Matthew and Cancer: Wicked

Now, I’m coming up on the six-month mark since Matthew’s death.  Half a year.  In some ways, I’ve coped well.  In others, not so much. 

Some of the raw emotion has tempered as time marches on.  I can’t bring myself to sleep upstairs in our bedroom, though.  I can’t think about boxing up his clothes.  His US Event Photos shirts, that he wore every day until he died, remain folded in a pile on our dresser.  In some ways, things are frozen in amber.

Except they’re not.  I don’t – can’t – live like that.  So, while I haven’t had the energy to confront his shirts, I have changed the house in very subtle ways.  Some artwork has been replaced with playbills from the recent Broadway shows I’ve seen.  The wall of coats (which I’ve always hated) that hangs in the kitchen is about to be replaced by a long, electric fireplace.

In subtle ways, life has changed. 

But in others, that gaping, raw hole of overwhelming sadness is just below the surface and threatens to erupt on any given day.  Without warning.

My year ticks by, marked by events I do every year – and some new work, too.  Matthew always handled the sales pitch for new clients.   He was great at it, and it was his part of the business.  My pitch is – well – more direct and perhaps lacks nuance.  Basically, I assume people will hire us because everything is explained on the web site about how we work, what we do, and how we are different.  Turns out, potential clients might need a bit more handholding.  I’m not good at that.  He was.  And I say, “we”.  Now perhaps it should be “I”.  How I work.  The plural doesn’t apply right now, does it?

I’ve buried myself in my off-work by going to the theater.  I’m not sure why.  Perhaps because Matthew wasn’t a fan of musicals – as a result, I’ve seen nearly a dozen in the last few months. 

Toward the end of his illness, when we were in Cleveland working “Christmas Around the World” – the event where Santa died (literally) on Christmas Day – another blog post I need to write – Matthew begged me to take him to see Wicked at the Imax theater.  I was surprised, given his tepid response to previous movie musicals.  But I bought the fanciest tickets I could.  I purchased a huge box of popcorn.  A big Coke.  He had his special pillow.  He took lots of pain meds.  He was ready.

The previews wrapped up.  The first scene spread stories above us.  The music swelled for the opening number.  Matthew leaned over to me.  Tapped my arm.  

“This is a musical?” He asked, in a throaty whisper, audible everywhere in the theater.   “I hate musicals.”

Maybe that’s why I’ve been attending Broadway like an addict.  Maybe because it’s a respite from him whispering in my ear every day.

But I do dread Wicked 2 coming out.  I’m not sure I’ll be able to see it.  After all, I haven’t watched RuPaul since Matthew died.  Or eaten a chicken pot pie.  Or bought a gallon of ice cream.  Or a rotisserie chicken.  Some things remain sacred and distinctly Matthew