Dark Underbelly

Days under stay-at-home orders continue to drag on. It’s been a frenzy of professional activity trying to get organic chemistry courses online for the first time. I have learned an incredible amount about using my available technology in a short time. Still, I have to laugh over my occasional confusion about the device I’m using at a given moment because I frequently switch between my phone, work laptop, and home touchscreen laptop to produce videos, presentations, upload and download files, and annotate students’ electronic work. I haven’t worked this hard in a long time!

While I do take a great deal of pride in the effort I’ve put forth, I need this remote instruction period to be over… The intensity is taking its toll on me and my children, who are at the opposite end of the spectrum having minimal occupation with their schoolwork; they do not get enough of my attention.

Everybody is in a tough situation now. I read an article making the point that while it is the same storm we are all experiencing, we are certainly not in the same boat; people do not feel the effects of this pandemic equally. I feel guilty saying that I am struggling when others have it much harder. My family is healthy and I am employed, that should be enough to fill my heart with gratitude. It does, to some extent, but still the prolonged isolation is corroding the hard shell of “being OK” that I had been carefully layering on over the last fifteen months. There is yet a soft, dark underbelly of grief and it is strikingly exposed right now. 

I have indeed been struggling. As I stumble through these long, lonely days, it feels like a laborious slog over rough terrain. The longer it goes on, the more weighed down and hunched over I am. Then, that sensitive, thin-skinned underbelly is jarred, scratched, and slashed open by normally surmountable rocks and brush covering my path.

Normal, healthy chit-chat of peers and even news commentaries doesn’t sit well with me. It shouldn’t grate at me, but it does. So listen, I’m glad if your family is suddenly freed from being over-scheduled and now you are enjoying dinner together every night, but the empty seat at our table is more prominent now than ever. It’s great for you if game nights are leading to tons of laughs for your crew, but our fourth player is permanently missing. The symmetry is gone. And honestly, I can *maybe* see how being cooped up with your spouse while both trying to work from home gets annoying, but I would give anything for my partner right now.  

It gets worse, and the external pokes and my reactions probably won’t make sense to most people. They certainly won’t be flattering. My wrath toward the walkers exemplifies that. My normally quiet street has a lot more people out all day now trying not to go crazy. I’m deeply envious of the couples walking babies. They are at the start of all things wonderful, while I… Well, I don’t even know. It’s all over for me, it seems. Then there are the intact families taking strolls to break up the monotony - I silently seethe that they have what I don’t. Don’t get me started on the older couples enjoying the fresh air together, I look away to stay composed.

I know it’s all very ungenerous of me, isn’t it? Maybe you’re uncomfortable right now because you thought I liked you? Here’s the thing – if you read this, I most certainly do like you and am immeasurably grateful for your kindness, your friendship. I just can’t stomach the normalcy and happiness that anyone has, even in this difficult time when I know that nobody is perfectly content. I don’t understand why I don’t get to be with my person and you do. I simply don’t know why you get to be happy in that way while I don’t. I search for what I did wrong to land in this situation and try to understand what you did right to avoid it.

Look, it’s not you. It’s definitely me… I am sure of it, because no being escapes my ire. A pair of cardinals had the audacity to flit past me today, and I was jealous that they were tending to a nest together. It makes no sense and drips of self-pity, doesn’t it? Who the hell is envious of birds for being together?

Let me tell you one thing that I have learned. Grief has a dark, myopic side to it. Most grieving people hit patches where they have a lot of unflattering, difficult thoughts and emotions to work through; none of what I wrote is remotely unique. Rather, it makes sense - it is exceedingly hard to be kind, thoughtful, and unselfish while nursing a great, gaping wound. When your flesh has been ripped open and your entrails are protruding, dragging in the dirt, making a disgusting paste from blood, leaves, and twigs, you can’t think about anything else besides that pain and that horror. It takes tremendous will to not give in to the urge to lie down and just bleed out.

A terrible thing happened to a very good person, someone I loved deeply, who is now dead. A wonderful father was snuffed out while his kids still need him. What happened is rare. There is no known cause. It just happened. There is no why to be found. That is exceptionally hard to come to terms with…

His loss feels all-encompassing because his love for me was that way, too.

Sometimes on the bleakest of nights, my mind wanders to a hiking place. I once fell on a hill there, flat on my face. It was nothing serious, but I remember it well for the way the ground held me while I rested a few seconds. Here’s the dark secret – sometimes I wish I could go to that hill and just purposefully lie down to stop constantly doing things, let the cold rain beat down on me, allow the blood to run out of the grief wound, and relinquish my pain to the ground.

I won’t, though.

Indeed, I will always gather up the mangled tissue that has been ripped out of my unprotected underbelly and drag it along as I take one painstaking step forward at a time. Eventually I will clean it off, stuff it back in, sew it up, and hope the wound doesn’t open so badly the next time.

After I heal up a bit, I’ll be able to see once again that most people are walking around with their own invisible injuries and incredible burdens. People do not let on much of what they grapple with, do they? Another time I will be able to be thoughtful and generous again, and sit with others in their pain.

Today I can’t, but maybe tomorrow I will.

Breathing Support

People throughout the entire world are struggling through and, for the lucky ones, enduring strange, strange times right now. Many pieces have been written detailing various facets of pandemic life from the confines of stay-at-home orders or a true quarantine, and I vacillate between devouring them and feeling impatient with the sameness of the content. Yet, there is a small subset of essays that I always find riveting and resonant – those penned by cancer and other long-term patients, caregivers, the disabled, and the bereaved.

For those who are already sick, the novel coronavirus poses a sinister risk that those of us who are healthy and abled do not face in that same way. Dealing with the reality of the pandemic is more than just an inconvenience to the patient, it goes far beyond the disappointment of not seeing friends, it is greater than missing the personal fulfillment of working in-person with colleagues, and it is not just the annoyance of waiting in line to get into a grocery store with a reduced capacity. For those with a chronic condition or terminal diagnosis, the world is now filled with invisible threats that further endanger already tenuous personal survival.

For fear of speaking out of turn, I should say that I write from the perspective that I can only imagine how it must feel to be a patient or caregiver right now. Still, I mean that in the purest sense of the phrase because I can imagine all too well and in great detail. What does the glioblastoma patient or spouse feel like when reading about rationed care in the ICU? Would the beloved patient receive ventilation if needed due to covid-19 or would he be cast off as already unlucky, previously destined for an untimely death? Would the otherwise remaining few months of life or handful of years for that patient be dismissed as less worthy of preserving than a “healthy” person of the same age? The reports in the news are not encouraging for patients and their families…

I never knew how it was to actually be the person confronting her mortality in a “this is going to really happen, and soon” kind of way. I don’t fault myself, though, because I do not think that it is humanly possible to seriously grapple with one’s death until faced with a realistic threat. Still, the thought of coronavirus necessitating ventilators and, particularly, rationed care is horrifying to contemplate as someone who loved a person facing down death. Quite honestly, it elicits memories that are truly traumatic.

As his tumor progressed and he experienced symptoms and deficits at a shocking rate, Chris was Chris, loving, warm, and wise. We tried to avoid unnecessary trips to the hospital and, especially, we expressly attempted to avoid 911 calls and ER trips. Our thinking was that we didn’t want to spend more of his precious time than absolutely needed in the hospital setting, particularly not in an emergency setting that would be upsetting for our children. Our preparation and contingency plans failed, though. Chris experienced successive general seizures that would not yield to “rescue” medication and I had no choice but to call 911. Once he left with the paramedics, I naively assumed that the crisis of the hour had passed. Oh, I was wrong…

As I pulled into the parking lot of the hospital, I received a call from an unlisted number. It was the ER doctor hurriedly asking about permission to intubate Chris because he was “having a hard time breathing.” My shocked brain could not catch up with the words of the doctor. I had done a fair amount of reading about brain cancer and the typical trajectory toward death, and unstoppable seizures resulting in respiratory distress hadn’t topped the list of probable death scenes. I frankly had not considered that this would be the way it ended for Chris when he left in the ambulance.

Words simply fail to communicate the terror of having to make a life-or-death decision for someone you love. At that moment, I tried to stay calm, but panic was pounding at my chest walls. I thought back to the many discussions Chris and I had engaged in; he had not wanted to die being supported on machines. But, it seemed like this was a situation that was indirectly tied to the tumor; his breathing problems were from too much medication to stop the seizures. Could his respiration recover if the medication wore off? Could the seizures be controlled with different medication? I tried to ask if the doctor thought Chris would ever come off the ventilator if he was intubated, but there was no way to know and no time to talk with me further. I had to make a choice right then.

In the worst moment of my life, I made the choice that still feels monstrous:

I told the doctor not to intubate Chris.

The horror of that moment was extended as I was met at the ER door by staff who hurriedly ushered me into the bay where Chris lay. I valiantly tried to assess whether the Chris I knew was “there” or not in his postictal state, the worst I had ever seen him in, all the while being challenged by the physicians in the ER – had we discussed the withholding of life-saving interventions in front of a doctor? No, we had not, because the neuro-oncologist (based at this same hospital) had never addressed this with us, a patient and caregiver dealing with a diagnosis of 2-3 months to live… But, we had discussed it in front of lawyers and signed documents with advanced medical directives. When I stated that fact, everyone backed off.

This particular situation had a “good” outcome. Instead of intubation and a ventilator, oxygen was administered to Chris via mask, then cannula, and it helped. It was enough breathing support for him to get through the crisis and up to the neurological intensive care unit for a few days to assess the situation. His respiration did indeed return to normal and seizure medications were adjusted, thus allowing Chris to come home and spend six precious weeks with family and friends before the tumor completed its devastating course.

The intubation/ventilator decision was incredibly intense and still haunts me. What if Chris had needed extra support from a breathing machine to overcome the effects of the medicine but I had denied him that chance? Then he would not have had those six weeks and it would have been squarely on my shoulders. Or, what if I had made the other choice and he had been intubated but never able to come off the ventilator, meeting his end exactly how he had not wanted? That, too, would have been my fault.

I’m still not sure I made the right call, but rather we got “lucky” in a very unlucky situation. While no time would ever have felt like enough, the six weeks following Chris’s emergency room trip and neuro-ICU stay readied everyone. Though difficult, it was cherished. It was important for his children to be able to spend time with him outside of a traumatic hospital setting. It was important to me to be able to say the things I needed to say – thank you, I love you, you are incredible, you can go. Most of all, it was important to Chris – he was able to say goodbyes on his own terms and in his own way. 

    

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I don’t know how to wrap up or make a perfect connection to the pandemic. Still, this time and the disturbing news about medical equipment shortages have been weighing on me from the perspective of that ER experience with intubation and ventilation (as well as with other facets of my loss, which I hope to write about soon).

I wish I could prevent everyone from facing the decision to intubate someone they love. I do not envy the medical professionals who must make such decisions, either. But still, I am glad that ventilators CAN help some people breathe through situations that might be overcome with temporary breathing support. Most of all, I wish to express my heartfelt hope that patients already facing terminal illnesses do not become infected with the coronavirus. Everyone deserves the chance to live out her life with dignity and love, and the path of the terminally ill is already difficult enough, the future uncertain enough, and time short enough as it is.

Now that all of that has been said, what can I do? I’m a mostly healthy, privileged person in a pandemic, “just” scarred for life by having to decide about my now-deceased husband going on a ventilator. Well, there’s nothing left to do for Chris, but I can stay home. It seems like such an ordinary, inconsequential thing. And, for the record, it stinks. It really, really is not fun. I am irritated by it and stir crazy like anyone else, and I want it to be over right now. But, I’m doing my part and it is the only thing I can do. I’ll never know if staying home helps someone else avoid getting covid-19 on top of an already horrible situation, but I’m willing to do it because I know just how precious time is when someone is dying and exactly how wrenching it is to lose someone you love.

____________

This world is full of untold, unheard, unimaginable pain. Mine is but one grain of sand in a desert of suffering.  

Scam Phone Calls

A few months ago, I arrived at work in the late morning on my unscheduled day. I felt relaxed and unhurried from a lovely time in the woods with Phoenix, and I was eagerly looking ahead to crossing items off my to-do list. As I juggled my belongings to unlock my office door, I heard the phone ring from inside. Few people call me on my office phone and when I do receive calls, they are most often from textbook sales representatives. When I finally got the door open and my bags off my shoulder, I didn’t particularly worry about missing the call when the phone was silent. Not a minute later, though, I was startled by the phone ringing again.

Most people wouldn’t go into panic mode receiving a second work phone call, but when you’ve been through the type of trauma that I have, unexpected phone calls can be a huge trigger. I have had to work hard to suppress the urge to instantly ask, “is everything ok???” when friends or family call at unusual times. On the day of the office calls, my stomach started feeling quivery as it always does when I anticipate bad news. The second time the phone rang, I could see the caller ID and noticed that the call was from an area code I didn’t recognize. I wondered what could be so urgent to warrant a second call, so I answered as professionally as possible with my full name. My eyebrows drew together as I listened to a serious-sounding man on the other end of the line.  

“Ma’am, this is Captain Paul Jones from the Berkshire County Sheriff’s Office. We are calling to verify information about you since there is a warrant for your arrest. You have missed a court date. Please confirm that this is [my full name] with a birthday of [my real birthday].”

I froze. What??? What could I possibly have done? Did someone use my car or something and speed? No. Did someone steal my identity? Ugh… Wait a minute, there is no way a government official would be calling my place of employment, right? Is this a scam?

I interrupted the caller. “What did you say your name was? What organization are you calling with?”

He repeated his spiel, aggressively pressing me to verify my birthday. I shut it down. “I’ll have to call you back.”

When I asked for a phone number, he gave one. I wrote it down and hung up.

Shaken, I searched the internet for the Berkshire County Sheriff’s Office and found that the area code matched the area code of the caller. The phone number on the website was similar to the one given to me. The caller said that the number was to his direct office line, so maybe it was real in some sense? I knew that I didn’t do anything wrong, but I began to seriously worry about whether my identity had been stolen...

Anxiety started to take over and I couldn’t stop it. I fully went down the rabbit hole. After everything I had gone through with the administrative tasks related to Chris’s death, the last thing I needed was to sort out a legal entanglement related to a stolen identity. Do I need my lawyer??? What a mess this was going to be!

But then, all of the hard work that I have done to be okay kicked in; I remembered that I am not alone. There was no need to give my lawyer more of my business just yet. I texted one friend and then a second, both of whom are level-headed and good with legal issues, but both were unavailable to advise me at that moment. Then, I turned to family. For some reason, I’m always a bit ashamed to admit to them that I don’t have things under control. It’s one of my many flaws that I want everyone, most of all my family, to understand that I’VE GOT THIS.  But, when push comes to shove, who is always there? Family.

My brother was able to speak with me on the phone briefly and advised me to call the sheriff’s office directly. Instead of asking whether this was a fake phone call, he advised me to take the angle that I was helping them out by reporting a scam.

After a minute of steeling myself, I did just that. With a calm and steady voice, I reported that I had received a scam phone call from a person claiming to be Captain Paul Jones from the sheriff’s office. The receptionist was polite although not warm, stating that she would run my name through the system first to see if there was anything on me. In the moment’s pause that followed, I tried to breathe deeply. Of course, the woman came back to say that there was no warrant for my arrest nor any record of my name in her system. The tone of the call changed at that point and I recounted what had happened including the call-back number the scammer had given me. I felt satisfied that I did my civic duty and I was beyond relieved that I had not naively fallen for some trap that would result in a true mess.

After that, I was able to go about my day and function well. Something bothered me underneath the surface, though. This event didn’t knock me off the tightrope, but I do not like how easy it was to feel like my world was about to fall apart. I realized that both my stability and confidence are still tenuously balanced.

When I returned home later, there was a voicemail waiting on the land line. What a surprise, Captain Jones was looking for me at home, too… I took quite a mental pause as I realized that the scammer had clearly targeted me and carried out internet research to find my place of employment, office phone number, birthday, home number and likely address. He probably combs through obituaries to prey on widows. This guy is scum from the darkest, slimiest place on earth…

To blow off steam, I headed out for a run. My self-doubt and uneasiness dissipated with the first few steps. The sun shone on my face on that winter afternoon and I looked to the sky to embrace the soul-nurturing warmth. My pace was faster than it had been in a while and, in the last half mile, I powered up the final hill toward my street. As I did so, I smiled with overwhelming gratefulness - I felt strong.

I felt both incredibly strong and purely happy in that moment.

So, in the end, I say thank you to the scammer. Thank you for showing me that my strength and emotional stability are more firmly rooted than I thought.

I am strong. No person, thing, or event can take that away from me.

news story on this scam

Farther Away

The winter-dark early morning started with me, alone, missing you.

I stepped into my day, away from you. Always I move farther away from you. Every step, every breath widens our separation…

Busy all day long, but it is activity of necessity, not joy. I’m always missing you under it all.

Night has fallen again, the motion has ceased. Now, the quiet underscores your absence.

You will never be closer in time to me than this very minute, which has now passed.

The minutes always did slip through my fingers despite my frantic grasping… I remember missing you before you were gone, I remember the desperation of another precious day ending. I didn’t know what to do then. I don’t know what to do now.

There is nothing to do but end the day as it began - alone in the dark, missing you, as I always am.

Filed Under: Insane, Proud, and Still True

Right after Chris died, I made a very long, categorized list of things to do. Many of them were consequential to ensuring the financial future of my family while maintaining good legal standing with the IRS. I added more to the list than I crossed out for a good long while, and it was stressful because most of those "big ticket" items on the list were poorly understood by me. One of the best things I did was to outsource them. For example, I do not care to spend hours understanding tax code when I can pay someone to do this for me and be assured that she did it correctly... Yes. She. By happenstance, I have a team of women professionals! Financial adviser, estate lawyer, CPA. All women. All defined by the words competent and efficient. I love them and find myself inspired by them!

I don't want to go any further without acknowledging and appreciating my place of privilege in this situation - many in my shoes would be unable to access the professional support I have leveraged. Not a day goes by without feeling grateful for the resources I have and, especially, the person who made sure that they were there. Chris. Trust me, it's plenty hard without worrying about money, and my heart goes out to people who shoulder that weight, too.

(This little journal exercise is seriously rambling and veering far from my original intent! oh well, it's for me. I have precious little time right now to write even though I often want to, so I'm choosing to throw it all down instead of trying to make it decent this time.)

Back to that massive to-do list. I set up headings to keep myself on track - financial/legal, thank yous, accounts and bills to change names of, and personal.  I tried to keep attacking tasks under each heading so that I could cross off low-hanging fruit for my morale but still keep my eyes on the urgent priorities. J saw my list once and was interested in something under the personal heading. I wrote that I wanted to make memory books. She liked this idea and kept asking about it. All year long. Obviously the time-sensitivity was low compared to other things and, in a way, there is nothing but time on my hands for ruminating, remembering, etc. I did not get it done for the kids' birthdays nor for Christmas. She was disappointed. So, I got the idea to have her help me after the holidays.

It's kind of silly that I didn't do this earlier because the hard part was already done. For Chris's service, I went through our entire collection of electronic photos. At the time, I saved copies into folders, one for photos of Chris and J, one for pictures of Chris and N, one for Chris and me, and another for family photos. When J and I sat down together, I uploaded her special collection and some family pictures to a photo site, and then she happily dragged pictures onto pages. J wrote some captions, picked background colors, paged through and made rearrangements. I added several touches, too. We spent a few evenings on the project and we had a lot of high quality time together, focused on Chris.

The book arrived earlier this week. It came out great! My heart nearly exploded as we turned the pages for the first time, but it was a good push on the bruise because Chris is there with love shining on his face as he looks at J, both kids, our family. Love simply oozes out of this memory book, you cannot help but see it on every single page.

As I looked through the book again, I had a flash of an inclination to text Chris to tell him that the book was amazing and the perfect thing to do for J to remember him.

Let that sink in.

I wanted to write to my dead husband to tell him about an album of pictures meant to remember him. You know, because he died. We made the book because he is dead and I still had the reflex to tell him about it.

You can laugh. It's OK. I did. Most of this experience has been ineffably sad, but some is just outrageously crazy. The brain is not quickly rewired. You have to laugh or else there is nothing left to do in those moments. As my good friend simply says, life is strange. Yep. I'd file this one under Insane.

Honestly, I could not be more pleased with this project. I choose to mentally file this anecdote under Proud, too. I am very proud that I finished this item on my to-do list. (For the record, that entire list is almost history, hurrah!) Better than that, it turned into a project that allowed us to naturally connect with memories of Chris. He had been so worried about her, in particular, that she wouldn't remember or know him because she was so young when he died. I promised him repeatedly that he would not disappear from our hearts and minds after he died. It's easy to keep that promise for myself because  I couldn't stop thinking about Chris if I tried, but it's harder with the kids. I try to encourage them to speak of Dad, and they do, but it is difficult to make someone feel present when he is physically not. Time passes more quickly for a child, it seems. 

As I think back to my knee-jerk reaction to text Chris, I'm glad I still had it. He's still my co-parent, still their Dad. With any important thing that I do for the kids, I have Chris in mind. And even though it does feel a little insane to want to tell him about our efforts and projects to remember him, it's because we shared deeply when he was alive including some serious grappling with mortality. I am honored and grateful that he shared his fears with me. It is only natural, not actually insane, to wish to report back to him regarding them. 

Chris is my partner at my core. That is still true.  

Still Here

The opposite of a strong fortress is not flat land, it is the bombed-out crater left after it exploded. Poof, gone, no stable ground left to stand on, no refuge to be found. Chris’s gone-ness is like that. It is not just a quiet absence; the world is not just devoid of good but dramatically lessened without him.  Everything is significantly worse without him.

I miss him. I miss his eyes meeting mine with unspoken understanding. I miss always having him in my corner, and being firmly in his. Our comfortable partnership, our carefully co-constructed world - these are no longer in existence. The days are lonely without him and bleakly empty. My beloved person is gone and, along with him, my way of life has disintegrated.

I miss everything.

I miss him.

I miss.

I ache with the missing.

I cannot yet reimagine life. I don’t want a new life; I already had a life I loved, and I want it back. This is futility at its worst. So, I exist through the day and repeat it again the next, hoping that one day it won’t be so meaningless. Maybe one day I can imagine. Reimagine. Whatever the self-help word is.

And yet, there is one undeniable new thing. I did dream it up and execute the plan. There is now another being whose existence is entwined with mine, who looks specifically to me. Although it’s not even close to having a true partner, she brings more than a small measure of relief. Phoenix, of course. Sometimes she’s a nuisance and just one more responsibility, but when we go on our private adventures, that’s when magic happens.

As soon as the later school bus pulls up, Phoenix is curious. Are we going on a short walk or are we getting in the car? When I slide the door open, she jumps in, knowing it’s the good kind of walk. We drive the few miles to the state park and pull into the lot. It had been slick with ice after Christmas, but is now muddy and deeply rutted after an unseasonably warm stretch. Good – we are the only vehicle. I open the door, Phoenix bounds out. I grab her leash and attempt to close and lock the car before she pulls me off. Her nose is instantly to the ground. It’s annoying, she needs to sniff everything while I’m impatient to move. There’s a decent stretch of trail before the off-leash section, the good place.

We make our way up the long hill, then down. She drags me at times, and I pull her along at others. As we approach the footbridge and cross the stream, her excitement ticks up, as does mine, because we are almost there. Sit, Phoenix. Oh, she knows what’s to come, so she does. I unsnap the leash and she’s instantly off, reveling in her unbridled freedom.

Phoenix tears down the path and I admire her rippling, muscled backside moving away from me. She careens chaotically around a bend in the trail, just barely under control. She is a black blur, her long legs flying. Her dark body emits occasional flashes from the white patches on her feet. She darts from the trail deep into the woods. When I am not sure I see her, I whistle. I call. I wait. Eventually she comes barreling back, and, when I point to the ground in front of me, she nearly trips over those ridiculously long limbs in her eagerness to sit. She knows I am pleased, she knows she will be rewarded. She seizes the treat with vigor, but her teeth never graze my fingers.

I motion her on. Go! She looks at me – Are you sure? Go on, run ahead! She does.

We repeat this business many times as we log miles in the woods. I take in the stillness and am always happy when we don’t encounter others. I can breathe easily here, the quiet of the expansive forest and the companionship of my dog anchor me to the present moment.

Peace.

Eventually Phoenix is distracted by a scent, a stick, a questionable puddle she must drink from. She dawdles a bit, falling behind, then rushes to catch up. As she streaks past me, she lifts her nose to touch my hand ever so briefly.

I realize I am wrong - her movement is far from chaotic. Those exquisitely defined muscles and her zest for now propel her forward with effortless coordination. As Phoenix races ahead, her surefooted galloping leaves a lighthearted, rhythmic tune in my ears and drums a smile onto my face. Her graceful motion displaces air, a slight breeze that slides under my broken wings, generating lift. For a few minutes, I find levity.

I rise, like a phoenix from the ashes of everything I once had, loved, and lost.

Ahead, far up ahead, Phoenix slows to a halt. Her tail gently curves skyward, a question mark dotted by her head, turned back to search for me. Every inch of her body inquires - Are you there? Are you coming, my person?

Oh yes, my Phoen-bean, I am coming. I am here, baby girl.

I am still here.

One Year

As this day has approached, the rhythm of the calendar and the way the light falls in early winter draw me to Chris. I've had a sickening sense of dread that Chris will die all over again and I still don't know what to do about that. I can't prevent it, I never could, and that helpless feeling is still just as horrible as it was. Predictably, I've spent some time reliving the end. It hasn't entirely consumed me, though. In a way, letting myself really go back to that day in my mind allows me to feel how it was to be with Chris again and experience the last time we were a team. I've been trying to make myself reach back for other earlier memories, too, whenever I revisit that day because Chris deserves to be remembered for more than how he met his end. I remember his silliness, the time he and N fooled me with a surprise birthday gift, his earnest drive to do and be good, how he encouraged me to use the dishwasher liberally to save effort, how he was just happy to be with our family with no particular agenda, how he laughed with J, how he understood me. The really important, over-arching stuff and tiny, fun anecdotes.

The kids and I are thinking of Chris and remembering him together and separately. Chris is always on my mind... Did I give Chris my best self and the right expressions of love? Did he know how much I love him? Did he know how incredibly brave he was? Do I remember him accurately? Did I fully know him? The kids ponder their own versions of these questions, I'm very sure of this from conversations and watching them, and Chris is strongly on their minds.

If Chris were just on the other side of the double doors, aware of our presence but unable to be with us, I wonder if he would have his own version of these questions. If I could, I would reassure him that we know exactly how much he loved us and that we know he would be here if he had any choice in the matter. Chris had been so worried the kids wouldn't know him, and I understand that concern. If I could, I would relay the respect and love that our children have for him because I see it every day. I would make sure he understands that the kids do know him, and that I and others will make sure that doesn't change. I am not sure if it would be important to him, but if Chris wondered if we were proud of him, the answer is an emphatic yes. Of course, I would take the opportunity to tell him that we all love him and miss him. So much. So very, very much.

I wish I could have that real, back and forth conversation to get at our questions and his. I'd add to it several things to serve my own needs. If only I could honor our relationship by saying I was wrong and I wish I had handled that differently about several things. And, though selfish, I desperately want to know what he thinks of how I have managed this year. Would he think I'm doing a good job? Would Chris be proud of me? I don't have to ask about the kids, I know he would be proud of them for moving forward despite the difficulty of their situation.

Interesting, as I wrote that last sentence, I had this flash of a feeling that I probably know the essence of the responses I would get to my other issues and questions. I knew him so, so well and I'm not sure why I've allowed myself to question that. We were incredibly close. When I'm being as honest as I can to myself, I know that he would appreciate my admissions of fault and also be quick to describe instances of his own. He was always eager to forgive. Chris would have genuine interest in the things that I've had to handle and be particularly pleased with some of my decisions that we hadn't anticipated. Chris would be relieved with the footing we are on now, in all respects. I'm quite certain he would rib me about my ridiculous devotion to the dog and he'd probably even enjoy some dark jokes about how he had to die to make my (dog) dream come true. Because I knew him through and through, I know Chris would say that he is proud of me but also that he always knew I could do all of the things I have had to learn to do. He was just like that, he always had confidence in me just as I had full belief in his ability to care for us. He always was proud of me and our marriage, so I don't know why it is something I wonder about.

See, by letting myself daydream about impossible encounters with Chris, my mind was able to go back to past reality to find some assurances all for myself. This grief journey is something... Every now and then there is a positive surprise.

I do not have a significant, meaningful event set up to remember Chris today. I thought about a few options but felt paralyzed and failed to make a big plan. While I do harbor a bit of regret and guilt about that, I think it is useful to remember that today is not a repeat of Jan 8, 2019. It is just another day in a long series of days that will start and end without him. That fact alone is sad, but it means the day doesn't have to hold trauma and a fixation on his death because thankfully he doesn't have to go through that again. Still, there is and will be an extra weight of sorrow, I think. It is what it is today. Next year, the day will be what it will be at that particular time, and so on. We will just have to go through it and take this day as it comes.

It will be important to remember that all of the work we have put into surviving this year is not wasted if we are sorrowful, because we did indeed survive. The forward progress we have made in this year is not erased just because it is the anniversary and we might feel like we have taken ten steps back. Today will unfold as it will, and tomorrow will be a new day to pick up the survivor mantle and put one foot in front of the other. We loved Chris, we still love him, and we always will. That love will continue to carry us through.

To Chris - I miss you so much that I can hardly stand it. I am deeply sorry for many things, I'm sure you know what they are. I am proud of you - in every way you set an incredible example. I love you so much, I always will. You still shine the light for me and I'm so grateful for you. Thank you for every minute.