A Tribute to My Husband, Matt

Hi friends. It has been a while, and a lot has changed.

And if you know me, I’m not the best with change. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you more in tune over the course of the year. I wasn’t able to share a lot of the life-altering events that happened right around Bryson’s birth because it wasn’t the right time for our family. Honestly, I’m not really sure now is the right time, but since writing and blogging tend to be a solid coping mechanism for me, I’m going to give it a go. Also, we paid for another year of hosting this blog, and Matt would be REAL mad if I wasted money. On a larger scale, I’m hoping that whatever I write will serve a greater purpose: education, inspiration, and determination. 

If you follow me on social media, you know that on December 24th 2019, my husband, Matt, passed away from a rare form of cancer known as Cholangiocarcinoma.

He was diagnosed a week after the birth of our son. To say we were shocked is an understatement. My husband wasn’t your average 34 year old. He was in impeccable shape; he was a stickler for living a healthy lifestyle (except on Saturdays). Any time Matt would have the slightest ache or pain, he was at the doctors office. He religiously went to every screening and check up recommended for him. He did everything right. And yet, there we were, faced with a very dismal diagnosis a week after experiencing the birth of our son. Some would describe this as a roller coaster of emotion; I feel like it was a journey to hell and back.

This particular tribute post isn’t going to focus on the disease or Matt’s fight against it. I will say, he was one hell of a fighter. Looking through photos of him this past year, I don’t think anyone would have guessed the battle he fought day in and day out. Many of our close friends would make remarks about how they’d often forget Matt had cancer. I do think there’s value in sharing our story, educating the masses on this deadly disease, and providing an empathetic voice for others who have gone through similar experiences. If this is something you’d be interested in learning more about, feel free to message me. All you need to know right now is that this past year presented more challenges than I ever thought I was capable of handling. Matt and I were both told many times how “strong” we were/are. From my perspective, you don’t know how strong you are until you’re presented with something so life-altering that you have no choice but to be strong. I would give back every ounce of strength, in a heartbeat, to avoid this tragedy.

Now here we are.

I sit here one month after Matt’s passing and a little over a year since his diagnosis. While these events will forever be ingrained in my memory, I choose (for the most part) not to focus on them. My Matt was so much more than stupid cancer. He was a cross between Danny Tanner and Uncle Joey, depending on which day of the week you interacted with him. His infectious smile, hilarious antics, and way of making every person he met feel special will continue to make us all laugh and smile together. Most of us will never be able to hear a Guns and Roses song or hold a sharpie without thinking of Matt. The reminders, the moments, and the memories are what lift me up and will, one day, show our son how truly “legen…wait for it…dary” (said in the Barney Stinson voice) his dad is.

The services we held for Matt were fittingly not traditional. My absolute favorite part was the tribute sharing. To every person who stood up and shared your favorite moments, you rock. You helped make this suck-sandwich bearable. I personally chose to share my thoughts in letter form, and I’d like to share it here, as well. Matt was a big supporter of my blog, reading every post (either by choice or by force), and encouraged me to share in a very raw and real manner.

Before I get into this letter, though, I’d like to take a minute to thank everyone, all 400+ of you, who took time out of your busy lives to attend Matt’s services. Whether you traveled down the road or across state lines, your presence was so appreciated. I hope you enjoyed our unconventional approach to a memorial service, as we believe that is exactly what Matt would have wanted. Many of you have reached out to our family over the course of this battle and particularly over the past few weeks. We are so grateful for all of you. One thing that was made very clear to me this year, it takes a village. Without the support of our family and friends, we would be absolutely lost. I’ve never been one to ask for help or admit that I need it, but this year put a lot into perspective for me. For all of us.

On that note, I’d also like to thank everyone who donated to the Cholangiocarcinoma Foundation in honor of Matt. The most recent tally we’ve received between Facebook donations and direct donations is almost $15,000.00. I am honestly and genuinely amazed by the generosity of so many of you out there. Matt was a man of science, and it is through science and research that we can move forward and continue to fight on behalf of Matt. This war is far from over, but more to come on that later.

Now my tribute to Matt.

Ok, one more thought before the letter. I don’t consider this good bye. It is my belief that Matt’s spirit is still here; still listening and watching over all of us. I’ve been encouraged by many to look for the little signs he sends our way. Ironically, the most beautiful double rainbow appeared over Federal Hill on the day of his service. I choose to believe, in true Matt Sgambato fashion, nothing is ever done on a small scale. His signs will always be blazing for all to see. 

Dear Matt, 

 The letter I was hoping never to write. It’s difficult to grasp that you aren’t physically here anymore. I wake up every morning expecting to see you; hoping that all of this was one big nightmare. But it isn’t. Over the past year, we talked quite frequently about how unbelievable this situation truly was. We were angry. We were sad. We cried, but every moment of crying and doubt was followed up with fight, hope, and determination. You’d often express how hard this was, but immediately follow it up with “but I’m not giving up.”  The only solace I find in any of this is that you never stopped fighting; you never gave up hope. You asked me to make sure that if, one day, the end result didn’t turn out in our favor, I wouldn’t say “you lost your battle.” It wasn’t a fair fight to begin with. And you didn’t. You won every day you stayed with us, determined to keep fighting for your family and for your loved ones, even when the fight was both mentally and physically impossible. You did everything you possibe to spend time with your son, stick to your healthy routine, and find moments of joy with friends and family. Last time I checked, 335-1 is a winning record. You are a true champion and I will be proud to share that with our son one day. 

I don’t want this letter to be about how this last year progressed, as that is not how you want any of us to remember you. The stories I’ll tell Bryson won’t focus on the trials you faced throughout this past year, but the many, many, many more moments of happiness, humor,  love, and lightheartedness you were the master of for the 34 years before. From the day you wore my shorts nine years ago to the day you wore a wedding band, and beyond, I’ve been blessed with the opportunity to stand by your side. I knew we had something special when you willingly offered to bring car-less Christina to the hospital about a week after we started dating. I’m not sure if you were just being kind, because that’s your nature, and probably thought I was a nut, but that simple gesture still makes me smile. From that day forward, you went to many a doctor appointment and blood draw with me, as my safety net in case I passed out. You still didn’t go running when I accidentally moved to the house in back of you after about 3 months of dating. I’ll always remember how we became “official” in the Outer Banks when you turned over in bed (we were both in our mid-late 20s) and said “So, are we a thing?”  That’s love.

Our travels brought us across Europe, from Estonia to Portugal, and across the US from Florida to Colorado. You only sometimes complained about how much I made you walk during these trips, because we were both so fascinated by all of the history and, of course, all the culturally appropriate adult beverages along the way. The Douro Valley will always be our special place, and one day,  I will share our many adventures with Bryson over a glass of the 2016 Taylor Vintage port you were saving for our 20th anniversary. 

While our many travels created so many memorable moments, it is the moments at home that bring me the most joy. We’d often spend late nights dancing on our roof deck or hanging out the bedroom window, talking about life and the life we envisioned together. This evolved over the years, as our dreams and life goals evolved with each other. You supported me in all of my whimsical moments, from going back to grad school to starting my blog to a couple of career changes. You never made me feel bad or embarrassed. You supported me 100% because that’s how our relationship was. You just wanted me to be happy. And I was; Every moment I was with you, even when you rationed my Nespresso spending, made me happy. I hope you felt the same.

It’s not to say we didn’t have our moments; there were disagreements and compromise. You agreed to support Georgia Football, and I tolerated Uconn Basketball. You never agreed to support the Patriots, but often referred to Tom Brady as the GOAT. You weren’t a fan of my cooking and I wasn’t a fan of your wardrobe. But, even in the most challenging disagreements, we always worked it out because that’s what love is. 

I’ll miss dancing with you to Run Around Sue, singing Queen with you on our roof deck, Sunday trips to Harris Teeter and Starbs, your spot-on impersonation of Elmo, listening to you read to Bryson, and even the sound of Guns and Roses or Oasis playing outside until 4 in the morning. I’ll miss your inability to keep a secret or withhold a surprise (like when you told me you asked my dad for my hand in marriage). I’ll miss your constant reminder to remember the baseboards when dusting and your disdain for my automobile care. I’ll miss picking out the perfect Christmas tree with you, family dinners, and our Saturday walks to the Farmers Market. Sunday meal prep will never be the same; Every time I drive to New England, I’ll hear you saying “Damn Connecticut. I’m never driving here again.”  

I’ll miss ragging on you for staying out too late with the H Sigma O/Baltimore crew. I’ll really miss complaining with Jenny about how ridiculous you and Shane are.  I’ll miss our wedding adventures and hometown visits with the CT crew. I’ll miss Maine adventures with our friends and family up there. I’ll miss the constant request for a fire pit, and your love for riding the John Deere tractor.  I’ll miss how much you welcomed all of my friends and their significant others into your heart and into our home. The fact that many of them have traveled here to celebrate you is a testament to how much of an impact you really have made on so many people. I’ll miss your innate ability to entertain everyone at my family gatherings, pulling out the fun and absolute best in everyone. 

Most of all, I’ll just miss the little things. I’ll miss our Jeopardy addiction; I’ll miss  your vocal enthusiasm while working out, watching UConn basketball with Kris, and talking to your dad about financials. I’ll miss you asking me not to overreact or over-think things, and recommending I go for a walk with Alley to sort things out.  I’ll miss watching you play fetch with Charlie the dog, and shaking your head at me every time I refer to him as “our first born.” I’ll miss how excited you got when wonderful things, like pregnancies and engagements, happened to our friends, even when times were really tough for us.  I’ll miss your smile and your green, green eyes. I’ll miss saying I love you and hearing you say it back every morning and every night. Even though you aren’t physically here, I still find myself talking to you and asking myself, “what would Matt do?” I’ll never understand  why you were taken away from us, but is my belief that your spirit is still here. Every day, every moment in all the little things. There is so much more I’m going to miss, but we don’t have all day here. So, I’ll talk to you about it on our time. I’ll love you forever, Matthew Erik. 

Christina

I struggle writing this, as these are the types of blog posts I always hated reading over the past year. However, I hope it brings some some comfort and some sort of relativity to others out there. Moving forward, as Matt would want, again, because we paid for another year of this blog subscription, I’ll be posting much more frequently, as I face new challenges and new chapters the best way I can.

Until next time friends.

Xtina