14 months
Saturday was 14 months. Sunday was 14 months. Today is 14 months. It’s a 3-day sadiversary for me, every time. The 15th was the day he died, but I didn’t know that until the 17th. The 16th was the day I tried desperately to get ahold of him and worried myself sick. This weekend also marked the one-year anniversary of my meeting his family and his friends, minus his daughter, in California.
It was a good evening. Not tear-free, by any stretch, but then again, I didn’t expect it to be. I was a terrible guest, keeping my host and hostess up way too late because I didn’t want the evening to end. I felt bad about it, and still do, but they were gracious, and desperation trumped manners on that one, I’m afraid. Finally, they brought me back to my hotel room and I got into bed and bawled my eyes out. I still remember the spot in my chest that hurt for months, and was a stabbing pain every time I cried.
I was kind of down for “no reason” this weekend, so I assumed it was the double anniversary that was making me extra-emotional, (as I’d had a few pretty good days leading up to the weekend). Tears were very close to the surface and they remain so today. I miss him so damn much.
Things haven’t worked out as I’d hoped with his gang, although when I try really hard to be objective, I have to admit that they worked out much better than they could’ve. It is what it is. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately about expectations, and how they can cause, or increase, suffering.
I was reading a thread at the bulletin board recently started by a woman who had known her husband was likely to die young because of health issues he had when they met, and she was wondering if any other folks were in the same boat. She, and the one other person who had responded by the time I read it, said that the pain of loss was of course overwhelming, but that they didn’t feel the betrayal of the universe within that pain, to have something taken from them without warning, that was expressed by a lot of other widows there. I thought that was interesting, and would have to say that that’s a big chunk of the pain and confusion. They said they went into the relationship fully aware that this might happen to them, and appreciated every day knowing that their time was limited.
All of our time is limited on this earth; the difference is, these ladies were very aware of it in a concrete way from the start of the relationship. The rest of us learned it the hardest way when we lost our loved ones out of the blue, in some cases, or to an unexpected illness, as most of them are.
One could argue that, loving a man twenty years my senior, I should’ve been prepared for this possibility. And to a limited extent, I was. I realized that the odds were in favor of me losing him before he lost me. I didn’t like to think about it, but think about it I did from time to time. It made me cry. I imagined we would have maybe 20 years together, if things continued as they were, realizing that choices he or I might make might change that, but we’d certainly be here to talk about it. We knew that no matter what happened, we would always be friends.
What I wasn’t prepared for was an apparently healthy man dying at 55. When I thought of people dying, I imagined it later in life. I didn’t imagine anyone dying of heart attacks and such in their fifties; that was for late sixties, seventies, and beyond, and anyone who died younger than that for reasons of health (that is, not in accidents of various kinds) was a fluke. I have since learned that lots of folks die in their 50s. Every single day. I wasn’t unprepared for the reality that he would die before me (at least in an intellectual sense—who could be prepared for the emotional reality?); I was unprepared for the reality that people die “young”—my definition of young—more often than I had any notion of. I know better now, and it makes me fear for my parents, for my older friends. It’s a selfish fear; I don’t want to lose anyone else I love.
If I had a sense that men actually began dying off in their 50s, perhaps, like the women in the thread, I would’ve felt less betrayed by a universe who took my love away so unexpectedly. Maybe if I’d expected it more seriously… And maybe not.
I understand what they’re saying, intellectually. And looking at the facts alone of my situation, I could see where I might have expected this, had I known that the hearts of men of 55 can just stop with no warning. I didn’t. I never imagined.
But for all that my brain may understand in this, my heart and soul just never make the leap. I miss him. I hate that he’s gone. I don’t care about the facts, despite my inability to deny them.
Which brings me to the other expectations that have been giving me trouble, and that is that there is some future “better” I’m trying to get to in terms of healing, things I “should” be doing, ways I “should” be feeling. For everyone else’s expectations on that score, I think I am just as guilty as putting them on myself. And it occurs to me that the expectation that life should be one endless wave of contentment, and if it isn’t, you’re doing it wrong, is a real unhelpful expectation. Because you set yourself up for failure, and feel like perhaps you’re much worse off than you really are. I know I’ve put myself in that trap, probably for my whole life. More reasonable expectations would say “Yeah, life is hard sometimes. The hard times aren’t something to get past; they’re just as much a part of life as the good times.” That is to say, if you expect that you should be living blissfully at all times, and aren’t, you have two options: to feel like you’re a failure at this life thing, or to conclude that your life is especially bad. What if it isn’t your life that’s wrong, but your expectations? That’s what I’ve been asking myself last night and today.
I can look around in my home, in my little cubicle at work, or even in my car, and find blessings galore in my life. Have I suffered? Oh yes. Have I suffered as much as some? Not by a long shot. Maybe if I’d expected that suffering as my due in this gig as a human being, I wouldn’t have been brought quite so low by it when it came my way over the last 35 years, and the last year in particular. Perhaps if I’d expected my share of pain in this life, instead of been outraged by its arrival, things would’ve been different. I’m not promoting a pessimism, but rather, a realism. I don’t know. But it’s something I will continue to ponder.
Will it make me feel better instantly, if I can adopt that mindset? I don’t think so. But what I think it could do is allow me to carry my pain and sadness, past, present, and future, with more grace. It’s mine, as sure as the scar on my eye and the gray in my hair are mine. And if it belongs to me for the duration, there is nothing wrong with me if I feel sad and cry and long for my sweetie. It’s mine, and I needn’t worry so much about where I “should be,” and instead can just be. No evaluation required. And that alone would be a load off, a bit of relief in circumstances where I need it so. I don’t have to feel like I’m not trying hard enough to heal, like I’m some sort of grieving slacker. I don’t have to feel bad about feeling bad.