“daddy, what did my mommy’s voice sound like?”
at least
(i thought)
i was prepared
for this one.…
a few days earlier
i got a message
from maddy’s sitter.
“your kid has me crying.”
“oh shit. what happened?”
“we’ll talk when you get home.”
back home,
kelly told me
that maddy chose
to have her read
a comic book for
her bedtime story,
and while she read
the story, changing her
voice for each
character, maddy told
her to “do my daddy’s voice”
and went on
requesting to hear
the voices of all
the people in
her life.
looking sad,
she said,
“do my mommy’s voice…i don’t know it.”
kelly said
she didn’t know
it either, but told
her to ask me,
at which time she
brightened up.
then she changed the
subject back
to the tiny titans,
as only an
almost 4 year old can.
…
the next morning on
the way to
school, i was working
on finding the
strength to ask
maddy if she wanted
to hear her mommy’s voice
sometime, knowing
that it meant
that i would also
have to hear
liz’s
voice for the first
time since she died,
something i quite honestly
was not ready to do…
but before i could
execute my plan,
my little lady
beat me to it.
“daddy, what did my mommy’s voice sound like?”
as prepared as
i thought i was,
i guess i wasn’t.
(instant tears from me).
“maddy, would you like to hear her voice? i have some videos we can watch together.”
“yeah.”
“maddy, you know you can talk about to me about your mommy anytime, right?”
(i say this to her a lot).
“i know, daddy.”
“daddy?”
“yes?”
“i love you, daddy.”
“i love you too, maddy.”
(she knows exactly when i need to hear that from her, it seems).
…
later that day,
working on a long-term
photo library reorganization project,
i set something
down on my desk
(apparently on my keyboard),
and spun my chair
to get up.
as i made my way to
the door, i heard
her
voice, hushed yet
unmistakeable, even after
all these years
without it,
coming from somewhere
below the sounds
of the caretaker record
i was listening to.
i rushed back
to the computer,
fumbling for a way
to end the sounds
i wasn’t prepared to hear,
but couldn’t.
i let the video end,
then played it again.
it was one of
those stupid videos,
the ones we all
have from the early days
of digital cameras…
she went around the
table, asking her cousin,
her cousin’s brother-in-law
and others to acknowledge
the amazing piece
of technology she
held in her hands.
the video ends with this:
“matt, say hi!”
which i did, in
my own sheepish way,
arms crossed, a hand
barely lifted for
a brief wave,
the camera pointed
at me until she
stopped recording.
and that was it.
a video that would
have been deleted years
ago if anyone
knew of its existence,
now watched a
third time,
“natalie.” “chris.” “ben.”
“matt, say hi!”
video stopped.
i heard her,
but didn’t see her.
i can taste
the bile, i can feel
the rest coming
up, so i run
and vomit like
i haven’t in
a long time,
dropping to my knees
to get it all out.
…
more than seeing
a few weeks
(or was it months?)
back, it was
nothing compared to
hearing her voice.
in my head, as
i anticipated someday
having to confront this moment
i always thought
that seeing her
animated would be
the toughest part
for me,
never thinking about
hearing her voice.
i guess i never really
separated the two things
in my mind
(most videos include sound)
but seeing movement for
the first time
without sound made
hearing her voice
without movement
impossibly, soul-crushingly difficult.
…
as i said,
i wasn’t ready for this.
but madeline’s ready,
she’s told me so,
and for her i have
to be.
she pushes me,
leading me to where
i need to be for her.
so with
march 25th a few
days behind me,
the date
weighing heavier on my
mind then it
has since the first one,
tonight i watched more.
as many as i
could find.
movement.
voice.
sometimes combined,
sometimes separated,
in places like
athens, minneapolis, nyc, kathmandu,
a different lifetime.
more time on my
on my knees, vomiting
from the pain
i’ve avoided for over
4 years now.
all because she’s ready
to hear
her
voice.
This is so intense and made me cry…I wonder if you ever watched the delivery room video you talk about in your book? Has Maddy seen that? I’d love to hear her reaction to the videos, if you feel comfortable sharing sometime.
This post blew me away. You have all these recent posts about book updates, happy stories with Maddy, and then suddenly you post something like this, and while I love checking in and seeing the happy things, I remember that posts like this are the reason I started reading – your ability to convey a moment with such intensity, such a raw vulnerability, that I actually feel like I’m the one experiencing it. You make your emotions so real and tangible that I truly cannot believe that had Liz survived, you likely would not be a writer. It seems you should’ve been a writer all along.
Hi, Matt…I just stumbled onto your blog from another site and found myself jumping around, reading bits and pieces…this one stopped me in my tracks. The sheer vulnerability of it hit me hard. I had tears streaming down my face. I can’t believe you were so distraught that you were actually throwing up. I really do have the most incredible urge to reach through the screen and hug you, which IS incredibly awkward! From the few pictures I saw of your wife, she was truly beautiful and seemed like a radiant, happy woman (I saw the one of her pointing to her belly with a bright smile). I can only surmise that she’d be crushed seeing you ill over videos of her. I really do believe there’s more to life than just the material we can see and measure, and I believe she’s with you and will be always. In fact, when you set something down and her voice started, that was probably her, guiding you to where you needed to be for your daughter. I hope you’ll feel her when you need her most, whatever that means to you. She’s there, though I can’t explain it, I really feel quite sure of it. (I could tell you a long, detailed story of the strange life experience that led me to this conclusion, but I’ll spare you!) Thank you for sharing such a vulnerable moment online…I feel altered somehow, after reading this.
And I know it’s been a few years, but I’m so sorry for your loss, for Liz.
You’re amazing…Did you ever end up watching the video of her being wheeled to and from delivery that you talk about in your book? I would love to know how Maddy reacted to the videos…
I can’t even begin to tell you how deeply this post affected me. Thank you for sharing this moment with the world. The past few days I’ve been reading your blog, seeing the worst moments and the happy moments and the legacy you’ve created for Liz and ringing in my head have been these words by Elisabeth Kubler Ross: “The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.”
I feel this is an apt description of you, and I’m so honored to even read these words you have written. And to see death and grief portrayed ACCURATELY, not just, “Oh, I’ve a new relationship now, so I’m all better.” No, you’ve shown the happy moments, and the still painful moments, like this post here, and you’re doing Maddy and the world such a service. And Liz. What a proud wife she must be. No other words, really, except how in awe I am and how I’m sad to see how less frequent the updates are! I’ve been spoiled reading the weekly ones from the beginning!
I’m with you — sound is the most powerful. I lost my dad right after my 10th birthday (1987), and this was before we had such high-falutin devices that took moving pictures WITH sound (at least my family couldn’t afford them). I remember exactly the day I forgot what his voice sounded like (I was 12), and I was devastated. Years later, in an old shoebox, I found cassette tapes (even my Mom didn’t know about them) that my Dad had self-recorded talking to me (as a baby, when we were home alone together on a snow day – he was a school teacher). Those tapes are in a fireproof safe now, and I can hardly bear to look at, let alone listen to them. You’re doing a great job with Maddy (I’ve been a stalker since the early days, I have a son a few months older than Maddy) and I hope she helps ease the pain when you have to watch them again. She will treasure every moment of hearing Liz’s voice.
I love this post, not because I’m sadistic or anything, but because of its depth and the palpable emotion radiating from it. I feel like you took me there with you. I actually had to take a deep breath after finishing reading it, it’s that intense. Can I be that annoying person who reminds you to back up all your videos, photos, etc. of her? Have them in online storage, hard drive, hard copy, back them up everywhere to prepare for all possible disasters. These things are so important for you, Maddy, and everyone to remember Liz as she was in life. Memories fade, unfortunately, and sometimes these videos can bring you right back there and help you recall those times. Have you thought about having everyone who knew Liz in any capacity tell stories on camera for Maddy to watch later? I saw a movie once where a guy did that for his late friend’s son and it was really beautiful.
This is intense, like whoa. That’s all I can say. I haven’t checked into your blog in forever, so I’m way behind, but it really hit me hard reading this. I’m curious too how Maddy reacted and if you watched that delivery room video? I think that would be the hardest one to watch. I can’t even look at the photos you have of Liz the day of Maddy’s birth…the time I looked at that photo of you with Liz in her hospital bed, my eyes first landed on the blue button above her bed and I couldn’t look anymore after that. It’s absurd to think that was the fate of someone so happy, healthy, and gorgeous. I can’t imagine a video. If you managed to watch that one, you deserve some kind of medal…but it’s the kind of video Maddy will love. I can’t remember where I saw the picture, but I remember way back when your blog started, seeing a photo of Liz singing karaoke with friends, and her friend said there was a DVD of it. I haven’t seen it since, but I remember thinking it would be cool for Maddy to watch her mom sing karaoke someday. Maybe her friends will know what I’m talking about and can get you that video too. It’s really special she’ll have these things to see her mom in a more vivid light.
Oh my god…this is incredible. I don’t even know what else to say, but I simply had to say something because it’s absolutely incredible. I would love to read a post about her reaction…so intense, I felt like I was watching with you. Thank you for sharing. Please write more. You know how to use words like a sword.
I think I’m dehydrated now. This ripped out my heart. I am so, so sorry, but damn, you can articulate a moment. Trying to pick my heart up off the ground…
I wonder if it’s missing her that makes it so excruciating to hear her voice, or if it’s more seeing/hearing her happy knowing what ended up happening to her, and your memories of that. Or both. I can’t imagine how it must feel.
I’m so sorry you have moments like this, and I wish it didn’t happen, but I saw something yesterday that made me grateful you wrote about it. Someone had said of you, Brooke, and Maddy, “I truly believe this is how it was supposed to be,” and others had agreed. All I could think is that you can’t possibly feel the same way, if you’re reacting to her voice that viscerally, right? That even though you may have been able to move on, it doesn’t mean that the trauma and pain of her death somehow evaporates. It doesn’t mean you wanted this to happen, and it does seem almost disturbing if you think about that sentence, how it subtly implies that Liz was supposed to die, and you’re now okay with her having done so. Maybe I’m reading too much into a few comments, but it really bugged me. If it was supposed to be this way, if you were okay with the circumstances, and no longer loved or cared about her, you wouldn’t be vomiting at the sound of her voice. A person who is “over” someone wouldn’t react that way. You would’ve just popped the video in for Maddy and sat by, emotionless. But you didn’t. You actually had to prep yourself.
Maybe people think otherwise because the reality is harder. It’s hard not to believe Brooke can make it all better, simply because you’ve been through hell, and you seem like a nice guy, and everyone wants a “happy ending.” But a woman still died, so is it really happy? Sorry I’m rambling, I’m thinking way too much about a few comments. Anyway, the gist is – thanks for sharing it. I always appreciate you sharing these moments because they serve to help me confirm that maybe it really isn’t as simple as superficiality would dictate, despite what people may assume.
Perhaps the most powerful, palpable thing you’ve ever written. Seeing “her” and “voice” on their own lines gives me chills. This whole thing did…
I haven’t been on your blog in a few months, and I must have missed this. It made me cry, possibly harder than anything I’ve ever read on your blog. I could just feel it. And you know, I also had come across that blog Erica referenced, where this widow said it didn’t take you the rest of your life to move on, you “just replaced Liz with Brooke, as we replace people all the time.” She acted like she was your best friend or something, but I doubt it…I imagine if she did actually know you well, she wouldn’t have written such a thing. I hated reading that. I hope she did read this and realized her inaccuracies. It seems like so many people have the presumption you no longer mourn Liz, or miss her, or possibly even love her, simply because you’re with Brooke. It’s terribly dispiriting that it’s seen in such a black and white way. Hopefully posts like this can help. I feel so immeasurably awful for Liz. Her daughter should never have to ask to hear her voice – she should hear it everyday, should hear Liz sing and laugh and tell her stories and teach her. And she can’t do that. I remember the post where you found a notebook of knitting notes from Liz, where she was working on making clothes for Madeline. Stuff like that…it’s crushingly painful. People shouldn’t say mean shit dismissing your love for her. She went through enough, she’s missing everything…and her memory should remain the powerful one you’ve created for her. <3
Let me preface this with: I am so sorry you went through this, and go through this. Having said that, I hope I don’t sound horrible when I say that these types of posts are my favorite to read. There’s just so much emotion, heart, and truth in this post, in the “Questions” post…it’s like cracking open Charles Bukowski and reading his “For Jane” poems…it’s just beautiful. It’s always some of your best work. It’s the reason I love your ‘secret section’ posts. And you’re doing so well now, your updates are normally so happy, that I sometimes forget the blog only continues because you went through something so awful. These posts bring that all back. I actually never realized the pain was still this intense for you. I think I was one of those people who did think being with Brooke changed that. I’m sorry that it still runs so deep, but I love your words.
Ive been reading this blog at an obsessive rate for a few months now. You do an excellent job inserting humor without effort, and while many(most) posts have left me feeling somber, this one had me in actual tears that concerned my husband. (seriously, sobbing) I don’t know if you really read people’s comments ( you and Maddy have quite a fan club!) but your true calling is writing, and raising Maddy. This much is so evident in just your words. She seems like a cool little kid, and without a doubt will grow to be as beautiful as her mother. I can empathize with this particular post in my own life, maybe that’s why I felt compelled to write you. Idk…I think you’re doing a fantastic job. I hope you think the same. I’ll continue to read this blog until you decide to stop writing it…
Much love from Maine.
@alyson
you couldn’t be more correct. thank you.
My heart hurts for you Matt and I’m also so proud that you’re continuing to take steps of healing even when it’s hard so that Maddy can benefit from it.
Your strength inspires me. Anytime I read your blog, I leave with a more tender heart and more appreciation for life and love. I leave feeling stronger and renewed.
You’ve done so much for the community of those who have lost too.
You know what Bob Marley said, “Everything’s gonna be alright….”
I just finished read your book few days ago. I am just sure that Liz would be so proud of you. Anddd say hi to Maddy for me. You dressed up her well! Hahaha
Oh, Matt. You broke my heart all over again. ;’( So sorry that this is so hard for you. ((HUGS))