The Weight of Nothing

Five years on and this thing is still not over yet.

I dash that sentence off, the truest thing on my mind, and I wryly laugh knowing it will never be over. What the hell, isn't that long enough to suffer? My work is far from done, and I am bone tired.

Since Christmas, it's been a different struggle. In the lead-up to the holidays, I felt light. Like a so-called normal person, I looked forward to the holidays. We cut down our tree in keeping with our new tradition and propped that spindly beauty up. I thought I might dig my way out of three years of covid-holiday isolation when we made a trek halfway across the country with our dog in tow and conquered every single one of those 1200 miles without incident. I was on top of the world.

And then Christmas Eve dawned with the magic that only that one particular date has, and darkness set in. It was hell.

We saw dear, dear family we hadn't seen in years and it was a needed balm, and yet. And yet. Emptiness descended with the early dusk as the guests arrived at my sister's welcoming, comfortable home. Our beloved dog who managed those many miles and numerous rest stops without a sound couldn't handle a party of 30 people and howled her head off, dancing on her hind legs and tipping her snout skyward to punctuate her disapproval. I put her on leash and settled her on the floor while I sat in an armchair in the corner, just Phoenix and me. Genuine merriment reminiscent of the good old days swirled around us in the heart of my beloved family, the nostalgia of the past mixed with the present, and the volume rose.  As I sat trying to convey calm to my hound, Chris's absence bore down heavily, pressing unbidden tears down my face that I could only swipe away with a bright holly themed napkin.

What is Christmas, what is anything, when you can connect with anyone who ever meant something except that one who you built a life with and want to be with most...

It was hell. 

And I'll admit, I haven't been myself since. 

I'm sad that I can't even remember what "being myself" should mean. I guess I've been a few versions of myself in the time since Chris was diagnosed. Fearful. Determined. Driven. Paralyzed. Courageous. Hard. All the while I persevered, somehow. I've done some unspeakable things. 

But lately all of the grit is gone. I haven't done much of anything because the crush of absence has been overwhelming. My energy has been sucked away by the vacuum of the void. The life force that has always whispered "do something" has been noticeably, no, more than that, deafeningly silent. The heaviness of no clear future has forced me to retreat from life. The black hole of nothing left has literally pinned me to my bed, evening after evening. In the silence of what should be a nurturing cocoon, the force of nobody there to listen at the end of the day makes it hard to breathe and the temptation is strong to succumb to pull of everything good has already happened.

The weight of nothing can absolutely crush you.

And yet. 

And yet, the reprieve of sleep washes the fog away. The new day brings a blank slate. Nothing can be once again as light as a true, beautiful memory that flits as a smile on your lips, a thankfulness in your heart. Absence can have zero mass and be simply nothing again in the light of the morning.

To be human is to have a chance to start anew, again.

Again and again you can start over, the weight of earthly burdens, absences, and nothings be set aside, until you have no more tomorrows. 

Let me try again tomorrow even when the weight of nothing is too much today.