Pilgrimage

This one has been sitting as a draft in the works for a long time... It was hard to write, but important for me to finish, even three and half months later.

What does it mean to process a loss? It is an ill-defined cliché but one I hear and use frequently. I’ve been processing Chris’s death without pause for all of 2019. But what have I been doing?

Remembering, regretting, reliving.

Missing, moaning, mourning.

Wondering, wandering, wanting.

Lamenting, lingering, loving.

Puzzling, perseverating, pining.

Pilgrimage.

Processing…

Processing can occur at any time of day, in any state of consciousness, with or without intention. One of the more meaningful acts of processing has been pilgrimage. When I made my first pilgrimage on what would have been our 15^th wedding anniversary, I wondered all day whether that word was appropriate for what I was doing, which was visiting several places that were important to Chris and me, seeking something meaningful. These places are significant in the sense that these are places outside of our home in which we spent some of the best quality time together and grew closer together as partners. I’ve been wanting to write about this for a long time, because I did indeed find something meaningful, it’s just impossible to put it adequately into words.

I started by loading a T pass with several subway rides and went down onto the Alewife platform. Though it had been many years since doing this, it felt like slipping back into a comfortable routine. I made my way to the first stop on my agenda, Café Vittoria in the North End of Boston. This is a place where we went early on in our relationship. It is not a clear memory in my mind, but I do remember that Chris ordered cappuccino, added a couple of packets of sugar in the raw, then promptly stirred all of the gorgeous foam right into that drink. I teased him about it for a long time after that and he got a good laugh out of it, too. When I arrived at the cafe in 2019, I almost laughed because the place seemed completely unfamiliar. I think there were multiple levels to the cafe, but I felt stupid and nobody behind the counter seemed particularly friendly, so I just left. Café Vittoria was relegated to a nebulous, happy memory of the past. Some things will just be that way, I think, and this one was easy to leave behind.

Though it was a hot July day, threateningly humid and hazy, I decided to walk to my next destination; I knew from past wanderings on a late February night in 2018 that I could walk from the North End to MGH. That was the night of Chris’s third and last brain surgery. It had been a long day of waiting and stillness - waiting at home for it to be time to go, waiting for an afternoon surgery that was delayed, waiting for news of the procedure, and finally waiting for the surgeon to find me, the last person left in the waiting room from hell, to give me the full report that the tumor didn’t look like glioblastoma (spoiler – it was glioblastoma). Maybe the third brain surgery was the charm, because I knew not to hurry to where Chris was recovering since likely I would not be able to see him for a couple of hours. I killed the time by walking alone in the Boston night. The city was still lit up for Christmas even though it was two months gone. I walked looking for a place I could eat or even just get a glass of wine to decompress and let out the pent-up waiting breath I had been holding for a long time. No restaurant or bar seemed appropriate. I wandered from MGH to Government Center, watched some happy young couples ice skating, then walked to the North End before turning back to face the neuro ICU and whatever condition Chris was in.

Yes, in July of 2019, on what would have been our 15^th wedding anniversary, I made a pilgrimage to the hospital of all places. I had been feeling the draw of the place for some time but not had the opportunity to make the trip until this day. Slathered with sunscreen and hoping to avoid a thunderstorm, I walked from the North End, through the plaza at Government Center, and down Cambridge street to MGH. As I turned down the street and headed into the Yawkey building, I felt a lift of recognition.

This all really happened.

I’m sure it sounds strange that going to the hospital gave me relief, but it did. It’s been such a strange experience without Chris. I remember his decline in terrible detail, but it still somehow feels surreal that he could actually be permanently gone. Brain cancer? Who would have thought he would have such a rare diagnosis. At times I wonder if I made it up. Being at MGH made it clear to me that I did not because the lobby, café, halls, stairs, and elevators were all as familiar as my home. No, I didn’t make this up. This all happened.

While it was terrible, we had some incredible time together, in general and yes, even at this place. I wonder how many other people have done this, gone back to the hospital while not receiving treatment or visiting a patient. From my reading, I know my urge to revisit the hospital is not unique. Nothing I have felt or written about is actually unique. It’s funny how universal grief is and yet how alone one can feel when immersed in it…

I tried to take care and not get in the way of the business taking place there, but I still took my time and walked a few of those familiar halls. Being in the physical space where so many life-changing moments transpired brought back the intensity of those past days and, more importantly, the connection and love we shared. Here we sat countless times waiting for appointments, there I spent three long, long days waiting while Chris was in surgery. The fear and uncertainty came back to me, but Chris felt nearer than ever.

I sought out a patient education room that houses a Health Story Collaborative listening kiosk. From the HSC website, I thought that excerpts of Chris’s interview would be available on the kiosk along with other patients’ stories so I checked out headphones from the front desk and settled in to scroll through the audio files. I listened to several and then started impatiently flipping through the touchscreen pages. Chris wasn’t there. The kiosk wasn’t as updated as the HSC website. Disappointment coursed through my veins for a few minutes. I realized that I had desperately wanted to find Chris. While I knew that he wouldn’t really be there, I thought hearing his voice in this place would give me something. Chris spent so much time here, endured so much, tried hard to be a patient-partner, and I wanted these few recorded thoughts about his experience available at the place he entrusted with his very life. Briefly I closed my eyes and wished I had not come, my heart is too fragile for this kind of disappointment.

When I looked around the room again, I realized that time was slipping on, and I still had an important stop at MGH. Similar to so many other days, I forced myself to keep going. I took the familiar Yawkey elevators up to the 8^th floor. I would not go to the 9^th. No, the 9^th floor would be too much. That’s where the Pappas Center for Neuro-Oncology is located. People would recognize me there, and that was not my purpose today. Today was for anonymity and making my private pilgrimage. The 8^th floor would be close enough to allow me to touch the difficult days. It is laid out in the same way, with the same benches and views, and is home to the infusion center where Chris received Avastin for about 8 months.

When I stepped off the elevator, I could imagine ducking into the restrooms and waiting for Chris at the bench, our routine. I walked a little way down the hallway and took in the stunning and familiar view of Beacon Hill. Oh, we had seen that view from the 9^th floor in all seasons, all times of day… I passed by the waiting area for the infusion center and had to steel myself from sitting in the chairs we usually waited in. Chris wouldn’t be there, but I yearned to sit in his absence, the closest I can get now. No, not that waiting room, that would not be right.

I walked on down the hall and around the corner to enter the Healing Garden. This is a quiet space for patients and families. We had been there a couple of times to process difficult news, particularly in early 2018 when the MRI after Chris’s holiday season general seizure showed not only tumor growth, but also that it had infiltrated new parts of his brain. That was a tough, tough day. We had a feeling that the sand in the top of the hourglass was rapidly speeding through the chute and the oncologist in his brutally frank way confirmed that. We needed a space to sit and the Healing Garden had been ours alone that day.

On July 31, 2019, the Healing Garden was sadly packed with patients needing respite from chemo and families clearly broken from bad news. Since it was summer, the glass space opened to a rooftop garden overlooking Boston and Cambridge, so I quickly went outside to allow those who needed the indoor space and seating the ability to be there. Once outside, I looked at the view for a minute. We had not been wrong that last time we were at the Healing Garden, things were not looking good and in fact were terrible and did move as quickly as feared. I almost threw up with the realization again that Chris, my husband and best friend, had suffered and died.

Strangely enough, I would say that the Healing Garden did not disappoint although it bequeathed me an experience I was not expecting – a blast of bitter cold reality on a hot day. It was like that garden was a guide, pressing my fingers to the wound and forcing them to poke sharply, and at the same time connecting me to Chris.

I didn’t spend a long time in the garden and I won’t go back. It’s a place that helped us and me, but I won’t be selfish enough to take up space there again in this way. Besides, the day was really getting on and a storm was definitely brewing. I decided to walk over the Longfellow Bridge instead of entering the hot subway system again. I didn’t want the eyes of strangers on me nor my space encroached on. I walked over this bridge that I have crossed alone countless times in an earlier chapter of life – running during grad school. I left my recent past with Chris at MGH to visit memories of him from many years earlier at MIT.

As rain was imminent, I went into a building as soon as I could and once again muscle memory took over. I knew how to navigate from building to building to visit places that meant something to me. Again, I avoided a place where I might be recognized; I did not visit the chemistry building. Instead, I walked the halls housing the library, the lecture hall where we took cumulative exams, classrooms in which I taught recitation, and coffee stands. This place was a formative period of my life. It was hard. I made lifelong friends and met Chris. Once again, being in the physical place elicited memories that I had been unable to call up before. One of my earliest memories of Chris and his friend puzzling over a homework problem came alive in this courtyard. My mind’s eye saw him walking toward me with his particular walk and gentle smile.

It all really happened.

Gratitude, nostalgia, sweetness. All of these things washed over me and I wanted to linger, but once more I became aware of time passing and I needed to move on. I made my way through buildings until I couldn’t avoid going out in the street. The rain had started and it looked truly ominous, so I picked up the pace and headed to Kendall Square. Literally as I ducked into our old place, the Cambridge Brewing Company, a clap of thunder made me jump. The place appeared deserted, but a few staff members were sitting in the back. I boldly approached and asked if I could sit anywhere. They said that would be fine, so I picked our table. I chose the seat where I sat the last time we were here when we made a day of the last MGH appointment, and I directly faced Chris’s empty seat. Although I felt a little strange being alone, I claimed a place that was ours. I ordered a beer and our usual nachos, and enjoyed the memories of other times with Chris and friends. I read some of my favorite parts of Paul Kalanathi’s memoir as I ate, trying to stretch my time.

There was something so right about this day. I could not have felt closer to Chris even as I acutely felt his absence in some of our places. Writing about it now is making me sad, but on that day, I felt almost euphoric at times, my sadness was transformed for a little while.

 He was here in all of these places. He made all the difference to me. He loved me and I loved him. It all happened.

Afterward, I had to return to my children and leave my introspective and retrospective journey. Indeed, it was a pilgrimage.*

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