July 31, 2021 was a Saturday, just like it was in 2004. Alone, I marked 17 years since I was married. It was a hard day trying to act normal while feeling hurt-angry, like a wounded animal. Although I do not believe that Chris can hear my thoughts or read my words, it occasionally helps to address him directly. Sometimes I simply plead for him to come back or to help me. Other times I have more to say or feel he deserves better from me, like that milestone day which has taken some time to process.
…
If I were a better person, maybe
today would have been one of gratitude for the love we shared, for re-reading
our vows and looking at pictures with thanks running through my head. I’m not,
so I didn’t do those things…
The pictures hurt too much to
look at. In fact, I removed our wedding picture from the mantle long ago
because it became confusing to see our young, happy faces in the photo while the me in the mirror ages alone, muddles through alone. It was not
helpful to my daily life without you to see us smiling from atop the fireplace,
so I replaced it with a family picture.
Though I do not have them
memorized, I don’t need to read the words we said during our wedding because the
essence of them is indelibly imprinted on my mind. We both put our unique spin
on the traditional words, and I know we both meant those promises. We lived
them fully and deeply, and I am proud of us every day.
Today I couldn’t bring myself to conjure
those memories. Instead, I was focused on the two sentences that were left out
from the vows. The sentences that we didn’t know on our wedding day, that were handed
down soon after with a terrible cruelty.
Yours, of course, was the death
sentence. Nobody could see it on our wedding day, but the tumor was probably
already there extending its tendrils through your brilliant brain, penning the
prologue to your untimely demise. It was later revealed that you would be required
to loosen your grip on everything you loved, including me, and die before you
were finished.
For some reason that defies
logic, or more accurately for no reason at all, I got life. There was no way to
know it back then, but mine was a life sentence of living without you.
These sentences were not about delivering
justice; rather biology and neuroscience blindly dealt them to us - death for
you and life for me (for now).
…
I am not serving out my life
sentence gracefully, Chris. I miss you with a ferocity that alarms me. The bottomless
pit of sadness scares me more. Quite simply, I struggle. I wish you could help
me with this as inane as that sounds.
Often, I wonder what I could
have done differently and better throughout our marriage. I go down the rabbit
hole of wondering if I was actually good enough for you and whether most people
think the better person died. I know that I should have worried less and had more
fun in too many moments. As you faced down your death sentence, I should have been
less afraid to cross a line and instead asked more questions about what you
were feeling, to give you more chances to talk. I am not sure if I “should”
have sought your counsel about my life sentence, but I wish I had not avoided discussing
it with you. We did talk some, but I held back because I was worried
about hurting you with my worries about my future life, which you did not have.
…
As guests have once again come to
our house after so many months of isolation, I recently landed in proximity to
the marriages of others and glimpsed the periphery of their private worlds. I was
reminded how a marriage gives an individual support, lends counsel, provides a
respite. A few times this called some of our own magic to mind, but the relief
of that ephemeral sense was immediately followed by the punch that the magic is
just a memory now. Similarly, I allowed myself to wear my rings for a few hours
today. They slid on perfectly and looked simple and beautiful, as they always
did. I felt both immensely relieved and like an incredible fraud, so I removed
them before anyone else noticed.
You were my counsel, Chris. I
always looked to you, relied on you, and you never once disappointed me.
You were my delight. I laughed
freely when you were animated. I was proud of your accomplishments and more so
of the way you treated people and moved in the world.
You were my comfort. In you, I
found true respite - I could draw a deep breath and let it all the way out.
When we were together, everything felt okay even when it most certainly was
not.
You were my love.
You are not here anymore.
…
It feels like someone dropped a neat
spool of thread the day you died and it has been haphazardly rolling away ever
since. Now there is so much thread strewn on the floor, bunched up and tangled,
that it would be impossible to straighten the length out and wind it neatly to
get back that perfect spool of life with you.
Similarly, I have thought about
what is left of you, tucked away in my dresser. My brain understands that I
could never reconstitute you by adding water to the small box containing your ash
and bone bits.
The futility of that imagery forces me to see that it’s impossible to go back.
My heart desperately still wants
to.
…
This is my life sentence: I
missed you terribly yesterday, I woke up today aching from missing you, and I
will miss you just as much tomorrow.
It hurts so much because we loved
each other so completely. I think you knew that I loved you then, and I wish
you could know that I love you now and will love you until my own time comes. Despite
my pain, this is the greatest privilege of my life and I want you to know that.
You served your sentence magnificently,
Chris. I will forever be in awe of your bravery, gentleness, and your focus on
love as you moved toward the moment of your death.
Thank you for everything.
I love you.
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