Quick Take
Lookout columnist Claudia Sternbach knew the first holidays without her husband, Michael, who died of cancer in February, would be difficult. So, she booked a stay in Palm Springs for herself, her daughter and grandson. Here, she describes the iconic desert, its purple mountains and modern homes, how she released her anger through matches of air hockey with her grandson and how she found peace in the warm waters of a backyard pool.
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Air hockey can be very satisfying. The thrust of the arm, the clack when one puck strikes another, the quick return so one may smack the red plastic disc once again. Faster and faster the puck skims across the table riding on a slim slice of forced air. And even though my opponent was my 10-year-old grandson, Dodger, I played hard.
My reaction times were better than I had hoped they would be. And with each shot, I felt my anger beginning to release.
Anger. One of the promised emotions once a loved one has died. And air hockey was the perfect release method.
Risking crushing a 10-year-old’s feelings, I gave it my all. After his loss, we high-fived and began a second game. My aggression lessened and I once more became a 74-year-old granny who had no need to destroy a young boy just trying to score a point.
I hadn’t experienced any feelings which might be described as anger in the past 11 months since Michael’s death from cancer, so this was a first. And I was surprised.
A couple of months ago, knowing the holidays would be challenging, I decided to change things up. I spent an evening exploring vacation rentals and landed on Palm Springs as a destination after I found a house available for the week between Christmas and New Year. I pitched the idea to my daughter, Kira, and Dodger, who both agreed we needed to do something different this year. I then asked my friend Becky, also widowed, if she and her daughter and grandkids would be interested in joining us. It was a thumbs-up all the way around.
I was curious about Palm Springs. I had been there only once and that was a quick trip and so long ago I remember little about any of it. What I recalled was the strange combination of being out in the desert but surrounded by mountains. Being enclosed by tall, rocky peaks which turn a purple hue at sunset. The flat roofs of the low-slung houses. The harsh sun as it rises in the sky. The palm trees lining the avenues.
An old friend from Santa Cruz lives in Palm Springs a good part of the year and enjoys everything about it. The mid-century design of most of the houses. The temperate weather in the winter. She has made friends in her new community and is now married to a wonderful man. Her first husband died while they were living in our surfside town a few years ago.
She and her then-husband lived in Santa Cruz for more than a decade and she was a big fan of our coastal town. Especially the roller coaster and the Boardwalk concerts on the beach. I would have never thought she could be truly happy anywhere else. But she is. She seems to have no regrets about having made the move. No second thoughts about packing up and testing the waters in this desert community.
Our first night in our rental house I couldn’t sleep. I had a feeling of being disconnected from Michael. When I am home in Aptos, I feel like he knows where I am. Or if I go places where we have been together, I feel like he will find me if he needs me. But, being someplace we had never been together I felt further away from him. As if I had become untethered, our invisible connection broken. No logic there, just pure emotion.
I gave up on trying to sleep. The house was quiet when I climbed out of bed. It was after midnight and as I stood looking out to the yard, the swimming pool, the hot tub, the waterfall, I was trying to put Michael into the picture. To introduce him to this place. To say to him, “Here we are. Come find us.”
I tried to imagine what Michael would do were he here.
My bathing suit was hanging in the shower drying from the late afternoon swim. It was still damp and cold and difficult to pull on. Quietly I opened the door to the patio and, wrapped in a large beach towel, I made my way across the patio to the pool. The air was cool, but the water was warm as I placed first one foot then another on the top step. Slowly, I slipped into the water and swam to the center of the pool. There, I floated on my back and looked up at the sky.
It was so very quiet. The only sound was that echo that happens when water covers one’s ears and it is as if you can hear your heart beat. I became weightless. I closed my eyes and simply felt the warmth of the water as it held me. I felt the day’s tensions melt away.
Now, I thought. Now, I will feel Michael. I will see him in the stars. I will see him in the moonlight. I will be able to show him that I am capable of doing something new. That I am taking care of myself. That I am taking care of Kira. Of Dodger. That I can float in a pool in Palm Springs just as the year is ending and a new one is on the horizon and we will all be OK. We have no choice.
Michael did not appear. I did not see him. But perhaps he saw us. And that, really, is the most important thing.