Occupying His Absence

After the big emotional effort/expenditure of getting through the Cooperstown trip and Father’s Day, I had a couple of days of general malaise. I was no longer laid out crying all night and looking horrifically hung over from that the next day, but instead I did a lot of nothing. For only the second and third times since adopting Phoenix I did not reach 10,000 steps for the day. I didn’t put much thought into cooking nor eating particularly healthily or exercising for only myself (i.e., more than minimally walking the dog). The word scrounge comes to mind. After yet another poor night of sleep, numbing my brain by watching a Netflix show until I fell asleep and it continued to run on and on, I decided that would be enough of that. I needed to care again about the things I have always cared about and stop being a robot that only delivers children places and collects and cleans dirty clothes and dishes.

So, I did what I often do and went crazy in the other direction. I filled every minute of the next day with activities. It was jammed with a fishing outing, off-leash adventure, manic mopping of all of the floors, grilling a decent dinner of vegetables and meat, running, mowing the lawn, games of catch. Once the kids were in bed, I read my book and then sensibly turned out the light figuring I had to be tired enough to go to sleep without further tricking my mind with more distractions. Sleep did come easily but not for long, 25,000 steps could not prevent waking in a panic from some nebulous bad dream. Unable to remember the details of the dream, my mind started to relive my own real life traumas in the silent darkness of my bedroom.

As I revisited memories of Chris slipping away from me bit by bit and then his final day, I futilely reached across to his side of the bed. The bedding was neatly made up, under it the sheet was cold and flat, his pillow undisturbed. There was Chris’s absence laid out right next to me just as it is every night. How many hundreds of nights had he actually been there in his warm, solid, comforting way? It was a few thousand, actually. What was that even like? I started to fear forgetting him. I turned my mind from those difficult memories and conjured up Chris. His forearm right next to me, fair with little hair and few freckles. His self-described skinny legs ending in feet with the second toes longer than the big toes. Chris’s thick black hair that I routinely cut and which had been shaved three times on the left. It fell out from radiation and grew back two times in eleven years and it turned a little salt-and-pepper in that time. His beautiful smile, though purposefully not wide to cover his teeth. Best of all, his expressive and kind blue eyes. The images of Chris came back easily, but my hand still touched a flat expanse of empty bed when I reached out again.

Oh, my dear one. You are so familiar, yet so far from me. I miss you so much.

In desperate need of making any change to that moment, I rolled over onto Chris’s side of the bed. I buried my face in his pillow and laid my body where he should be. I breathed deeply in, but all I smelled was freshly laundered pillowcase washed many times now since he died. There was no lingering trace of his scent to be inhaled. I explored the space with my body but it was if making a snow angel on the bed. He was not there. I was literally occupying his absence.

I thought about this deeply and realized that so many times lately I have been occupying Chris’s absence. At the grill, paying bills, taking N fishing, watching the kids grow. It is so unfair. He should be here but these kids are stuck with just me. It’s not temporary, either, it’s permanent. As a book I read recently described it, Glitter and Glue by Kelly Corrigan, Chris is not coming back for their best days nor their worst. My despair deepened as I thought about the kids’ loss in a way that I haven’t before. They are so young that, assuming good fortune, their long-term memories are mostly going to be of a family of three. Of course I had thought of their loss, but it was in a more superficial way anticipating their achievements, graduations, weddings without Chris. I had not yet thought about how the adult versions of our children would look back and view the totality of their childhoods. I had not yet thought of their loss in a realistic way, the small ways that will permeate their entire lives. I thought of my own father and how I still rely on him for advice on practical matters. Who will my children call for advice on repairs to their own cars and homes? Who will always be there for them in a quiet and steadfast way? Who will unexpectedly be overcome with emotion at the birth of their children? The answer is disconcerting. Either it is nobody or me alone. I don’t know if I can occupy Chris’s absence adequately for them. Actually, I already know that I cannot be him for them.

I’ve been living minute to minute trying to survive the impact of Chris’s death; I’ve been triaging everything and still waiting, deep down, for Chris to come back. There has not been enough time for me to understand. As the months pile up into years it will become different for the kids and probably for me. Our time being a family of four will become more distant. Time moves only in one direction…

But I want you to come back. I need you to come back. Come ba-ack….

Profound, suffocating sadness descended in that dark bedroom. Once again I had to change the moment. I turned over onto my back landing in the middle of the bed, the place where nobody sleeps when two occupants are present. My head rested flat on the mattress between my pillows and Chris’s, completing the alien sensation. I reached as far as I could to each side with my arms and legs, a starfish desperate to mark the boundaries of confinement. Finding none, only occupying his unending absence, I cried for Chris. He is gone, never to come this way again.