Unconditional Love

Love seems to come from some innate place, one that is not controlled by rational choice. Sure, the beginning of most loving relationships is usually initiated by a conscious decision excepting perhaps a child’s love for a parent, but as it grows, love becomes instinctual, intuitive, involuntary. A force of its own.

Does that mean humans don’t distort love, misuse or even abuse it? No, of course not. There will always be the dark side of humanity. But the best of our human capacity to love is when we offer it benevolently and even unconditionally.

For a long while I thought unconditional love was reserved for parents, responsible for bringing their children into the world in the first place. At this point, I have been a parent for a long time and I have experienced how intense the love for one’s child is, right from the start. The feeling of your newborn transferred into your arms - all slippery and awkward and loud - oh, HERE you are, little love. I would do anything for you.

But it’s not all roses from there, is it? I know firsthand that unconditional love for children is a real thing, but not one that is easy. When your child struggles in any way, you want to fix the problem and the awful truth is that some things are not fixable by another person or, in some cases, at all. Further, this kind of love involves being the bad guy, the punching bag, and still giving another chance to hit the reset button. Still, I love those kids with all of my heart in a way that they can’t understand, for no child can truly grasp the specific and vast nature of her parents’ love.

I think quite a bit about how Chris included a promise to love me unconditionally in his wedding vows. When he shared them with me at age 26, it made a big impression and gave me pause. Did I really deserve unconditional from Chris? After all, I have many flaws… 

Colby, that line of thinking was missing the point completely! Unconditional love means the beloved does not need to deserve or earn it, or for it to be deemed fair. Remember the “un” in unconditional…

Fast forward to now, the present time in which I feel approximately one hundred years old after everything that happened. Through all of his burdens and challenges, Chris was faithful to everything he promised on our wedding day. He did indeed love me unconditionally. We rarely argued, but when we had our moments, he always saw the good in me and offered me his best self. He was shiningly proud of me and my accomplishments that were separate from him. He always believed in me.

For my part, I loved him back just as unconditionally. It doesn’t mean I knew what to do all of the time. It means I was proud of him, enjoyed him, supported him, laughed with him, listened to what he needed to say. In the hardest of times, I honored him as a person with dignity, and fought for his care and wishes. I loved him to my core, and I still do.

Even though I still have desperately difficult days when it is hard to set aside the hollowed out missingness to dwell in gratitude for Chris, I do not claim that his love is gone from my life. It is still here. I just have to work to get out of my own way to find it now without his physical presence. I am learning to listen for it in my memories, to see it in my home, to feel it when I need him the most.

Yes, I can still draw on that love even though he is not here. It allows me to forgive myself as I remember the mistakes and my regrets from the late stages of his illness, for there was not one single thing I ever did that Chris did not forgive. His gentle, steady love is still with me now as I explore and create new things, as I guide our children alone, as I struggle and stumble and wonder what on earth to do with my life. His love is very much here as I continue to muddle through, now two years past having him at my side.

Reflecting tonight as I wipe away tears from missing him, I am humbled that my life is full of rich relationships and love. Chris, our children, my family, his family, my dear friends old and new… I have so much love in my life.

Additionally, I have shared a special kind of unconditional love for two years now. Some might find it silly, but my pup Phoenix loves me with incredible abandon. Even after I’ve driven her to hide under the table because I raised my voice, even after I have chased her down and lifted her into the bathtub to wash her. She loves overtly and enthusiastically, with whole-body wags, up on hind legs hugs, and exuberant, persistent doggy kisses. She prefers to sleep with me for the duration of the night, and sometimes resting next to me is not close enough - she must sleep with her head and neck draped over me. Funny enough, even considering her tendency to hog the bed, her sensitive stomach, that awful howling, and her terrible jumping habit, I love her back just as unconditionally. There is nothing she can do that I won’t excuse just for the chance to scratch behind her silky ears and draw her slender head to mine… The absence of a shared spoken language heightens every nonverbal interaction. This love is a luxurious love, and a pure one. She has saved me in so many ways.

There is so much love in my life, offered and given unconditionally. How lucky I am. All is not lost, far from it.

Unplugged

Yesterday was a typical March day, warmish and light past dinnertime, yet a cold wind made the air feel more like winter than spring. I needed a run. Desperately. Quarantine, lockdown, whatever we are calling these days one year into covid19, has made me restless. I spend too much time in my home and in my mind, tortured by the “would’ve-could’ve-should’ve-if only-he was sitting right there-he said this-why didn’t I say that” thoughts that are always running somewhere in the background. Physical activity is my only reliable strategy for reframing, for relief.

I set off, purposefully leaving my phone charging at my bedside. I wanted to deny myself the distractions I so often seek – music, podcast, any auditory stimuli – and silently breathe in the air while moving my body. I wanted to hear the birds proclaiming change is on the way.

It was infinitely harder to be unplugged…

My route starts out on my street, running past a dozen houses before hitting a busier street that leads to longer loop. Unplugged, there are landmines within thirty seconds, even before the intersection with the main road. That nice family up the street, two working parents with a kindergartener girl and a younger boy, is converging at their home base after a day of separation. The father has been playing with the kids, the mom arrives home with grocery bags. My throat constricts as the dad watchfully ensures that the toddler boy stays a safe distance from her vehicle as she slows to a stop. The unabandoned joy of the girl running to meet her mother’s car touches a nerve. The domestic, everyday simplicity is familiar and beautiful, but it breaks my heart.

Why? Why are those days over for us? What did we do wrong? They aren’t so different from us, what did they do right that we messed up?

Running with a mask is uncomfortable under the best of circumstances, but a crying jag made it unbearable. I felt like I might not be able to continue as I gasped for oxygenated air and wiped snot on the inside of my mask.  

I focused on breathing slowly, trying to make my exhale longer than my inhale, a trick I have heard will steady one’s heartrate. It didn’t work. I felt like I might suffocate, so I looked around. Seeing nobody else walking or running, I lowered my mask below my nose and mouth.

Sweet freedom.

I steadied my breathing. I looked up. I saw barren tree branches against the clearest of clear blue skies. The intake air caught in my throat again as I remembered Chris’s hope for me, for all of us, articulated by Dar Williams:

Here’s wishing you the bluest sky

 and hoping something better comes tomorrow.

Hoping all the verses rhyme

and the very best of choruses to follow all the doubt and sadness,

I know that better things are on their way.

 

Here's hoping that the days ahead

Won't be as bitter as the ones behind you.

Be an optimist instead
And somehow happiness will find you.
Forget what happened yesterday
I know that better things are on their way.

 

I just can’t. I just can’t see better days and I will never forget. I can’t do this. I am so tired. I am a pessimist.

 

Most of my running route was ahead of me and this was a decision point – give in or bear down. I chose the latter despite the leaden feeling in my legs. I banished all thoughts and listened to my feet on the pavement, tried to block out the aches and pains of my body, the thoughts of my slow pace, my graying hair and middle age. My inner cheerleader piped up:

 

Just keep going. Something is better than nothing, any exercise is better than no exercise. You’ll be happy when you are done.

 

One mile turned into two. As I turned the corner near the train station, memories overcame me again. A cold, slushy, winter day when I picked Chris up from the commuter rail train after an appointment at the hospital to go over the most recent brain imaging tests. We discussed the radiation oncologist’s interpretation of his latest MRI while lingering in the parking lot, just across the street from where I currently ran. It had not been good news. There was some kind of T1 FLAIR on the scan. Maybe that’s not the right terminology, and I wracked my brain for what had been mentioned in the radiologist’s report. It doesn’t matter now… It had been terrible news and we both knew it, and then the worst came to pass in the months that followed that day.

 

I hate myself in the present moment for what I didn’t know then, and what I didn’t know then was what to say to Chris. At the time nearly three years ago, I had absolutely no idea what to say. I could not offer any comfort, no words of assurance. My own brain had been full of a static white noise indicative of panic. All I could think was You are actually going to die soon and how is that going to go? What will I do without you? What am I supposed to do? I only knew it would not be helpful to verbalize those thoughts, so I left them unsaid. I cannot remember what I said to him; I am only certain it was inadequate. He probably knew what I was afraid of anyway.

 

The truth is, I still don’t know what to do even after everything that happened after that day passed. I admitted this as I ran past the place where Chris and I shared that painful moment, though experienced it differently.

 

I hate this so much.

 

“This” meaning I hate myself for everything I failed to do and say back then. “This” meaning I hate my current life. “This” meaning I hate myself for hating that I am alive, living this terrible, empty, less-than, privileged, stuck in the mud life while Chris is dead.

 

I feel ashamed because “this” is not what he wanted for me. “This” is not living my best life. “This” is trauma. “This” is waking up day after day without the person you were so close to you thought you couldn’t live without. “This” is not what it means to be truly living at all.

 

“This” is why I am constantly seeking distraction. “This” is why I desperately need the pandemic to be over, for me and the kids to be out of the house five days a week. “This” is awful, tortured, looking back, willing to trade anything for getting to go back for even a minute, even to the hardest days when he was alive. “This” is why I run with headphones pulsing music or pumping someone else’s story through my ears. “This” is why I am jealous of the neighboring family coming home to an ordinary night, free from the drama of a terminal brain tumor.

 

The unplugged run still did me good, it was still better to have finished than given up. The exercise tired my body, it brought the tears that frequently (yes, still) need release.

 

Next time, I’ll return to my old habits and allow myself the distraction of being plugged in. After all, there must be a reason that grieving people are advised to get up and take a shower when they’d rather stay in bed, go to work when they’d rather stay home. Distraction serves a helpful purpose.

 

 

 

 

Little Things, Big Things

 It was just a small part of the day, a quick trip to Target. The dog was in the back seat of the car after a walk in the woods so I could not aimlessly wander the aisles. This stop was all business - dog food and shaving items. My son needed a men’s razor and shave gel.

A few days earlier, my oldest child turned fourteen. He is now decidedly taller than me with little trace of his toddler plumpness. He and I have noticed quite a bit of peach fuzz on his face, and I mentioned that whenever he wanted to shave, we could tackle that. He didn’t say much, so I left it there except to acknowledge that it would be strange without Dad. I told him we could easily find resources just like I do when I’m faced with a task Dad used to do. YouTube, of course. In fact, I had learned of a guy who made videos for just this purpose – to help boys whose fathers weren’t around for any reason – and I mentioned that to my son.

A few weeks went by, and then my son said he thought he should shave. He worried out loud that he would never learn without Dad. It was one of the only times he has voiced that kind of concern… My heart felt a stabbing pain for his loss. For Chris’s loss. My mind’s eye traveled back in time to other moments, where a father took absolute delight in teaching his son to use tools. To ride a bike. To fish.  

I don’t know what to say in the face of pain related to Chris’s death that isn’t mine. If I try to dive into the feelings too much, it goes nowhere and feels forced. I know that instantly relating back to my pain is doing the other person a disservice; I think it might be worse than saying nothing, so I try to avoid doing that though the urge is strong and well-intentioned. As in so many other unfixable moments of this experience, first with Chris and later with family members, I listened in this case. I did not want to say nothing, so I simply said I was sorry, that Dad would have loved to teach him. We let it go again.

Later, I found out that my son had privately searched for the YouTube man’s channel after our conversation. Sure enough, there was a video tutorial on shaving and he had watched it. Turns out it didn’t seem so hard and my boy was ready to try. We looked in the bathroom closet. There was a plastic case of six razor cartridges and Dad’s old razor. I had thrown away the used blade on the razor a while back, closing my eyes as I buried the dulled cartridge in the trash, but I saved the handle for just this moment. That act had reminded me of discarding Chris’s electric toothbrush head a few days after he died, I had forced myself to do it while swallowing bile.

The razor handle seemed to be missing a piece to fit to the blades in the refill pack. The scientist in me pulled out my own razor and replacement blades to examine the mechanism for snapping together, and still I couldn’t understand the six cartridges in front of us. The blades obviously needed another piece of plastic to fit to the razor handle. Perhaps I had unknowingly thrown that critical fitting away with the last blade Chris used. It was clear that there was no way for our son to affix the new blades and reuse Chris’s razor handle with the supplies I could find in our house.

It was another disappointment, but I didn’t say anything about that to our son. In fact, I don’t know if using Chris’s razor and blades would have been meaningful to him or if it would have been a burden imposed by me, or just… a means to an end - shaving for the first time in that minute.

Thus, my trip to Target. I tried to make it easy on myself by limiting the time so I couldn’t lose myself in memories and wonderings, the “he should be here, he should get to do this” thoughts. Unfortunately, I spent considerable time in the shaving aisle out of confusion. I saw the same multi-pack of blades lacking the plastic fitting that we had at home, and I didn’t see any razor handles that could use them. I felt stupid. I looked at new razors that came with two replacement blades, seeing the same handle that Chris used but blade cartridges with a plastic fitting. All the while, my brain was working overtime remembering the countless times we ran simple errands together. First it was just us, then it was our family of three, later it became our finished family of four. We preferred to be together whenever possible, even for the mundane stuff, even when a toddler and six-year-old in tow tried our patience, even when I was convinced said six-year-old had lice and I was close to hyperventilating in Target. It was always. Always. ALWAYS safe and comfortable and life-affirming to be together.

Come back. We need you. Please come back.

I swore to myself that I would not cry in Target over this. One more minute in the men’s hygiene aisle and I would, aching for my husband and in disbelief that our boy was becoming a man without his father, so I just grabbed a new razor packaged with two replacement blades. There were too many options for shaving cream and gel, so I forced myself to pick a can without overthinking the choice. I made a beeline for the self-checkout lanes and escaped.

It felt sad, yet good at the same time, to casually present the purchases to my son. He had a need. His dad would be the most natural person to help him, but he’s dead. So, I took care of it in the best and only way I know how.  

My son put the new shaving supplies in “his” bathroom. The lower-level bathroom. The bathroom that Chris arranged to be remodeled and painted himself in the cheerful blue color we chose together. The one the males in the family used for a couple of years, and now just my boy does.

Later, my son shaved for the first time in the privacy of his bathroom. Chris wasn’t there. I was not needed in the room. Apparently, it went quite well without either of us supervising. Just one tiny cut. I provided some advice - put a little piece of tissue on it. The blood will draw the tissue to press against the skin, sealing it off. Miraculously (from my son’s point of view), that worked. Believe it or not, I do know a thing or two.

I am all that my children have now for their daily care, guidance, and ultimate launching into the world. I worry that I am not enough. Still, I do the best I can because there is no other choice. Similarly, the children are forced to be self-reliant and mature beyond their years. That last point may not be all bad, but the tradeoff is terrible. How I wish it were not so…

This was just a small event. Something that my son and I handled. But it was a big reminder that the things Chris lamented he would miss are now happening. Time has passed and the children are growing up. Two years past his death and these kids are entirely different people, much farther down their personal trajectories toward adulthood. Without a doubt, Chris would be shocked by their stature and delighted by their personalities.

Why am I the one still here? Why did I draw the long straw? Why am I not filled with joy at being able to witness this?

With respect to the latter, it is because my heart is full of loss. Surviving and coping require so much, it is still hard to feel any joy. And yet, I am uncomfortable with my selfishness. I have been so focused on my personal pain that sometimes I cannot imagine what others feel. The kids miss Dad even if they don’t talk about it much. Chris has missed so much time with them, so many accomplishments and such growth, and he will miss so much more.

Chris knew and fully understood what I am only now beginning to grasp. Oh, he clearly and deeply knew just what he would miss. At the time, when he talked of disappearing and not getting to see how the kids turned out, I didn’t know what to say. I tried to listen. I tried to be present and not turn away out of fear. I tried not to burden him with my own pain of facing a future without him. I hope I did the right thing in those moments; I hope it was enough. I did the best I could.

I miss him.

We miss him.

He should be here.

This was just a little thing, a blip, but the little things in life are what make it so special. The little things are really the big things, and Chris is missing them all.

 

 

 

Outsider

Our neighborhood is mostly made up of modest 1970s split level homes, but there are a couple of larger, enviable colonials with beautifully landscaped yards. A young couple recently moved into one of those “nicer” homes. I did not meet them until they adopted a dog early in the pandemic, then they were frequently out walking and Phoenix would raise a ruckus whenever they approached us on the street. It was rather awkward until they graciously offered to let the dogs say hello. The dogs sniffed each other and we made some small talk. I discovered they are lovely people. If we were contemporaries they would likely be too popular, too fashionable to be close friends of mine, but as it turns out I’m a good decade or more senior to them and we can certainly be friendly acquaintances whose dogs now adore one another.    

For quite some time I wondered what this couple thought of me, the solitary middle-aged woman who plays numerous sports in the yard with her two kids, is pulled around by a large, poorly trained dog, and undertakes dubious DIY projects with no partner in sight. It troubled me that they might think I was divorced, then it bothered me that I considered divorce stigmatizing. Why do I care what they think, anyway?

I have not always been alone. Someone once chose me, treasured me, considered me his rock, made this place a home with me, took care of me just as I took care of him.

About a month ago, I noticed a change to their patterns. One car was gone for a few days while snow collected on the remaining vehicle. As I accompanied Phoenix on her countless walks from that cluster of days, I watched for signs of activity that would mark their return. I knew they were at the hospital for their baby’s birth. My vigilance, likely borne of PTSD, could not be set aside until I saw the baby blue decorations on the front porch complete with a cheerful “It’s a Boy!” banner. First came a rush of relief for his safe arrival. Then, on its heels came something much less attractive - envy crept in from the edges of my consciousness.

I had what they have and now it’s gone.

I want what they have.

Why didn’t I get to keep what they almost certainly will?

I used to be in that club. You know, the one that our culture worships yet withholds membership from far too many people. The club that proclaims if you have done everything right as a successful person you will be educated, land a great job, marry the perfect person, buy a beautiful house that is decorated just so, have 2.3 perfect kids spaced two years apart, celebrate 10 years of marriage, then 20, then enjoy an empty nest together, then retire and travel, then celebrate a golden wedding anniversary.

It’s an exclusive club by nature, unattainable for most. Just looking at the numbers, I’m puzzled at how the mystique of the club can persist with the divorce rate still hovering near 50%. And beyond that, we are not all so privileged to reap any one of those membership benefits if we simply work hard enough and do the right things. It’s a real problem that our culture worships that club, with its ladder laden with over-the-top wedding proposals, elaborate reveals for a baby’s biological sex, and ostentatious house renovations. It just sets people up for disappointment and envy.

I’m certainly guilty of buying into it all… I continually sought the next life notch – college, grad school, husband, baby, tenure-track position. The last stop was the home we purchased after I got my coveted job offer. It was all going according to plan and yes, I felt a bit smug. Self-satisfied. See? I worked so hard and I got what I deserved.

Then the train veered off the expected path with the surprise brain tumor… After a period of shock and intense treatment, I kept clawing at my club membership. We should have been kicked out with the terminal diagnosis, but not many people knew about it and I faked it. I enjoyed posting pictures of my perfect family and hid the fact that baby #2 was born to a father who would not live to see her out of childhood. I desperately didn’t want that to be true, so I didn’t advertise it. Instead, I shared the most flattering pictures of our intact family of four and basked in the approval of the club.

Oh, but now there is no more pretending. Dead husband, single mom. Those things get you kicked out of the club for good. The members are horrified that tragedy can strike someone like you, someone who did everything right. Nobody knows what to do with your struggle, your deflated affect, your distractedness, your solitary widowed existence. You are out.

I cannot blame anyone for my outsider status. In fact, the finger points toward me most of all. I bear guilt for revering the club in the first place. It smacks of privilege and I don’t like that, I wish I didn’t want what I do. Yet here I am, very much on the outside now, willing to give anything to be let back in.

That’s not happening. Not ever.

It’s something I have yet to come to terms with. You cannot go back. A person who has died never walks through the door again. Even if I were to remarry a new partner, we would make some kind of blended, grieving family that really doesn’t fit into the club.  

I’m an outsider now.

I hate it so much. Sometimes I’m downright surly because I spent my entire childhood being a nerd outsider, my college years dedicated to being a rule-following perfectionist outsider, my grad school years struggling as a feelings-driven science outsider. Just when things came together for me, boom! Permanent outsider status conferred as a young widowed parent.

On my good days, I try to make the best of it. When the couple up the street appeared to walk the dog with a stroller, I decided I needed to reach out. I made an enormous pot of soup and dropped some off, admiring their sweet baby and saying that they made a lovely family. Sincerely. The baby fussed a bit, and they looked tired. The husband implied the baby cried a lot. I wished them good luck and hoped they would get some rest. I told them I was always around if they needed a respite dog walker or anything else. I think/hope it was a normal social interaction.

They likely didn’t know that I swallowed the lump in my throat and held back my stories about how our first baby was quite difficult, too. They probably wouldn’t have known what to say if I described how Chris would allow our son to suck on his pinky finger and walk laps through the house with him until he finally fell asleep. 

My vision was blurred by tears on the walk back home. This is far from the only situation in which I felt like my contributions would make people feel awkward so I said nothing. My stories cannot spill out naturally anymore; there's not much to say that is lighthearted or fun or generally welcome in most company.

I’m an outsider now.

Two Years: The Hard Part is Here

 

Two years. It seems so long now, yet it could have been yesterday. Time is like that…

Do you miss us, Chris?

That question recently filled my mind without warning. Two years is a long time… If he had been on a business trip for two years, he would certainly miss us. Obviously. But this gone is not that kind of being away. Still, in that moment I was gutted thinking of him wanting to be with us for two whole years.

Do you miss everything?

This thought right on top of the last left me swallowing sobs. He must long for everything – driving the kids to school, finding an ELT feature, Christmas, coffee, clean sheet night, hugs. Everything. Every little thing.

He doesn’t exist to miss any person or thing. He won’t exist ever again. He is gone.

This was the worst of the trio of thoughts. Chris is gone, vanished into the universe. He cannot think or feel, he does not exist to miss us or our life together. It still doesn’t make sense. I wonder if it ever will. He is gone.

A widowed friend helped me a great deal on this day. I’m paraphrasing, but my friend explained that our dead loved ones are most certainly fine, that the hard part is here. Death relieves their suffering, comforts their grief, removes their longing. Whatever your belief structure is regarding what comes next, they are okay because all struggle is finished.

The hard part is here.

Chris certainly did have a hard part before his passing. I recall in painful detail the physical decline that he suffered and, even more agonizing, his deep grief at leaving. Oh, he loved those kids. Me. Family. This entire life. Years of anticipation of the tumor coming back gave way to a terrible and terrifying reality that it was going to take him. Chris would miss out on so much, too soon.

In the last four weeks or so, word-finding was more challenging and the right words wouldn’t always come in the exact way he intended. We didn’t talk about his grief in detail. I don’t know if we would have had the tumor not impacted his speech center; because his pain was so deep, so personal, and so uniquely his, I’m not sure he would have chosen to share if he could have. I remember Chris struggling to eat a few bites and needing to leave the table when overcome with tears. I felt so helpless. All I could do was wheel him away to the privacy he wanted.

Yes, he had an extremely hard stretch before his death. Chris missed us while he was still here. He missed the older versions of the kids, the older versions of us. He missed the freedom of full ability, he longed for a future. It was terribly hard for Chris to give it all up because he loved it all so much, but he had no choice.

On his last day, Chris couldn’t speak. Not so much because of the tumor but from being weak. He seemed to cling to consciousness and life. For the last hours he was awake, Chris was calm and it was just the two of us. At one point, he channeled his energy into a few deliberate winks while holding full eye contact with me. He had worried he would not be able to communicate at some point in his disease and he had spoken about finding a way to make sure we would know what he wanted to say. It came to pass in that moment, Chris was earnestly communicating his final message to me. While nobody can be completely sure what another person is thinking, seventeen years in a relationship together give me high confidence that Chris was telling me two things.

It is OK.

I love you.

Even though it is excruciating to remember the end, I revisit this memory and every single time I feel certain that Chris was using his last energy to reassure me, just as he always did. He was going to be okay. I was going to be okay. He loved me. He loved our family.

So yes. The hard part is here. Chris’s hard part while he was here is done now; he is permanently at peace. He is not missing us nor is he longing to come back. He is gone, but he is okay.

My hard part goes on because I am still here, still missing him, reliving the trauma of his illness and decline, wishing I could have done more for him, longing for him to come back, loving him in his absence. It is not the same difficult path that Chris walked, but it is hard to wake up every day without his living presence, without his kind, alive eyes telegraphing real-time reassurance and love. I don’t feel particularly “okay” right now, but I hope that one day I’ll be more stable in feeling better while still living. Chris wanted that for me. He believed I could get to okay, so I will keep trying for him.

The hard part is here. He is OK. I still love him, we all do.

Two years.

Hurt Animal Pain

A few months ago on a routine walk, Phoenix started behaving strangely. Every few steps she would stop and aggressively rub her head on the ground. I was mystified as I had not seen her act like this before. As her movements grew more desperate and her anxiety ramped up, so did my concern. She clearly was in pain and needed help but would recoil when I approached her.

So it was for me on Christmas Eve. The pain of being without Chris cut to the bone; the supposed happiest night of the most wonderful time of the year just the complete opposite - a total nightmare from which I desperately wanted out of but couldn’t figure out how to make that happen.

The hurt was visceral, honestly it cannot be described. My mind was assaulted by memories so vivid that the long past moments could have been the present – date days for shopping and lunch while the kids were in school, late nights filling stockings and assembling toys, standing together while chatting with family, sending nonverbal messages that it is time to get home – except none of that is possible anymore. Irrational reactions to seeing normal intact families, even people I love. Everyone seemingly untouched and unphased except the one person who understood me through and through, like a lightning bolt zapped just my little family and nobody else even saw it. Being unable to hold a conversation. Tears sliding into my mouth while driving, slightly open to avoid holding my breath and letting it out in uncomfortable bursts. Hopefully the Universe smiles upon the person who tried to engage me in conversation, because I just couldn’t do it… I just needed it all to be over.

There is missing, and then there is hurt so acute and innate it can only be described as animalistic pain. I’ve seen my dog’s normally soft, flat coat rise in angry bristles when she is riled up, and I felt exactly like that on Christmas Eve. Nobody and nothing can take away my pain and I didn’t want anyone near me to try.

In these spells of intolerable grief, it is sometimes helpful, or maybe meaningful is the better word, to find parallels to Chris’s journey. He certainly had to bear unimaginable pain. In retrospect, I think he held a lot in so as not to burden me or others. There were a few moments when I saw it overtake him, though he had a different constitution than I do and was not prone to anger or even prickles. On a particularly brutal afternoon, perhaps after the last regular oncologist meeting when we learned that time was extremely short, Chris’s face was etched with pain as he sat in the infusion chair to receive the last dose of avastin. I stood next to him desperate to comfort him, awkwardly trying to cradle his head against my shoulder. He couldn’t say anything, there were only tears rolling down his face and a few silent shudders. Chris closed his eyes to shut out the room, including me. Nobody could lessen his incredible pain over leaving the life he loved.  

Just as it does in dogs, deep human pain sets off instincts – to flail about to relieve it, to lash out to protect against further pain, to close eyes and withdraw from all others.

So that’s Christmas Eve, last year was very much the same. I don’t know why I even try, but you do when there are children involved. They seem to be able to laugh and eat, wonder what is in the packages under the tree, and enjoy making Santa magic even with a sad Mom. I feel bad for them and try to explain it’s because I miss Dad so much. I hope one day they will forgive me for being a mess on Christmas Eve.

When Christmas morning arrived, the kids took delight in presents and were kind to one another. After the gifts were opened, ripped wrapping paper thrown out, and the boxes broken down, little rivulets of relief trickled over my mind as the real deluge of strangely warm rain picked up outside. Much later, once the holiday dinner was made, served, eaten, the dishes cleared, leftovers packaged up, and the dishwasher hummed in an otherwise quiet kitchen as the kids were occupied in separate pursuits, my own holiday peace fully descended and stayed for the whole day after Christmas.

It’s over. Oh, thank goodness that’s over. I don’t have to do that again for a whole year.

It was all very reminiscent of that day with Phoenix, when she was clearly in pain and fighting off my efforts to help. Acting on a hunch and perhaps a memory from Where the Red Fern Grows or another book, I can’t remember now which story, I finally caught her up in firm hands and pried open her jaws. Quickly I probed the slender roof of her mouth and, sure enough, there was a stick jammed across it. Once I removed the object causing her pain, she instantly calmed and returned to her normal self.

From two years of experience, I have learned the hard way that Christmas now brings with it a unique kind of grief, I can only describe it as hurt animal pain. But I also see the truth in the sentiment that the only way out is through, and those loaded minutes of Christmas agony do eventually pass.

Boxing Day, December 26, now that might just become my holiday.

Take This Cup Away

It’s been a bit of a rough patch with a series of minor incidents that built momentum into a decent-sized emotional backslide. If I list them out it will lay out a privileged person’s complaint list but, what the heck, I’m going for it anyway:

Thursday – campus covid lockdown announced, sudden transition to teaching from home. Super ugh. More pandemic turmoil, back to absolutely no time for deep, focused thought while being home all of the time. This is beyond old…

Monday – Zoom with grief group. Although much good came of it for me as it always does, I carried a lingering sting from its smack of reality that this solo parenting journey will NEVER end. Not ever! There is no going back to the good old days, no light at the end of the tunnel, only tough teenage years to weather without a co-parent and bittersweet milestones for the kids to mark without a dad. I’m stuck doing this alone for life. I just don’t know if I’m cut out for it…   

Tuesday – brand new car dead in the driveway. Yes. My newest baby, my biggest decision without Chris that brought me so much relief from car worry, a shiny bright spot in my new chapter, my hybrid RAV4 failed to start. Do I have a lemon? Will I ever not worry about a car? Why me?!?! What the hell?!?! (resolved by AAA jump, not a crisis)

Tuesday-Wednesday – parenting/adulting challenges that I will not lay out in detail out of respect for the privacy of the involved parties. Let’s just say that building a new life is hard for everyone, and nobody wanted a new life, anyway, when the old life was so great.

Tuesday-Saturday – major anxiety over the election. Memories of the 2016 election came rushing back - watching the returns come in on the projector with Chris and the kids, with early excitement. Then the night took a disastrous turn as Trump was elected. That last presidential election ushered in personal bad news as Chris's tumor returned soon after. This year, as it became clear that Biden had actually won, the bittersweet nature of the moment was a bit overwhelming. I remembered a moment from Nov 30, 2018. We were in the ER and doctors were trying to assess how aware Chris was after his massive seizures so they asked him who the president was. Chris managed to reply Obama. The doctors and I all suppressed smiles, and Chris shook his head with a smile knowing that he had not connected the right name to the answer, but he remembered a fine president instead. What I would give to share this presidential victory with Chris...  

Saturday – cleaning up a large yard of dead leaves alone. Well, I had a tiny bit of help, but I sorely miss Chris and his steady companionship and productive perseverance at tasks. Despair settled in further. Will I be 80 and dumping leaves in the woods alone? Who is going to take care of me when I can’t take care of me and this place any longer?

Ongoing – Chris’s birthday, holidays, and his death day bearing down amidst skyrocketing covid cases. So, we cannot be with people or go places we used to… Can’t we just cancel the holidays? What’s the point?

 

This all spiraled into a few huge crying meltdowns. At a low point, and this is no exaggeration, the sobs left me with no choice but to collapse on the (unvacuumed) floor and let them out. I could not do anything but cry into the carpet over my losses for a good long while - for Chris, for the stable, 4-cornered family life my children used to have, for my own personal adult life. Guiltily, I implored the universe for a way out.

I don’t want to live this way anymore. Please, take this cup away.

This is the dirty little secret of grieving. It doesn’t end. While everyone might think you are doing great and even you might declare that you have come a long way, these spells of deep pain and despair still descend because it is literally unbelievable that a beloved person can just permanently disappear. Life is irrevocably, involuntarily changed, and not for the better. There are no easy fixes, no fixes at all.

It was in one of these terribly dark moments that I was compelled to ask my smartphone the question that I do every now and then, always with an indescribable mix of curiosity and dread when voicing the words:

How many days has it been since January 8, 2019?

Usually the answer elicits an equally indescribable reaction – some mashup of horror at the growing distance from Chris and disbelief at having survived that ever-increasing number. On this day, though, when I was crying and clawing for an escape from this life, the answer to my question actually made me laugh out loud because the most fitting, macabre number was returned – 666. Of course it was, why wouldn't it be?

I have a sneaking suspicion that only a widow can truly understand how that was funny...

This path is hell, 666 days in and beyond.