Today is my 36th birthday. It’s not a milestone, really. Nothing really happens on your 36th birthday, except a reminder that you’re officially closer to 40.

Your thirties, in a way, are about accepting life’s persistent mundanity. You get up, make coffee, read the news, get through a day at work, handle dinner, watch a little TV, go to bed. The days pass, each resembling the next, and then a colleague will say that she can’t believe it’s already October, and where did the time go?

The mundane accumulates to fill the minutes, the hours, the weeks, the years. When I was 30 years old, I became a widow. My husband, Jeff, was killed when a semi-truck struck him in the bike lane in Washington, DC. He was riding to his weekend yoga class. Later, we were supposed to go see friends. We had planned to spend the day like we did most Saturdays, honestly. Nothing special. The following Saturday I spent the day writing a list of things I needed to do to close out a life (review an obituary, locate a place for the memorial, decide where to bury his ashes).

Jeff was killed at age 36. Today, I’m the same age.

As I’ve anticipated this day, I’ve thought about how, for Jeff, this was all he got. He was an athletic, healthy, fun-loving person who had no “reason” to die at the age I’m turning today. But he did. Thirty-six years was it.

I remember in the years before Jeff died, I would think: is this it? Should I be doing bigger things at work? Did I settle down too young? Am I taking enough risks, or playing it too safe? Why isn’t my life more exciting? I actively resented the mundane.

In the five years since Jeff died, I have been through a lot. I developed anxiety. I experienced post-traumatic stress in the aftermath of Jeff’s accident. I survived an abusive relationship with a guy from back home who would exhibit stalking behaviors when he couldn’t accept the breakup. And I said goodbye to friends who passed away, while family members suffered through illness or life-altering injury.

In examining the fact that my closest person was taken too early, I’ve also noticed myself desperately trying to pack more into my life. I can’t begin to count how many trips I’ve taken, projects I’ve signed up for, and hours I’ve worked overtime thinking that, well, this could be it. My career has been in advocacy and politics, where the end goal is rarely achievable in one lifetime (full access to reproductive health care for every American! A fair wage for every working adult!). So the ability to work endlessly is very real, and, gosh, if Jeff died at age 36 and I might die at age 36 then what’s another two hours of work if it means it brings us closer to full equality for women, right? Right?

This sometimes-manic approach to how I spend my time is rooted in my fear of losing the mundane. Because now, after loss, the mundane is what makes my world spin. It’s what I appreciate the most, when it used to be what I resented and questioned. Lunch with a friend and really listening to them talk about their kid isn’t mundane, it’s special. Walking my dog isn’t a chore, it’s a gift. Drinking coffee with my fiancé in bed while we read the news every morning is easily the best part of my day, and getting deep into a conversation with him over dinner is how I hope I can spend the rest of my life. I wish it hadn’t taken a tragedy to learn the lesson.

And the truth is, I’m terrified of losing the mundane again. I panic when I see an unknown number on my phone with an area code in the city where my fiancé is, petrified it’s a hospital. I monitor the news in the countries where my brother is traveling, just in case he’s put in harm’s way.

I know the anxiety that I’ll experience loss again won’t go away. But I also know that the mundane is worth celebrating. So tonight, I’m ordering my favorite cocktail at dinner with my parents, my best friend, and her husband. I’ll sit next to my fiancé and hold his hand under the table while he tells punny jokes that make my eyes roll. I’m going to order mudpie for dessert with a candle in it. And the next day, we’ll wake up, drink coffee in bed while reading the news, and do the mundane all over again.

I was 30 years old when my husband was killed. It was a beautiful July Saturday when I got a call from his cell phone number, a nurse on the other end of the line, telling me that Jeff, my husband of two years and six weeks, had been hit by a semi-truck while riding his bike in Washington, D.C. From that moment onward, I was overwhelmed with things I had no idea how to do. How would I get to the hospital as fast as possible, while crying this hard, in my pajamas and on crutches because I was recovering from a surgery of my own? How would I talk to doctors, who would use words and phrases no one could understand without a medical degree, to make sure Jeff was getting the right care? And then, once we were told he died, how could I get myself off the hospital waiting room couch knowing I had just held his hand for the last time? How would I let people know he had died, plan a funeral, close out his accounts, keep working, or exist in our shared apartment without him?

This holiday season is my third without Jeff. The first was shocking and strange, as I went through the old traditions without him by my side. It felt confusing — was I still supposed to open presents, or watch Love Actually, his favorite holiday movie, and laugh? The second holiday season was worse than the first, as the reality of loss hit harder. Now it was painfully obvious that Jeff’s absence hadn’t just been a fluke — he didn’t happen to be traveling the previous year. He didn’t have some other plans. In reality, he wouldn’t open presents next to me on the couch and he wouldn’t laugh at Love Actually ever again. He was gone.

But this year, while I expected to be grieving, I did not expect to be living a shared experience of grief at this scale. Last year, I thought that maybe the third holidays without him would feel like my new normal. That I’d be bracing myself for feeling lonely around the Thanksgiving table as my family and I sat and ate in our dining room. But this year, I’m not just missing Jeff, I’m subsumed in the communal grief felt in every corner of the world. Nearly 1.5 million loved ones are gone due to COVID-19. And on top of that, we’re grieving other losses caused by the pandemic. Perhaps you’re grieving the loss of your regular traditions, or the loss of a job as the pandemic hits this country’s economy hard. Perhaps you’re grieving the loss of company if you’re spending the holidays on your own, or simply the loss of more stable emotions as COVID-19 exacerbates or creates mental health challenges.

If I’ve learned anything from becoming a widow, it’s that there is no “right answer” for how to grieve or take care of yourself. There’s no way to write a definitive how-to for spending the holidays while grieving. Everyone does it differently, and hopefully they find what works for them. But, in the spirit of giving, I wanted to share some of the ways that I got through the holidays over the last two years. These aren’t based in science, or anything except my own experiences and knowing what felt good when everything else felt bad.

1. Do something different.

The year that Jeff was killed, there was nothing I dreaded more than waking up on Christmas morning and falling into the same routine my family had each Christmas. The idea of walking out to the kitchen without his bed head flopping around the living room, then sitting on the couch to open a present over breakfast with no one next to me, was unbearable. I knew I wanted to do something different, and have something to look forward to. So that year, I decided to call up an off-duty commercial fisherman and see if he’d take my family out for a boat ride at sunrise, where we’d enjoy coffee and bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches we had prepared the night before — a food we rarely, if ever, ate as a family. The excitement of having something different to look forward to, even figuring out how to keep our breakfast sandwiches warm until we were ready to eat them on the boat, gave me a break from an otherwise painful day. We still opened presents once we got back, and I felt his absence deeply in that moment. But it was a little better than expected as we all came down from the high of seeing a Christmas sunrise on the water. Doing something different, to ease the pain on an otherwise extraordinarily difficult day, made a world of difference.

2. Ask for what you need.

I found people were fascinated by what I would do around the holidays. No one had met a 30-year-old widow before, and they certainly didn’t know how she’d plan to spend the first or second holidays. Well-meaning friends would ask what I was doing for the holiday every time I saw them. And while it was sweet that they asked, I really didn’t want to repeat my plans, or what I was trying to plan, during every conversation. So, in the days and weeks before the major holidays (which include Christmas, Thanksgiving, and New Year’s in my house), if I had plans to see someone, I’d send them a text before we got together to tell them that I appreciated that they might ask me what my plans were for the holiday, but I really didn’t want to talk about it. Instead, I’d say, let’s talk about your plans, because I wanted to hear about their kids, their family gathering. And nearly every time, my boundaries and the request were respected.

At first, I was surprised. But actually, it makes perfect sense. People want to help, but often they don’t know how, especially around something as messy and individual as grief. Giving them something specific to do to help ease my pain — in this case, share a story about their plans with their kids — allowed me to feel more comfortable, and it made them feel like they were helping (because they were). If someone asks you how you want to spend your time, or if you need anything, and you know the answer, try to tell them.

3. It’s OK to smile or laugh.

I remember the first Thanksgiving without Jeff was spent at our family friends’ house. My family didn’t want to cook that year, so we were adopted by another family who took on the entire meal themselves. At the gathering, we sat and talked while enjoying Spotted Cow beers smuggled in from Wisconsin via a priest with the beer hook-up. Hearing stories about how this man of the cloth annually transported Spotted Cow across state lines (I think an actual crime in Wisconsin), made me laugh and smile. I remember later feeling guilty, like I wasn’t supposed to have fun at this first major holiday without Jeff. But I was having fun, genuinely. I felt supported and in a safe space to laugh along with the friend telling the story, so I did. Looking back on that moment, if I had known about the dark days of grief still ahead, I would have told myself to laugh even harder. Finding lighter moments while grieving is difficult, so try to remember to enjoy them when they come.

4. It’s OK to cry.

Over Christmas, neighbors invited us to their house for dinner. Hearing about my desire to do something different over the holidays, they ordered Thai food and a number of dishes that I hadn’t tried before (and that my parents certainly hadn’t ever heard of). The event was sweet and thoughtful. Mrs. Cohn buzzed through the kitchen, opening each takeout container across the kitchen island, explaining each dish in detail, providing that distraction I thought I needed. My mom followed her to each container, over-enthusiastically asking questions about each of the orders, trying to make it the “fun and different” night I wanted (“Oh, larb! What’s larb? What does ‘larb’ mean? Where is larb from? Kaylie, have you had larb before? Is larb a carb?”).

As we sat down to dinner, the conversation was light and full of laughter across the dining room table. It was exactly the holiday scene I had said I wanted — easy, with friends, adventuring through food — crafted so thoughtfully with me in mind. But for reasons I can’t explain, I just felt heavy. The weight of Jeff’s absence and my uncertain future came crushing down on me as I sat there, moving noodles from one side of the plate to the other. I tried to talk, but knew if I did, I’d burst into tears. I just wanted to be alone and I just wanted to cry really, really hard.

I quietly let my mom know I had to leave. I could tell she was a little disappointed that the night she and Mrs. Cohn created wasn’t supporting me in the way I needed. But mostly she knew I wasn’t doing well and understood I had to do whatever felt right to me. Mrs. Cohn, possibly the world’s coolest mom, totally “got it.” No hard feelings, no big expression of concern, she just let me do what I had to do: feel and cry and leave without judgement. I left the dining room, discreetly slipped out front door, and walked home, crying.

No one had done anything wrong, it was truly the only kind of evening I wanted. But grief can be wildly inconvenient, taking over at the most unexpected moments. The times I’ve tried to force my way through grief haven’t ended well. Usually, it just means it feels harder and bigger the next time. Try to feel the hard moments when they come, even if they hit you over chicken larb (which, Mom, is not a carb).

5. Be as unimpressive as you want.

This year, I’ve had more people come to me than usual asking for advice on how to handle various types of grief. I’ve been talking to people who lost spouses and moms, to people who are confronting depression for the first time, and to people who lost jobs and feel like they’re floating with nothing to grab on to. I don’t have any particularly good answers, but I am public about my own process around loss. So we talk and I try to help. Last week, I knew I wanted to write the essay you’re reading right now. I figured maybe sharing my thoughts would be useful to others, especially during this unprecedented holiday season.

I told myself that I’d finish and publish this piece on Monday night, a few days before Thanksgiving. But then Monday night came and I felt sad. The anxiety I’ve felt this year around loved ones contracting COVID-19 hit me as I sat on the couch with my laptop open, calling me to finish this essay. The “impressive” thing to do would be to meet my self-imposed deadline, hit publish, and send out this piece with enough time for people to read it on the schedule I established earlier in the week. But instead, I watched “Happy Birthday Kim”, the episode of Keeping Up With The Kardashians celebrating Kim Kardashian West’s 40th birthday. I watched while eating ice cream with old chocolate chips from the back of the cabinet and blue frosting from a tube. I fell asleep on the couch and woke up Tuesday morning to a blue mouth and tongue, and the laptop still open on the table in front of me.

Sometimes, you won’t do what you think you’re supposed to. Maybe you’ll do what you set out to accomplish later (I did finish the essay!), or maybe you won’t (I said I’d go on my favorite hike on Tuesday, but I might go shopping instead). During the holidays, and really any time, it’s ok to not do that “impressive” thing. I’d argue it’s more impressive to listen to your needs in the moment (even if it ends with a blue tongue).

This year, the holidays will look really different. Not by design, of course, but because of the times we’re in. I expect I’ll encounter new challenges at this first Thanksgiving without my parents. I don’t know if or when grief might hit, but I did make a plan to spend time with a person who makes me laugh hard, smile big, and feel the tough moments when I need to. I might try and find a how-to guide to make a floral centerpiece for the table (should be an interesting result from the lady who usually wraps bouquets for friends in paper towels and tinfoil). And I guess no matter what, I’ll learn more lessons for next year.

February 25th is my late husband Jeff’s birthday. Jeff’s impact was outsized for just 36 years on earth, making everyone feel loved, heard, and respected.

His best friend put it best: he made it cool to be nice.

On his birthday, we honor Jeff by doing acts of kindness. Jeff was always checking in on those who may have been, or felt, forgotten. He lifted up colleagues, strangers, and friends with a silly joke or his goofy laugh or just a “hey, I’m thinking of you.” These days, it’s easy to be frustrated or angry with the state of the world, or even something much smaller. So, as our dear friend, his best friend, put it:

“Use Jeff as a guiding light. When it feels easier to be sarcastic or cynical, think about the guy who made it cool to be nice. And when life feels so cruel and unfair, and you feel that anger and bitterness creeping into your heart, take a deep breath, and smile.” Do the thing that brightens someone else’s day, and your own. Spread that love as Jeff would have. Keep making it cool to be nice.

If you’ve seen the hashtag, I’d love for you to read a bit more about Jeff. Feel free to DM me on Twitter @KaylieEHanson or Instagram at @KaylieEHanson_ to share your own acts of kindness.

Love,

Kaylie

—
Jeffrey “Jeff” Hammond Long of Washington, DC and Greenwich, CT passed away Sunday evening July 8, 2018. He was critically injured by a truck while riding his bike in Washington on July 7, 2018. Jeff is survived by his wife, Kaylie Hanson Long and his parents, Nancy Nesky Long of Greenwich and David Long of Rye.

Jeffrey was born in New York City February 25, 1982. After early elementary schooling at St. David’s School, he enrolled at the Brunswick School in Greenwich when the family moved to Westchester County. He was an admired student at Brunswick where he served as president of the student body, a mentor to younger students, and co-captain of the lacrosse team. He loved Brunswick and continued to serve the school after graduation. Jeffrey also served on the junior board of the Waterside School in Stamford, CT.
In 2001 he entered Hamilton College after a fall semester at the University of Salamanca in Spain. At Hamilton, he majored in world politics, was vice president of the student body and an Arthur Levitt Scholar; he interned for former President William Jefferson Clinton at the Clinton Foundation’s New York office as well as for Secretary John Kerry on his presidential campaign and in his U.S. Senate office.

After graduation, Jeffrey worked for technology startups in Washington and San Francisco, earned his MBA at the University of Virginia’s Darden School of Business, and worked on Senator Richard Blumenthal’s senatorial campaign as well as in his U.S. Senate office until April 2015. Afterwards he managed state and local sales development for a technology company providing early alert information to government agencies.

Jeffrey married Kaylie Hanson Long of Greenwich on May 28, 2016 at the most beautiful wedding made perfect by their never-ending love for each other… and the couple’s love of a great party. They resided in Washington, DC with their sweet dog, Layla.

Jeffrey was selfless, curious, community-oriented, and beloved by countless friends and family members. He loved telling and hearing great stories, and he loved a good joke, including his own.

He was an avid skier, runner, biker, and homebrewer.

Services will be Friday, July 20, 2018 at 2 p.m. at the Brunswick School Upper Campus gymnasium on King Street in a setting he loved and that loved him back. In lieu of flowers and in memory of Jeffrey, please send donations to brunswickschool.org/support-wick and watersideschool.org/support/ways-to-give.

Published in Greenwich Time on July 15, 2018

“I’m so sorry.”

That’s all he had to say when he slowly opened the white metal door that separated the ICU from the waiting room. We had been in that cramped, windowless room with no news for what felt like years, or no time at all. It was hour 36 at that hospital for me. I was still wearing the ratty pajamas I had on when I got the call that “your husband was hit by a semi-truck while riding his bike and you better come quick.” By now my face was swollen from lack of sleep and the type of crying that only comes from allowing yourself to think about the reality that yes, your husband could die when you two were peacefully falling asleep on the couch just a few hours before.

“I’m so sorry,” the doctor said. I stared at him blankly, frozen in time. He didn’t need to say anything else. I knew Jeff was gone. It was the first “I’m sorry,” I’d hear in a string of what I’m sure will be lifelong “I’m sorrys” when people realize that yes, at 30 years old, I became a widow.

The year after Jeff was killed brought obvious empty firsts — first Thanksgiving, birthday, Christmas, anniversary — in addition to more awful firsts than you’d like to contemplate. The first time you roll over in bed, arm sleepily outstretched thinking you’re rolling over for a hug, but feel an empty “his side” instead. The first time your dog bolts to your husband’s old desk after a walk outside, searching for her dad there, then in the bedroom, then in the bathroom, then back to you, with full eyes wondering where she was supposed to look next. The first time you sit to dinner at a restaurant table set for four, when the fourth isn’t coming.

The bad firsts, expected and otherwise, either sting or take you so far down, you need superhuman strength to claw back up. Then, there are the other firsts — the unexpected or unfamiliar. The first time you take a trip where no one has any idea that you’re a widow, allowing you the freedom to feel like just you again. The first time you entwine your fingers with another man’s, and feel a different shaped palm resting with your own. The first time you don’t buy watermelon at the grocery store in summer because that was his favorite fruit and actually, you hate watermelon.

As I sit well into year two of young widowhood, the firsts have largely come and gone. Now, I’m on to the “seconds,” staring the second Christmas without Jeff in the face. By now, people, including me, have moved forward from the initial shockwave that resulted from Jeff’s death. Jobs continue, friends get pregnant, rent gets paid, parties happen. And as we move back into the routines that slowly but surely creep back up, the seconds come along — unnoticed by many, felt differently by a few.

For me, in many ways the seconds have been harder than the firsts. The seconds mean that this set up is your new normal. Last year, you sat down to Thanksgiving dinner surrounded by friends and next to your little brother instead of your husband. You had a nice time, but what you actually wanted was to finish the night on the sofa asleep on Jeff’s shoulder instead of your dad’s. This year, you anticipated that the memory of Jeff’s and your turkey recipe would linger over the room, so you prepare a few jokes and have an extra few sips of red wine to cut the tension. Next year it might be easier, and it might be different. But for me, the seconds, the reminders that this is the way it is now, that he’s not coming back, are crushing. And much harder than the firsts.

Before my husband was killed, I was blind to the reasons why the holidays were hard for some. How could anyone be that upset at otherwise loving family gatherings, the goofy white elephant parties with friends, or the copious amounts of sweets tucked into every corner of the office kitchen? But now, I get it. The holiday parties are fun, the carols still bring a smile to my face, and the excessive amounts of Mrs. Myer’s toffee-chocolate candy will definitely settle deep into my molars again. But there’s a shine to it all that’s missing, its absence made more acute by the fact that you know it’s now routine.

I have no idea what the thirds will bring, or what the fourths will. The seconds have taught me to leave space for the unexpected in my own grief. And most of all, they’ve taught me to send more love out than I think people need this time of year.