Orders of Magnitude

 

Tomorrow marks one thousand days since Chris died.

Something about that feels momentous. Quadruple digits, if that’s even a thing people say.

It’s been too long. Too much has happened that he has not seen, heard, or experienced in any way. I don’t look for his car to be in the driveway anymore as I return from work. I have lost the inclination to message him. I do not expect him to be at the dinner table nor to help me or the kids in any practical way.

It is not a month mark, nor the date of another year passing by.

Oh yes, this is yet a different time when I compare to earlier experiences. It is tempting to fit the data to a mathematical model - one thousand days is a milestone marking a length of time described by an entirely new order of magnitude.

Zeroth Order, 10⁰ = 1

The first day is a land of its own, the true epicenter from which all else will eventually ripple outward. Day one is such a shock you don’t quite know what happened. He was alive last night and now he is not. His things were packed up from the hospice house and are in a bag on your bedroom floor. It makes no sense. You make calls, take calls, write a list of calls to eventually place. You go to bed alone and it doesn’t feel quite right, but it definitely doesn’t seem real or permanent.

So the zeroth order plays out incrementally, day by near-endless day. Guests. Calls. Plans. Food. Flowers. People look to you and you must make decisions, immediately. You are propelled with the urge to honor him.

As the order comes to a close, you have little idea about what is in store, though you begin to stare out the window in confusion, take a few walks alone and just barely start to comprehend what “died” means.

First Order, 10¹ = 10

The days are counted in double digits. The service is over. Your home is cleared of medical equipment, prescriptions, papers are filed away.

People go home and back to their lives, but you do not get yours back. He does not come home. The tears that didn’t really come cannot be stopped. The pain is unbelievable.

Days tick on through double digits and you try to keep going, but you don’t know how. You are a stranger in your own home, an alien in the shell of your old life.

The first order is nearly indescribable in its horror.

Second Order, 10² = 100 

In days counted by triple digits, he’s been gone a little while, but it is still so fresh. You have survived a few firsts without him, but now you slog through that first year. It is very, very hard.

The triple digit days feature one season changing into the next, holiday following holiday, one year turning into two. The kids grow and need new shoes, new clothes, then they go to new schools. They are smart and funny, thriving even, but they miss him. There is not enough of you to go around for hugs, games of catch, homework help, and cheering section. Even if you could do it all, they need him anyway. All of you begin to know it in your bones that he is not coming back.

You begin to manage.

In the waning days of this order, people don’t understand. They are surprised by your sadness. They think you should be over it or assume you are back to normal, not comprehending that there was no normal left to return to. You are a different person with a different life, but never asked for that.

Third Order, 10³ = 1000

You make all the decisions alone, and while it is good to feel more comfortable with that, it lacks joy. You see that life stretches ahead and it would be a shame to waste it only looking back. The real work is making something of what is left because he is not coming back. He is simply not coming back.

This order is long, 1000-9999 days. It will encompass more than two decades. You could easily die in this order of magnitude. Or, you might be in your late sixties as it nears the next order.

I worry about this order. If I do that hard work and build a new life for myself, will it ever be as good? And if it were, would I lose him completely?

At the end of this order of magnitude, will I still be able to hear his voice in my head? Will I remember our life together? Will I feel connected to him?

It seems the task of the days ahead is to let go a bit to be able to live more fully. I really don’t want to.

In the end…

Perhaps the mathematical model doesn’t fit. It was a decent experiment, but the R² value was poor. In other words, day 1000 does not have to be a milestone marking an unwelcome phase. The experience of loss is not linear, nor logarithmic. I can look all I want for patterns, analogies, and sense, but the truth is that the thousandth day is just one more day in a long line of days without Chris. My feelings will be up and down, here and there and back again.

I miss him, and that’s okay.

I am trying hard to do new things and meet new people even while I look back longingly.

I can call up his voice in my head and feel his support even as I forge my singular path onward.

I survived 999 days before today. I will do it again today, and then I will wake up and do it again tomorrow.