The Only Thing We Have Control Over

In 2021, Andrea was commissioned to write a newsletter. They decided to call it Things That Don’t Suck.

But just a couple weeks after signing the contract, Andrea was in the hospital for an emergency hysterectomy. The diagnosis came. Ovarian cancer.

“This is the worst time to be writing Things That Don’t Suck,” Andrea said to me, incredulous.

But within moments, they changed their mind.

“Actually—no. This is the perfect time.”

This was one of my favorite qualities of Andrea’s: the ability to gently nudge the kaleidoscope they were using to look at the world until an entirely different picture settled into view. Suddenly—magnificent color.

And so began Andrea’s journey with this newsletter: seeing four years of aggressive cancer, multiple chemotherapies, canceled tours, and the singular grief of knowing you will say goodbye to everyone you have ever loved all at once—through the lens of what’s beautiful. What’s bursting with awe and astonishment.

What I’m about to say next may sound a little woo-woo, but it feels so true:

When Andrea initially agreed to write this newsletter, I believe something in them knew—before their brain, before any facts—what was impending.

A self-proclaimed hypochondriac, cancer was Andrea’s biggest fear. And so I believe it was their soul that signed the contract, committing to look at the years ahead through the filter of what doesn’t suck.

And so they did.

And life imitates art.

For four years, Andrea didn’t just write bravely—they lived bravely. We danced through the diagnosis. We sang. We made art and love and magic out of the mundane. We laughed more than ever. We appreciated each other better than we ever had before. We called ourselves lucky. We were four-leaf clovers made from two-leaf clovers and glue. We felt brand new. We were plugged into the miracle.

Face-to-face with their mortality, Andrea taught me how to live. They taught anyone who was willing to listen. And now that Andrea has died (allegedly), Things That Don’t Suck has become my project to continue.

Once again it feels like our souls made some kind of agreement. Signed a cosmic contract. Because I could look at this time through the lens of this sucks. Of course it does! It is reasonable to find it difficult to train your eye toward joy and gratitude when you are widowed at thirty-six.

But I can hear Andrea whispering: No, baby. This is the perfect time.

Andrea often quoted their therapist, who said, “The only thing we have control over in this life is where we put our attention.” I know that to put my attention on all that is awful would be to have profoundly missed the point of all Andrea was guiding me toward, guiding us toward, in these last four years.

So this is my inheritance from my love: to continue their legacy of shifting my attention. To hunt for truffles of joy in a sometimes-muddied life. To keep asking the question Andrea taught us how to ask—

What doesn’t suck?

And in the asking, to find so, so much more.

So who am I?

I’m Meg. Andrea’s wife. Their partner of eleven years and counting. Their editor. The person who told them not to put the words moon and firefly in every poem they wrote. I’m a poet, an essayist, a memoirist, a poetry teacher. And the mother of our three dogs.

In this space, I’ll share my own writing—about staying present for our sadness, the privileges of aging, and the many ways Andrea continues to send me love letters from beyond. I’ll publish some of Andrea’s never-before-seen poems & songs. I’ll re-release their older work with new context, new light.

I’ll continue the creative conversation Andrea and I were always having—across time now, rather than in the same room.

Perhaps joy is a personality trait. But more likely, it’s a practice. A muscle you build by dancing when you’re inclined to stay in bed. An exercise in opening your heart again and again, even when a voice insists it would be safer to remain closed. And grief, I think, is its own kind of emotional paint thinner, stripping everything back until only the truest thing remains.

For now, this is a free newsletter. If you choose to contribute $5 a month, you help ensure it can remain free for those who cannot afford it. Your paid subscription also helps Andrea Gibson Poetry continue to publish and carry forward Andrea’s words and messages, and helps support their family, friends, and loved ones—a stipulation Andrea adamantly wrote into their will.

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Andrea carried so many people throughout their life. And since writing this newsletter, I’ve felt the torch pass to me—to help carry people through Andrea’s death. If grief is the continuation of love, then maybe I am the continuation of Andrea.

In the Jewish tradition, a person dies twice: once when their body stops, and again when their name is spoken for the last time.

It comforts me to know that in my lifetime, I will never witness Andrea’s second death. And because of your support, I don’t believe that a second death will come for a very, very long time.

Come shift the kaleidoscope with me. Let’s look at this miracle together.

If you’re new here and want to wander a little further, I’ve gathered a few past issues below—words that meant a great deal to Andrea, and to this community:

How I Kept My Spirit From Breaking

The Most Magical Story I May Ever Tell

17 Ways to Open Your Heart

And here is a glimmer of my writing, too:

Don’t Ask a Widow This.

If you’re thinking about gifts this season, know that this newsletter can be given—an offering of language and companionship for anyone learning how to live with loss, love, and what comes after.

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So, welcome. Or welcome back.

The Things That Don’t Suck community has been the softest landing place for me since Andrea’s alleged death. I’m grateful you’re here. From every corner of my heart, thank you.

Love,

Meg (+ Andrea, forever)