped to pee and I rode ahead, I stopped to pee and they caught me. I dropped them on a steeper part of the climb. They caught me on a small descent. And so it went. We averaged out to ride the exact same pace. It was fun for a long time, and then I grew weary of having riding companions. I wanted my solo time. I wanted time to clear my head, to turn inward, to lose myself in the ride and the day.
At about mile 40, I stopped at an aid station for water. Shannon had ridden his motorcycle to the aid station and was there waiting for me, smiling and waving as I rode in. I watched the couple ride away as I refilled my water and chatted with Shannon for a few moments. It worked perfectly. The last half of the ride, I was more or less alone, and I loved it. My legs were tired but continued to push every time I asked them for more. My fueling was on point, my head was clear, my lungs felt open and strong. I felt better than I ever could have imagined.
As I rolled across the finish line, the couple was standing there cheering for me. As I dismounted my bike, the woman approached and gave me a big hug.
"Congratulations!" she exclaimed. "You took second place in overall women's!" She pulled back for a moment, beaming at me, then hugged me again. "I know we just met, but I am so proud and happy for you!" We laughed and I thanked both of them. Second place overall women's. I was surprised. I smiled as Shannon approached and wrapped me in a bear hug. What a day. What a truly amazing day.
Getting past the one-year mark feels big. I don't know why, but it feels like an accomplishment. My therapist asked me if I felt like there was another big mark in the future, another major date or thing that felt daunting. I thought for a long time but came up with nothing. As cliche as it is, life goes on. The sadness will always be there, holding a little space in the corner, but the sadness is surrounded by joy, love, and gratitude. All we can hope is that we keep waking up.
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