You, Us, I, We

Dear Chris,

The day I've been dreading since you died has arrived - our anniversary. I don't know what to make of still being here without you and marking 15 years since the day we were married, the day we made Us official. It is not our 15th anniversary, I guess. The wording "it would have been my 15th anniversary" comes to mind and I don't like how it sounds, but it is fitting. Our marriage required us both to be here and you're not now, so it's not 15 years old. It definitely would have been if you had lived.

July 31, 2004

Fifteen. One of those multiples of five. Not a huge one that people celebrate but also not just a tiny milestone. We only got one of those flashy anniversaries at 10 years. I know it bothered you and you were sad that we wouldn't see others, like 25 or 50 years. I am sad about that, too. In one of my recent spells of daydreaming, I imagined what you would look and be like as an old man. It broke my heart into a few more pieces. You would have reveled in being a grandfather if our kids have children. You would have cared for me for years if you could. We had what it took to make it work for a long lifetime. I know we did. I'm so sorry you didn't get the chance to see more years.

Another of my daydreams is thinking about what I would do if I could have five more minutes with you now. What would I say to you? I spent a long time thinking about how I would pepper you with questions and say all of those things I always say in my head. I love you. I have missed you. Thank you. I am so sorry. That last one is important because I still cannot forgive myself for not playing your last day differently. When I'm being honest with myself, I know that you always forgave me. You always knew that I meant well if I didn't get something right. In fact there was not one thing I ever said or did that you didn't forgive and move on from. I'm trying to remember that as I continue to grapple with regrets. Our special wedding dance song reminds me that words are not needed. We both knew that. So if I could have those five minutes, I don't think I would say anything but instead just give you the tightest hug I could.

Sometimes I still cannot believe you are actually gone. When I can accept that you are gone in other moments, I am astonished that I am able to breathe and move in this world without you. I love you so much. Basically as far back as I can remember you I have loved you. Even early on when I couldn't name that feeling it was there. Something in me immediately recognized you as home. You were so special. So kind and genuine, so gentle. Fun-loving, funny, happy. I miss you so much, the emptiness left behind from your death is endless. I wish I could make you know that I still love you, maybe more than ever, and I always will. I hope you somehow do feel my love. I feel your love in this house, in our family, in my mind and heart. You were incredible and left me a legacy of your love.

I also miss Us, and that is not quite the same as missing you. Everything that made you so special to me as an individual you poured into nurturing Us, just as I freely gave the best parts of me to Us. Forming an unbreakable, loving partnership was important to both of us, and while the work of building Us was mostly joyful, we both learned about compromise, speaking truth, forgiveness, and sacrifice. We didn't have very long to be a regular Us before the specter of grave illness, just three and a half years of marriage. We were close in those years, best friends. I'm thankful for that time because it laid a strong foundation for what was to come. It is hard to describe what did come in the years following your diagnosis. Yes, there was intense worry, great uncertainty, and deep sadness before the recurrence. We turned toward each other, to Us, to get through. I am aware that some couples cannot survive this type of situation and I'm profoundly thankful that we did. I'm proud of you, and I'm proud of me, and I'm proud of Us. The Us that developed over the years, even the really tough ones at the end, gave us a sense of well-being, of peace, and of refuge. As long as we were together everything felt safe.

Us, 2014

Before you died I would have written that confidently - we felt safe and completely fulfilled in our partnership. Now that you're gone, I worry over my words. Am I being accurate if I use "we" in conversation? Do I really know what you were feeling? Am I deluded about Us and how close we were? Was it all even real? Every now and then when I remember conversations, look at pictures, or listen to recordings we made together, I can tap back into the feeling of being Us. Those moments are a gift but also incredibly sad because I miss Us. It is so painful that Us is gone, it really is more wrenching than I imagined. It took two to make Us, to be able to say We, and now there is just me left behind. Everything was better when I was part of Us. The way of the Us life is gone and cannot be replaced. I have to keep saying it to believe it... 

The enormous loss of Us is exemplified by my language choices. Unless I am talking about the past specifically, I have started saying "I" more than "We" in conversation even though it is incredibly painful. I suppose I said "We do this or that" a million times and it was brain muscle memory to keep doing it, but the longer you are gone, the more that type of comment feels wrong. I hate to admit it, but I am sensitive about what people think of me. If I keep saying "We" do people think I cannot understand the situation, that you're gone? Still, phrases of "I do things this way" feel like acid in my mouth, particularly when I'm thinking about taking care of our house and finances, and especially about parenting our children. It feels horrendously disloyal to say "I" but increasingly uncomfortable to say "We." Please forgive me. I'm feeling this all out the best I can. I want you to know that I speak of you freely, frequently, and with the utmost love and respect. 

Yes, I'm doing the best I can. It is not pretty sometimes. When I talk to you in my head I often cry to you that I don't know what to do without you. It's true, I'm quite lost without you. But, I cannot lose myself completely; I am quite aware of my heightened responsibility now. There is no spare parent, I can't go down. I have no idea what I'm doing and live literally a couple of days at a time, just floating along and putting out fires as I go. I don't have the ability to think and plan much farther ahead than that. It's working for right now but I'm worried about going back to work and school. The routine may actually be a needed shove toward effective functioning, I don't really know, but I'm worried everyone will expect me to be normal. I don't know what normal is anymore.

What I do know is that I have a lot of good people around me. Some of them would not surprise you at all. Our families are the best and you always knew it, good friends, too. What I want to tell you is that I have some new friends, Chris. I can't believe it but I have met and become closer to a lot of people because you died. Actually some of these folks I have not even met in person but have interacted with in the brain cancer and wider widowed community. The world is an amazing place. You helped me see this while you were here, and you help me now that you're gone, too.

Chris, I am not exactly sure what you wanted at the end of your life with respect to our wedding vows. When you spoke to our friend to write a piece with her in December, she thought you wanted to renew them but we didn't get to it. You wanted me to share the vows with our parents and we did do that by email. It all adds up to me knowing that our vows were important to you. Please know that they are important to me, too. As with just about anything, they make me sad to revisit but also deeply grateful when I do. I will make sure the kids see these some day.

When I read what you wrote and spoke for me, I smile now because you absolutely lived by these words:

Betsy, this wedding is a celebration of our love for one another and a commitment to be loving and faithful to each other for the rest of our lives. It’s a continuation of a life together that we’ve already begun. You’ve made me so happy already, and the joy of knowing that we have a lifetime to spend together is truly a gift. I promise to do everything I can to help us grow together as a couple, and also to be there to support and encourage you as you grow as an individual. I promise to love you unconditionally, to be there to listen to you, hug you and hold you when you are happy and when you are sad. I promise to be patient, understanding and forgiving; to listen to you, to discuss things, and to work through any problems we might have. I promise to love and hold you through good times and bad, sickness and health for all the days of our lives. I love you!

You did it. You loved me unconditionally until your last day. You forgave me freely, this I will remember forever. You prioritized Us and showed me grace. You expressed your love in every way you could, understanding it was the most important thing to do. You did so well, Chris. We got more than our share of bad times and sickness for 14.5 years of marriage, but you showed me more than 50 years worth of love. You couldn't have been a better husband.

It's only right to remember my vows, too:

Chris, we’ve come so far to arrive at this day. We became friends. We learned to reach out to each other and to share our lives. We became a team. Along the way, you deeply touched me with your thoughtful heart, kind ways and most of all, with your love. Today we fully join our lives, beginning down a new path together. Along the way, I promise to treasure and nurture our partnership, while honoring our individuality. I will encourage us to grow, to serve others, and to take the higher road both independently and as a couple. I promise to support you and be your friend through achievements, disappointments, joys, and sorrows. In times of decision and disagreement, I promise to listen, to be willing to compromise, and to be open to change. I will be there to celebrate with you, and I will be there to cry with you. I promise to hold you, and I promise to love you in good times and hard, in sickness and in health, for all the days of my life. I love you!

I did it, too. I did celebrate with you and I did cry with you, and I hope you felt my support and friendship. I loved you in the good times and in some devastatingly hard times of sickness. We made it together. I am proud of Us. We had an outstanding, successful marriage. I just wish it had been a lot longer...

As July 31 unfolds, I will be mourning you as a husband and person, and I will be missing Us. It will be a very difficult day. As much as it hurts and feels like pouring salt in a wound, it will be the day to take my wedding band off. It seems right to place it on my family necklace with your wedding band. Those two rings can be together and it will be okay. I am selfishly sad about my engagement ring - we picked it out together and I honestly love it. I know that rings don't reflect how much or even whether someone loves you, that kind of love cannot be shown by any symbol and I am absolutely confident that you loved and love me. I shouldn't "need" to have an engagement ring but I do admit to liking the overt sign that someone chose me. Shallow, I know, but I have had to give up so much, must I give up this ring, too? I've thought about this a lot. I think I will try it on my other hand. If I like that, I might have it resized to fit better so I can continue to enjoy it. I know none of this ring stuff matters, Chris. Nothing can change our love. I do not need reminders to think about you, I always am. The rings are something I have to deal with being the person left in the world of the living. I hope you understand. Actually, I know you would. You always did.

Today I will also try to celebrate you and Us. I plan to go to some of our places. I know it will hurt, but I want to remember some of our special or even just typical times in Cambridge and Boston. I won't find you in the present at any of them but I hope I can remember the fun and love that we shared. I hope I can feel Us again even for a few seconds.

I don't know how to end this. It feels like I'm talking to you and I never want to stop. I love you so much. I miss you terribly. Thank you so much for a wonderful life, for being part of a treasured Us. 

Your wife,

Betsy  

That's Not How It Works

Phoenix rose very early this morning as she often does, demanding her breakfast and time in the yard before much of the neighborhood was awake. But being the good pup she is, she was convinced to take a snooze with me after her needs were met. As I dozed off into a light sleep, strange and vivid dreams passed through my mind. I dreamed of Chris, one of only a few times. In this dream, I felt Chris’s comforting presence strongly but I couldn’t find him. He seemed to be right behind me but I couldn’t see or touch him. I said to him imploringly, “I want you to come back.” The only thing dream-Chris communicated to me was, “That’s not how it works.” It was not a mean comment but it also wasn’t particularly reassuring, it was the truth laid out for me. That was it, that was the end of the dream. I woke with an uneasy, unsatisfied feeling and I’ve been thinking about this dream all day.

I’m a practical person; I don’t believe that people come back to us in dreams. Still, when your special, deceased person is suddenly there in a dream it’s hard to remember that dreams are just electrical activity in neurons, well-worn circuitry activated in a state of semi-consciousness. My mind has been busily working on something lately but during the day the thoughts come too fast and are too interrupted to discern a theme or message. The sleep state relaxed other thoughts and only then could I find clarity.

That’s not how it works.

What a simple sentence, an answer to a lot of swirling questions… Chris in his great wisdom and intentional living showed me this, and my own mind processed his lesson and delivered it to me when I most needed it.

In my journey thus far I have had to beat down a lot of unflattering thoughts and questions. Wanting Chris to come back is something I wish for daily. I know it's not possible, but I cannot help it. This dream message was not unkind, only needed, just as we often helped each other in real life. I’m not proud to admit that there are other questions and thoughts it applies to. I have lamented that Chris developed a brain tumor since he was such a good person, such a smart person who was contributing to society through his job and charitable donations. Why did this happen to us when we did everything right? We followed all of the rules, we lived deliberately, we pursued the best medical care and respected all of its recommendations. We did everything right. Why do our children have to suffer this catastrophic loss when they had a devoted, involved father? It all seems like such a waste of good decisions and safe living.  

That’s not how it works.

It’s a good thing, I guess. It’s easy to say “I’m a good person” and overlook my various flaws and shortcomings, not to mention my great privilege. Wouldn’t everyone say he is a good person? Why do I think I’m so good and more deserving of life than any other? It's a selfish, arrogant attitude to assume I don't deserve hardship but others might. Moreover, even if I was right that Chris and I are good people, doesn’t it make sense that this tragedy befell us because we are/were well-situated to handle it? After all, our privileged yet measured, rule-following living gave us a financially and emotionally secure family life. We both paid close attention to our children throughout this ordeal and they have a comfortable, stable life. Who could navigate this better? Maybe the fate that met us is actually appropriate in lieu of colliding with some other family less well off, with a less sure grounding. We were in a good position to handle something horrific and we got that. That doesn’t sit well… We got it because we could handle it?   

                                                                             

That’s not how it works.

Thank goodness that is not how it works. There is no rhyme nor reason.

Why do I find this comforting? There is nothing I or we could have done to avoid it. Just as the random fortunate happening of biology created the specific, unique person of Chris, an unhappy accident of nature caused the brain tumor and took him away. There was no reason, it just happened. The rain falls on the just and unjust, so there is no point in trying to adjudicate who is the just.

The flip side to this comfort is the following question – given this monumental loss, am I now immune to further calamities? No. That’s not how it works. I could be diagnosed with cancer, an autoimmune disorder, taken out by a car accident tomorrow, or encounter any other of a countless array of problems. Even though I cannot bear to imagine, the same is true for our children. Or, maybe we will escape major misfortune for a while. This part of the randomness is not comforting. Lightning can strike twice even though most people are never struck at all.

What to do? All I can do is live with an appropriate amount of preventative caution and benevolence for the sake of the rightness of being good to others, not because being "good" will result in easy living. Also, I need to appreciate what I do have in the here and now. Easier said than done sometimes, but I am trying…

Whatever I saw or heard in that dream came from me, not Chris. Yet, that doesn’t mean that I cannot learn or take something from this dream and it doesn’t mean there was nothing of Chris in it. I knew him well and my mind called up the essence of Chris. It was him and not him at the same time. I needed some answer for my endless pondering and I got one, even though it was somewhat different than what I hoped for.

I am an eternal student of life, I guess, destined to be continually surprised by my own deficiencies.