Broken Solar Lights

The last time a new year rolled in, I was in a state of frozen shock. We had received word mid-morning that the only hospice house in our county had a bed for Chris and, a surprisingly short time later, he left our home for the last time by ambulance. After waiting and wading through four difficult weeks, the time had come for this move. There was no control over the timing, no planning could really be done, and then we had to just go. Maybe it was better that way, for what do you discuss as you pack for the final journey? It was New Year’s Eve, of all possible days, and it felt ironic or fitting, or both. Well, why not since the holiday is already ruined with traumatic brain tumor memories?

Chris seemed more at ease with the support at the hospice house. I knew it was right even though I didn’t know much of anything else. As family prepared to leave for the night, Chris wanted a burger. Working in the area, I knew just where to go to finally do something that would give him comfort. As I call up that moment now, I know that Chris really loved that burger. It was the last time that he enjoyed food, maybe even with gusto, if I remember right. As the last hours of 2018 quietly ran out, I curled up in an uncomfortable plastic-coated reclining chair next to Chris’s bed and stared out at the woods and frozen pond. Flickering, broken solar lights on the barren deck sent random sparks into the night, like the last vestiges of summer dying a prolonged death. Forget happy new year, try hopeless new year instead.

The end of the year will never be a carefree time for me; I’m not sure I’ll be ready to truly celebrate New Year’s Eve again. Twelve years ago, life changed when Chris had his first general seizure and we became aware of the different track he and we were set on. Three years ago, he experienced an intense focal/partial seizure at a New Year’s Eve dinner party and we were both filled with dread that the tumor was back. We found out a few weeks later that it was… One year ago, he left our home permanently. Today, well today is lonely. It feels like the rest of the world is excited about a new decade whereas I’m reluctant to leave 2019, the last year Chris started with me. I’m not enthusiastic about what the next year or decade will bring. I am not full of plans and optimism. Today, I’m resigned to living out the minutes and memories as they come.

Like those flickering solar lights, my internal state oscillates with seemingly no order or productive function. In one minute, my stomach clenches with despair and the empty missing feeling. In another, I can call up happy memories. I remember Chris as we stood at the front of the church and said our vows, the most tender and open look on his face as he reached for the ring to give me, his fingers headed for his ring until gently prompted for mine, and I smile. But then he’s not here to marvel over the madness of what we went through. I remember the seizures and ambulance rides, the long talks about absolutely everything, the horrible MRI reports, silly family jokes and stunts, the shocking loss of vision and reading ability, happy evenings, desperate emergency room visits and hospital stays, long hugs, the last slow winks. Back, forth, back, forth. Missing, thankful, mourning, loving, lost. Dark, light, dark, light, dark. So much dark even when the tiny light flicks back on.
   

I suppose the next year will be full of much of the same. I miss him.