Portal to the Past

Funny how I can live in the same home that once housed our family of four, hold the same job that I started back before the brain tumor, move in the same body that I always had, and yet not constantly be distracted by the breathtaking fact that it's a totally different life. Truthfully, I'm sometimes flummoxed by the framework looking the same as it always did but the reality being different. Mostly I am able to function well but there are landmines yet, unexpected jolts to be had when one of us encounters a forgotten relic from before.

Tonight, it was when we happened on a notebook that belonged to Chris. We opened it to find some of the last notes he wrote at work from February of 2018.  We stared at it. As I sit to recount it now, I imagine a whooshing sound as we stepped through an unexpected portal to the past.

For there he was in that familiar handwriting - right back in front of our eyes - engaged in science, trying to be a good boss, making plans, and writing medical notes, all with those signature boxes to be checked off. His enthusiasm, earnestness, and intelligence were palpable on the page as we scanned notes about matters that ranged from mundane to monumental.

It was hard to read, yet impossible to stop.

It was unspeakably difficult, but we remembered him aloud.

He was RIGHT THERE.

It all could have happened yesterday...

Whoosh - the portal closed. It was four years ago. Four long years ago, and that is just back to the beginning of the most terrible time. Five years ago to the beginning of the end when the tumor returned. Six years ago to the last normal family time. The gap will only lengthen. I imagine the trips through the portal won't feel like yesterday at some point, or maybe they only do to me right now anyway as I think it is not the same for our children.  

For me, the details of that hard time are exquisitely painful and precious. I look at the pages and am transported to a different state, one in which I temporarily feel like I did with him as a partner. There are no words to describe being put back in that life. Every part of life was so much more back then. Happier and more secure in the warmth of our marriage, even as I was totally unable to do anything to stop his death. I had Chris. He had me. We had our family, we were us. It was everything I ever wanted...

I no longer have the life I wanted. The portal closed. It always does. 

Once locked out from these moments, I see in myself an endless ability to wait. I was always good at the long game and tonight I believe that I would wait literally forever for Chris to come back if he could. He and I were so connected, so entwined at the end dealing with the horror, that I do not want anything else. I could continue to manage this less-than life alone and wait a lifetime for him, it would be an honor.

My trips through the portal are illuminating. I cannot control the memories that rush back when I go through, and he comes to me in ways that remind me of what he wanted for me.

He didn't want me to wait. He wanted me to live and be happy.  

I can't give up my quiet vigilance, not yet. I don't want to live without him and I must go on, so I will continue to wait and do it all again tomorrow without him. For tonight it is enough to see it, to name it, to understand what is going on deep under my conscious mind. I will need to give it up at some point, and recognizing that is a step toward laying it down.

In my longing, I do only what I can tonight. I simply beam out my same messages to Chris. 

I love you.

I miss you desperately.

I am sorry for the ways I failed over the years.

Please help me, please come back. Please. I'm sorry for asking the impossible but I need you. We need you.

Thank you for everything.

Thank you.

Thank you.