Chapter 5
FIVE
COLBY
During my recording sessions, there’s a little bit of a ritual that takes place.
The moment my large, noise-cancelling headphones grip my ears, my brain flips a switch.
Under the cushioning of the headphones, in front of the microphone, in my sound-filtering room, is where I feel the most connected to my past. The most alive version of myself, or at least who I was before all this happened, re-ignites.
But still, it’s not me, me. It’s Amelia.
After Amelia died, I was restless, missing her so much I could hardly breathe, and in a state of denial.
I was desperate to do something to keep her memory alive.
Back in the day, on the weekends, Amelia and I would scour the love-advice forums, read the expert opinions, and debate if their response sucked.
After her death, to both pass the time and keep connected, I’d read those same relationship-advice columns, and picture how Amelia would respond.
Thus, the inception of the podcast show began—a place that I could relive our weekend routine while channeling her energy.
Honestly, I didn’t think it would go anywhere.
I made a couple of episodes a week, threw it online, and within a year it took on a life of its own.
Maybe it’s a spirit wink from Amelia, who somehow got it on a few influencers’ radars.
Maybe it’s good luck and good timing. Or maybe people were just like us and loved listening to these types of shows, and this one struck a chord with the audience.
As part of the recording ritual, I first record my digital journal entry for Amelia. I glance at Kona sleeping away at my feet, take a breath, and hit record.
“Good morning, Amelia. I know it’s been a few days, and I have a ton of things to catch you up on.
So, my girl Kona is hurting. The procedure was so incredibly scary, and I wished you could’ve been there with me,” I say and rock back on the office chair.
“When I took her into the clinic, I saw you. I mean, not you, obviously, but in a snap, I was right back to that hospital room. I was sitting on your bed pre-surgery, teasing you for generously tearing your rotator cuff so I could finally pitch that season in the softball league. I swear, it’s like I could see you giggling back at me, convincing me I didn’t suck as bad as I did, I could hear the doctor give us instructions for post-op, I could smell that almond scent of yours in your hair when I kissed your forehead.
I swear, I was right fucking there, not in this Minnesota small-town vet clinic. ”
After Amelia died, my family, her family, our close friends, literally everyone single person I encountered, tried to force me into counseling.
When I refused, the secondary option was practically dragging me to support groups.
But I didn’t want to engage. Even if someone had been through what I had, it was different; they couldn’t possibly understand.
No one truly could understand this level of shattering pain.
And maybe it makes me sound like a selfish asshole, but the very last thing I wanted to do was to sit around and hear other people talk about their pain.
I had more than enough of my own and no interest in piling more onto my already suffocating grief.
After six months of near solitude, even more than I have now, they all staged a version of an intervention.
My mom and dad, Amelia’s parents, and two of our former close friends, sat me down at the tensest dinner of all time, and tried to shake some sense into me.
You need to journal, meditate, go to a priest, see a counselor, do something, they said.
But what I actually needed was to move far away from Florida, from everything that reminded me of Amelia, to a place that was so vastly different from the life Amelia and I had shared. Because then I could forget.
It didn’t work, of course. I never forgot. So begrudgingly, I started voice journaling. I record myself talking to Amelia, telling her about my day, about Kona, lamenting on about the Minnesota weather. It took a while. Months probably, maybe more, before it felt completely natural.
“But something kind of crazy happened…” I continue.
“I think I met a friend? Well, maybe not friend since I basically screamed at her right in the middle of where she was working. But a good person. She came over here that night and helped me with Kona, and when she left, I gave her a hug.” There’s an underlying thread of guilt in my voice, even though I can hear Amelia absolving me.
But Josie’s cute. Really cute. Smooth skin, great smile, that messy pink hair.
And three nights ago, when she was here, I felt a bit of an awakening.
Something in me stirred. Something I thought was dormant and buried, sparked alive.
“At your funeral, so many people hugged me, touched me, and I just couldn’t.
I equated the hugs with the loss, and I never wanted to hug anyone again.
And I haven’t. Not once. But then I hugged Josie, and I don’t know…
It felt nice. Different somehow. Can there be hope attached to a hug?
Is that too new age, and all ‘the universe is speaking to you’ or whatever crap that you used to talk about?
You know, when I’d nod and smile, and pretend I understood what reading auras and seven chakras meant?
” I sip from my coffee and move closer to the microphone.
“And later that night we had a few text message exchanges.”
I glance down at my phone, where Josie’s texts from that night now live, asking how Kona was. She’d then followed up a few moments later saying that dog moms deserve bubble baths.
I’m not delusional or tiptoeing on the edge of sanity—I know my wife is dead, that she’s not here, and that my journaling is just a way I process things.
But still, something prevents me from talking about all the other text messages we exchanged.
Dozens and dozens of messages in the last three days.
All in, it’s literally the most human contact I’ve had in years.
I scroll through them now to reread, starting with the one I sent after Josie told me to take a bath. That night, I’d hovered my thumbs above the screen for way too many moments when I pulled the plug and popped off a message.
Colby
I’m really sorry if I made it weird about you and Zoey. I obviously had no idea.
Josie
Do you know what the worst part is about Zoey being my ex?
Colby
What?
Josie
She really is a fantastic baker, and I can’t go there. Obviously. So, I’m stuck eating crusty dusty doughnuts from the gas station, or the subpar overpriced ones at the grocery store.
Colby
I’m not an entrepreneur or anything, but I can sense a good business deal when one presents itself. Give me your order, I’ll buy them for you and only mark them up 50%. And they still won’t be overpriced.
Josie
You drive a hard bargain, but it’s a deal. I’ll meet you in the alley off Main and 4th wearing a green fedora and going by the name of Trixie. Code word: baby goat
Colby
Hmmm. I take it back. Potential prison time and sacrificing my reputation by whispering “baby goats” in an alley is not worth a 50% markup. It just upped to 100%.
I stretch my back, adjust my headphones, and fire up my laptop, ready to start recording my show. But maybe rereading a few more messages can’t hurt…
Josie
how did the girl do last night?
Colby
Pretty good. She was super out of it for a long time but took the pain meds fine.
Josie
and how did Mom do?
Colby
Terrible. How do parents of infants do this? Between the pain meds schedule, and my constant waking up to check and see if she’s breathing, to waking up every time she moves, I am tired as hell.
Josie
Please put this on number 169 of why I never want children. I’m like a pink-haired Hulk if I don’t get enough sleep.
Colby
The Hulk. Like the 300-pound green man? Not sure that analogy sticks, but who am I to judge?
Josie
Hmm. How about I’m like one of those super peppy tradwife influencers, but after the cameras are off, I scream at my family and force them to eat day-old tuna salad with fake mayo and generic mustard.
Colby
This is oddly specific. I think there’s some things to unpack here.
Okay, okay. I do need to get to work. Sure, I work on my own time and make my own schedule, but the moment I get lax on that, things might go downhill. Besides, Kona is sleeping so hard that I need to take advantage of this time, and my energy level, while I still have it.
I check my watch. It’s Josie’s break time, so maybe one quick exchange.
Colby
did you see the “storm watch” on the weather channel?
When the three dots immediately pop up, my heartbeat increases. I stare at the phone in my palms until the message appears.
Josie
No. But this is Minnesota. Don’t let it freak you out. There are snowstorm watches, thunderstorm watches, tornado watches, like a gazillion times a year.
it’s so disappointing. Like just hit us already with something good. Such a tease.
how did you acclimate to the weather out here when you moved?
Colby
I never quite understood the joy of multi-thermal layered underwear before, but here we are.
I also didn’t realize there were so many variations of gloves. Wool, insulated, leather, knit, windproof, waterproof, ones that you can tie onto a capsizing ship and it will save the entire crew… I mean, how do you all keep it straight?
Josie
and here I have my ski ones, my mittens, and my “it’s not cold enough to need gloves” ones.
I grin at the message, set my phone down, and pull up my laptop. As I scroll through the topic for today, my phone beeps. I should set it on silent, but…
Josie
OMG I have to tell you. This morning, a man brought in his parrot, which we can’t even treat ’cause it needs a special doctor, and the parrot kept saying “Mikey’s an asshole. Mikey’s an asshole.”