He’d want me to have flowers
Since A died, I have had a picture of the two of us on my computer desktop at work. In April, when my dog had to be put down, I added her picture next to his to my little virtual desktop shrine. Eventually I taped an actual picture of each of them to the monitor frame. I kiss my fingers and touch all four pictures every day before I leave work. It’s become one of many such rituals.
Once you start those rituals, though, it is hard to let them go. What was once a comfort becomes a compulsion, and you feel like you let your loved one down if you don’t do it exactly the same every day. At least, you do if you are me. I don’t harbor a lot of guilt about it, but it does bring me up short when I realize I didn’t do it, or if something interrupts that ritual, brief though it is. And I wonder if I will ever be able to let it go, if there’s any reason to, and if the world will come crashing down again on me if I do. Best not to tempt fate; there is comfort in habits, even slightly OCD ones.
I did some rearranging of my cubicle at work Wednesday, and got a new monitor. I ended up having some trouble with the new monitor as the result of some other hardware that was on the fritz, and in the changeover, my desktop went to black; the picture of A and P was missing. Easy enough fix—I just opened up the controls and selected that picture again, clicked “Apply,” and waited for it to refresh.
Only it didn’t refresh. It was the same black screen. Given that I wasn’t going to get it all fixed Wednesday, and needed to get some work done, I picked the next pattern available, which happened to be yellow tulips. It’s a lovely picture, spring-like and happy-colored. Very positive.
And then I wondered if perhaps, in my efforts to focus on the positive, it would be good for me to have some cheery tulips on my monitor for awhile. But conflicting with that is that change, any change of anything related to A, is really hard for me. Granted, when I’m working at work, I don’t see his picture on the desktop anyway, as it’s covered with windows of the tasks I’m doing. But every time I lock my computer and step away from my desk, my boy and my baby are there, and they are waiting for me when I get back. Then again, I have pictures of them on the outside frame of the new monitor, just as I did with the old, and those are visible at all times. And yet it is a change.
I think what’s hardest about the change is admitting to myself that I might be ready for it. I think there’s a confused wannabe martyr inside myself, and maybe many bereaved persons, that intends to tend the eternal flame of pain and sadness to prove to our loved one how much we love them, how much we care, how unable we are to go on without them. Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, as it were. And I can feel this martyr get uncomfortable with changes and steps toward the life I know he’d want me to have. He doesn’t want me to forever sad for his sake; it certainly does him no good, and he hated for me to be sad when he was here. But still, the discomfort is there; no one said this journey was a rational one.
Meanwhile, back at the tulips, I decided I’d leave it for the day because I had things to do. When I walked in Thursday morning, moved some cables around, and got my monitor working properly, there were those tulips. Did I change it back, or did I leave them? The choice was presented to me again. I decided I would try the tulips for another day, knowing that I could change it at any moment if the discomfort grew too great. Because I have to admit, the tulips ARE cheering, and I kind of like them. Not that I didn’t like the picture of my sweetie; of course I did. But I still have one of him and my dogter in visual range at all times.
So it’s been two days of tulips, and I haven’t freaked out yet. There were a couple moments where I felt a little anxiety, but it passed in a moment and never blossomed into a full-on panic attack.
Sometimes I look at these things that are so small, and I have to laugh at myself at what a big deal they are. And yet, the reality is, they ARE a big deal, and I can feel proud of every baby step I take toward healing, because I know exactly how hard it was, and what it took, to get me to take it.