Month: March 2019

As a couple who had been together a long time, Mark and I were pretty much drawn to the same kind of people. If I met someone and liked them, there was a good chance Mark would as well and vice versa. The common denominator for both of us was that they were smart, interesting, they didn’t take themselves seriously, and most importantly, that they were funny. There weren’t many people we didn’t like and if there were we did our best to steer clear of them.

But there were difficult people in our lives that we had to have a relationship with that didn’t bring out the best in either one of us. When I look back at those relationships and the cumulative effect they had on Mark, I second guess myself for not being more protective of him. That’s the kind of stuff that keeps me up at night, the overthinking that sometimes makes me believe that he’ll come back in the door saying he was sorry he was gone so long but now that I cracked the code he was back for good. Up until the weekend prior to his death, Mark seemed to be handling things just fine so either I really dropped the ball or he was good at hiding his hurt. I tend to think it was a bit of both but I’m here, he’s gone, and during those sleepless nights it’s another tally mark in the Things Kath Should Have Done Differently column.

When both of us were holding the history of those hurts and grudges, they usually seemed like nothing more than an annoyance. That isn’t the case these days. As my therapist recently told me, the fallout of Mark’s life and death has landed squarely on my lap. It isn’t just the emotional aspect which is daunting from the minute I wake up, it’s every relationship he had, his career, the entirety of his life. Without him here to help shoulder the weight, the energy of those relationship challenges have nowhere to go but on me.

Depending on the day I am having, my thoughts about that swing from apathy to despair to rage. Not unexpectedly in regards to those connections, it seems that the minimum boxes of support for me and the kids have been checked off or we have been ghosted all together. I’m unsure if that reaction is the by-product of guilt or that they would rather stay as far as possible away from our sadness. On the receiving end, it feels like a lit match to my gasoline fueled heartache. There are moments that I daydream of a reckoning where I lay bare every injustice and call them out for their past and current behavior. It has a Real Housewives kind of flair where glasses are flung and tables upended, and I triumphantly stride out to the cheers and high-fives from every person who loved Mark, followed by a nighttime visit from him saying “atta girl.” It’s dramatic and satisfying and a figment of my grieving imagination.

While that would be a welcome release valve for all that has been building up and piling on, it doesn’t change anything. Mark’s demons had the final say and in that moment he didn’t think redemption was his gift to receive. I daily wonder if death delivered the redemption that I thought he deserved. Was peace of mind the final blessing bestowed on him that Tuesday morning? I’m not sure I could draw another breath if I didn’t believe that he was worthy of both, and that his well-lived life was reason enough for those lasting gifts.

As the days have passed since that I got that phone call at work, the nagging question is what do I do with the pain my dead husband endured at the hands of others? Much as I’d love to deliver my fury and judgement on their doorsteps like death was suddenly delivered on mine, there is only the aching weight of his wounds sitting on my crowded lap.

That and the awareness that the road to redemption is a two way street.

Ever since Mark died, people have been compelled to share their thoughts on the events of that day and what I should do to rebuild the rest of my life. The list could fill pages but below is the highlight reel of the things that have been said to me in the last six months:

Why do you think he killed himself?
You’re not staying in the house, are you?
You have to wait a full year before you make any decisions.
So life insurance for suicide? Does it pay out?
When you start cleaning his stuff out, I’d like to have something of his.
Do you think he smoked some bad pot that morning?
Just stay busy.
You should go to a suicide support group.
You should go to therapy.
You seem like you’re doing fine. I don’t think you need therapy.
Are your kids in therapy? I think they should be.
I saw somebody started a GoFundMe for you. Don’t you have any money?
I know Mark stopped drinking a few years ago. Did he start up again?
You should exercise.
Don’t walk outside now. With all the snow and ice you might fall and the last thing your kids need is to have to take care of you.
Mark Fisher can go fuck himself.
I know you said it was suicide but I think it was an accident.
We thought about going to the funeral but we’d have to cancel our vacation.
You definitely didn’t seem like yourself at the funeral but not in an inappropriate sort of way.
I’m so pissed off at him.
I know you said you don’t know when he left the house but what time do you think he left the house?
Oh, you’re still sad? I thought by now you would be better.
Do you have a financial advisor?
You should interview at least three financial advisors before you pick one.
Don’t invest in the stock market.
You should invest in the stock market.
Just think happy thoughts.
Are you going to go on social security?
You shouldn’t go on social security yet.
That fucking coward.

I have an uncle who has experienced more tragedy in his life than anyone I know. Now in his eighties, his health is compromised in too many ways to list. Decades ago, he and his wife were coming home from seeing a movie and were hit by a drunk driver. She was seven months pregnant with twins. The accident caused her to go into labor, both baby girls were delivered but did not survive. They would have three more children after that and he would sit by the bedside of his 12 year old daughter as she died from a heart ailment. One of his sons would be diagnosed with the same disease and would get a heart transplant. He would die at the age of 19. How my uncle has endured these losses is a boots-on-the-ground kind of miracle and God knows I am paying close attention to those kind of people. After Mark died he called me and as the conversation was ending he said, “Honey, I sure loved the two of you together.”

It was a profoundly beautiful thing to say because that simple sentence recognized what I had and what I lost. What someone like my uncle knows is that the only thing necessary to bring in the midst of someone’s darkest days is light. No advice, no questions, no commentary, no anger. Just a sliver of light, and when you know that person has walked through fire to place it in your hand and curl your fingers around, it you believe them when they tell you that one day you will be okay.

As for the other stuff, you will desperately try to let those things go for the sake of your own mental health and the memory of your husband. A man who on a sunny Tuesday morning in the waning days of summer lost his way, not his love.

.

A few months before Mark died, he twice said to me, “I’m on to something so big it scares me.” By the look on his face I could tell he wasn’t exaggerating. He, of course, meant things in the lab. He had signed a contract with a biotech company to purify their proteins, and a pharmaceutical company had scheduled a phone conference to hopefully do the same. His fear was that this was going to take off and he wouldn’t be able to find a qualified lab tech to replace the one who had recently given his notice to take a position on the west coast. His worry was for naught, within a day he found someone at the med center that was looking for a new position and was a perfect fit.

Besides my own nagging feeling that a future trip with a friend would be missing Mark, I had something else happen that was as powerful to me as Mark’s worry was to him. I was upstairs making our bed, stopped for a minute to look out the window and knew that I would one day be alone in the house. I shuddered at the thought and figured that would be decades in the future, but it unnerved me. Looking back now, it seems that we were both experiencing a shift in our universe that was tilting out of control in ways we couldn’t imagine.

Many times over the years we were married, Mark would tell me that I saved him. I thought he gave me far more credit than I deserved, considering that on any given day I am a mess. While Mark was intense and focused, I am dreamy and rudderless. In my 6th decade of life, I am still unsure what I want to be when I grow up and am prone to the gypsy life when it comes to a job. Mark could never understand why I couldn’t just stay on a job and like it, but I always had to pack up my work tent and move on every few years. It drove him crazy, but I stayed friends with all those people in all those places and he often said that I got an A+ in making our circle bigger. Despite that, I was stable and calming for him. When things at work went off the rails, a grant didn’t make the cut, or he was raging against the administration, I was able to take things down a notch, steady his nerves, and turn his face toward the sun. We were Team Fisher and immensely proud and supportive of each other.

Whenever Mark would say that I saved him, it felt too much for me. He never seemed like he needed saving, but the weekend before he died I got a glimpse of the darkness he rarely showed and we talked about all of it. What time he left the house that morning has haunted me more than anything, and now that day in September has given way to winter and spring will be here shortly. Still I struggle believing any of this really happened. Every night I lay in bed looking at a photo of him from one of the thousands of happy days, and ask him to show up in my dreams. In those shocking, early weeks, I prayed he would let me know that he is okay and that the something so big filled him with wonder and not fear.

Now I ask him to tell me me how I saved him so I can save myself.

Two years ago on my 60th birthday, the kids gathered notes from everyone to put in a scrapbook to celebrate me starting a new decade. Below is what Mark wrote which is exactly what I would say about his eyes, but would add that his were always full of dreams and plans and wonder.

When my eyes met yours for the first time, I could sense a spark of interest that lured me into your life.

Those eyes, I have come to know after all these years, can sometimes instantly reveal your inner thoughts.

Your eyes can be calm.

Your eyes can be joyous.

Your eyes can be intense and focused.

Your eyes can be worried. And angry. They are caring and concerned. And defiant.

They can be surprised, Curious, Mischievous, And filled with laughter. They dance to music.

Recently, they have returned, more often now, to those loving mothering eyes that Mabel will come to know.

Of all the stories that your eyes tell me, they spend the most time being kind and loving. 

As we grow older, our faces may change slowly overtime, but your eyes still draw me to you, though the wisps of those black curls.

Your eyes reveal to me your life, having learned much in the world, looking forward to more.

I am in love with your eyes and the person behind them that makes them glow.

Happy 60th,

Mark

Below is something Mark wrote about his friend from the UK at a symposium in his honor. Like Mark, he died too soon and with much left undone. I met Tony at a meeting in Spain that I went to with Mark about twenty years ago. It was a raucous time with the most fun people I had ever been around. While having lunch outside one afternoon, Mark and I walked up to a table that Tony was at and were chatting with some people. After a few minutes, Tony said, “Fish, can you move your fat ass? You’re blocking the sun.” In the years that followed, Mark and I would repeat that line a thousand times. Tony was a pied piper and Mark a most willing follower. The unabashed laughter of the two of these complex, brilliant, down-to-earth guys could get you into some trouble but the memories would be worth it. So much of what Mark wrote last year about Tony applies to him in so many ways.

I first met Tony at a SF conference. As we crossed paths, he looked at my name tag and immediately launched into our mutual initial work in the chaperonin field. I looked at his name tag and wondered “Who the F**k is Neil Ranson”. It turned out Tony was wearing Neil’s name tag to avoid paying the conference fees. From there, we instantly became great friends because of our mutual “working man/blue collar scientist” demeanors. I was a roofer in a former life and he certainly possessed a working man’s attitude and style. This meant we said F**k a lot, even calmly intertwining that language style into our scientific discussions. He would refer to me henceforth as “The F**king Fish”.  I had spent an adventurous three weeks in Bristol living with Binx, Kate, and Tony to attend numerous conferences on Prions and Chaperone Proteins, just in time for the Mad Cow Scare. It was a stimulating visit to say the least. There was literally never a dull moment. We spent an inordinate amount of time trying to make each other blow tea or beer though our noses with our silly little antics (imitating the pompous) or stories (my past adventures in roofing and his summaries of general science faux pas). On the flip side, Tony had an intensely serious and strong empathetic streak that would often emerge throughout the course of the day. When he would make it to the US colonies, we would sometimes go on long early morning hikes to go bird watching, hardly the habit you would expect from such a boisterous fellow since you had to be quiet for long periods of time. Tony was a keen kineticist and enzymologist who relished in uncovering the allosteric complexity of the chaperonin machine in his most thorough manner. He avoided experimental fishing expeditions, or as he called them…. “Strolling along the chemical shelf”. He was, without a doubt, a brilliant and accomplished scientist. He was an extremely complex man who enjoyed life to its fullest. I will miss my friend. His full-throated unabashed laughter will reverberate in my brain for the rest of my days.