Stumbling from Loss to Normalcy

This story is of Nanette, as told by Irena Kaci. Our “Opening Our Hearts” stories are based on people’s real-life experiences with loss. By sharing these experiences publicly, we hope to help our readers feel less alone in their of grief and, ultimately, to aid them in their healing process. In this article, we tell the story of Nannette, who suddenly lost her husband of 42 years to heart failure, and her humble efforts to find herself again.

Steve “Sparky” Miller was a really special person. I assume many people feel that way about their spouses, and I accept that like many other things words also fail me now. Still, I wish I could talk about him in a way that really did him justice.

 

I remember the very second that he walked into the room. It was like all the clichés came to life — violins, fireworks, electricity, you name it.

I was never someone who stood out or had any impressive features, but Steve made me feel like the most important and special person in the world. He did this for everyone around him too, but he loved me the best. And, for that, I adored him.

I first met him at a New Year’s Eve party thrown by a good friend of mine. She invited me because she wanted to “introduce me to someone.” I was hesitant at first because it was actually one of her ex-boyfriends. I thought it might be awkward, but she insisted. I remember the very second that he walked into the room. It was like all the clichés came to life — violins, fireworks, electricity, you name it. I had never hit it off with someone so quickly.

At the time, we lived pretty far apart, so our relationship began as long distance. He lived in Concord, whereas I lived in the Bay Area and getting together was more sporadic. He worked as an electrician, but over time his ambitions put him more and more the in public eye. As our relationship grew, I fell into the supportive role in our life. When we were married, he became my entire world.

 

We were a perfect pair. He loved the limelight and being of service to his community, and I loved being his behind-the-scenes support.

Steve was appointed to a city council position in 2005, and in 2006 he ran for that same position and won the seat. After that, it was a slow and steady progression toward becoming the mayor. As his public life grew, my life became more and more private and behind the scenes. We were a perfect pair. He loved the limelight and being of service to his community, and I loved being his behind-the-scenes support. I stayed at home and managed the household and our children, and everything else that he might’ve needed. And, in turn, Steve was able to give his most impressive public-facing gifts to the world around us.

In many ways I knew it would end like this, but even still I was not in any way prepared for it. Steve had gone through three bypass surgeries, as well as bladder cancer. When they performed the bladder reconstruction surgery, it was particularly brutal. We knew his bladder had been reconstructed with staples, and that the fix was both a blessing and a curse. Every day with Steve felt keenly like a gift.

 

The hours following his death were the hardest. I had to call my children and tell them the news.

 

He died on March 25, 2023. It has been 4 months and 15 days. Despite his health complications, it was a sudden event. He went out to mow our lawn and just collapsed. I called 911 straight away, but even as I made the call, I knew it was hopeless.

The hours following his death were the hardest. I had to call my children and tell them the news. My daughter was always a “daddy’s girl,” and telling her that Dad was gone … well, it nearly broke my heart. That evening when my son, who was traveling to get to us, finally arrived, I somehow lost it again. The veil of numbness over my own feelings was lifted when I saw my children suffer the same loss in their own way. I couldn’t pity myself for losing my spouse of many years, but I could pity them for losing their father.

At first, I think I was delirious with grief and leaned into some of the more positive feelings about what I might discover about myself now that I was alone again. I guess that’s one of the trauma responses: your brain’s attempts to protect you from your own terror by dangling the next exciting thing before you.

 

I started listening to music so that I could keep from crying any time I was out of the house.

 

I did spend most of my life in his shadow, by choice. I wanted to be his supportive, behind-the-scenes spouse. I wanted him to feel like he could focus his energies entirely on his career, while I took care of everything else. He was such a gift to the world that it was an honor for me to be able to lift him up. And I think because I’d never before focused on myself, I was able to trick myself with the prospect of having some of that focus.

Then, suddenly, grief hit me so hard. It was kind of a delayed reaction. I started listening to music so that I could keep from crying any time I was out of the house. I have learned to keep a schedule these days to keep myself from being distracted by grief. Being out in the world by myself feels strange, and vulnerable, but I am learning to take it in stride.

Because Steve was in politics for 20 years, it wasn’t easy for me to make friends. Now that Steve is gone, I am trying harder to connect with friends, to lean on them and on family. Steve had four siblings, so there is still a lot of family left over on his side. They reach out to check on me. They all remind me how much he loved me. Even with all of these connections that I am trying to make, that others are making for me, I feel terminally unique.

I am devastated. I’m just showing up and doing my best everyday. I am grateful these days for my dogs — a chocolate lab and a shepherd mix. They are the reason I get out of bed, or go into bed. They keep me warm even when nothing else does. Life goes on in small and strange ways.

My children live near me now. My son lives about 15 minutes away, and my daughter is looking to buy a home nearby. I feel really lucky that way, in that I get to have my children closer to me now. The loss has made us all want to huddle physically as well as emotionally with each other. It’s hard, because now when there are memories to rehash and old childhood hurts to re-litigate, I’m the only one left to do that with. So, if they’re angry about something that happened 20 years ago, I’m the one that has to straighten it out with them. Their dad isn’t here to do that anymore.

I decided I needed something to nurture, something for me. So I planted a lone tomato.

I have so much time now. I get to read and write all I want. I even wrote a children’s book. I suddenly feel so capable and it makes me regret all these things that I’ll never do for him. I regret that I didn’t help him more because there were so many things I thought I couldn’t do. I realize now that it was my own insecurities about myself, my own hang-ups, and in reality I could’ve done so much more. I wanted to be his everything because he was my soulmate. Not everyone gets a soulmate.

 

At the same time, of course it’s devastating to think I’ll never be loved again.

 

I have taken up gardening. I focus on the garden and plant my feet in the dirt. It makes me feel connected to the earth; it makes me feel tethered to reality even when I am unmoored by my own devastation. I decided I needed something to nurture, something for me. So I planted a lone tomato. That tomato grew enough fruit that I had BLTs all summer long. I hadn’t grocery shopped in over 15 years. I did it. I found and learned to pay the bills. I fixed my sprinklers. Each day, I’m just showing up and doing my best. I am amazing myself too with what I can do. My skills have been exceeding all of my own expectations.

Looking to the future I know I will never marry again. I’m 60 years old. I spent 42 years shaping myself around this person, who was the center of my life. It feels impossible to start over with someone new. At the same time, of course it’s devastating to think I’ll never be loved again. I’m fully aware that no one will ever know me better than I know me again, no one will ever love me like he did. But, on the other hand, I shouldn’t say never. Nothing in the universe ever happens just once. Eternity runs in both directions. I will to stay open to whatever the universe offers me.

This Christmas a gift arrived from Steve, the latest Apple watch. It did not surprise me, though perhaps it should’ve. Maybe he ordered it because he knew that he didn’t have long to live. Maybe he had just pre-ordered the latest Apple watch without giving it a lot of thought. I’ll never know how this gift came to me. But I do know one thing, which is how much even in death Steve still takes care of me. And that is something I know I’ll never lose. Even in death, our love prevails.