Still don’t understand
Yesterday, a name came up at work that seemed to nag at my memory as something significant, somehow related to California and A. I never did solve the mystery of the name, but in my investigation I ended up reading some e-mails from those horrible days right after he died, e-mails I sent to and received from his family.
What’s strange about the e-mails is how very calm, how eminently understanding, how conciliatory they were to people I hadn’t actually offended in the first place. I felt so keenly my status as a stranger among these people he loved, and was desperate not to upset the apple cart in what was a terrible and uncharted situation we were all dealing with. I wanted to be able to hold on to these people for dear life, for support, for their connection to him now that he was gone, and, frankly, for the things of his that he wanted me to have, and I went out of my way to be helpful and, I hoped, kind.
I wonder now if I made a mistake in doing so. Because I read those e-mails now, and see that while I was bending over backwards to be considerate of everyone else’s feelings, in doing so I may have kicked my own to the curb. For all my understanding words, for all my apparent calmness, I was dying inside. I was sick with grief and loss and aching for him, and on top of that I felt every thoughtless word, every thoughtless act, like a knife in my heart (or what was left of it). But still I tried to be understanding, to put myself in their shoes, to be patient, because I didn’t want to hurt or discomfit the people A loved most in the world. I knew I was one of them, but I set that aside for the time being because of the circumstances, and I chose to hold my tongue and bide my time, rather than impose on them. I told them I understood, over and over again. I understood why they’d left me out of the memorial service. And in the numbness of the moment, and on some intellectual level, I suppose I did. What I didn’t tell them that was that I thought they were cold and cruel to do it and that I’ll never forgive them for it. What I didn’t say is “How dare you? How could you?” I didn’t say those things on several occasions, as decisions were made without regard to me, but I felt like saying them. Maybe I should’ve, but I don’t know what it would’ve gained me. Not that it would’ve lost me much, either (though I couldn’t know that then). It merely would’ve hastened the reality that is anyway; everything I wanted to avoid has come to pass: they have shut me out, and I never got the bracelet or the cards I sent him, or anything else he wanted me to have.
Given how things turned out, I regularly second-guess my actions in regard to them, even now. Why did I try so hard? Why did I bother to try to earn their good opinion? My feelings and needs weren’t really considered in any of the post-mortem activities: the memorial, the cleaning out of his apartment, the scattering of his ashes. Promises and offers made to me by both friends and family became excuses and then were forgotten entirely. And there was no lasting relationship, despite my efforts to interact with them as sensitively and considerately as I knew how. I’ve not heard from any of them unprompted since his birthday a year ago. I haven’t heard from family or friend in response to my initiating contact since last fall; I haven’t bothered to write since. I’ve wanted to, but I’ve held back; I couldn’t take the rising and then dashed hopes anymore. The holding back bothers me a bit less. At least this way it’s my choice.
I know this doesn’t make me unusual. There are 150 stories on any given day at the widow board of people who have not heard from their own families since they lost their loved ones, let alone their in-laws. And we were not even in-laws. We weren’t even acquainted until he died.
But what’s nagging at me now, having read those old e-mails, and old blog posts as well regarding that time, is this: Was I too calm? Too collected? Too understanding? Did I seem unbothered? Is that why they found it so easy to disregard me and my feelings? Did I somehow encourage their lack of consideration by trying so hard to keep it together when I conversed with them? Did I do this to myself?
The thing is, in other e-mails I was very open about my feelings: about A, about losing him, about how I felt about all of them, about my struggles with carrying on with my life so altered, and that kind of naked emotional display did not seem well received either. We did not bond over it, anyway.
I guess I’m still trying to figure out how people he described as good and loving could behave in a manner so diametrically opposed to my own natural inclination when faced with this tragedy. My instinct was to reach out and help and offer and love them and give whatever I had to give. I accepted them into my heart because he loved them; I had done so long before he died. It never occurred to me to do otherwise. But evidently there are other ways of being.
I’m angry, and baffled, and hurt, still. I don’t think they’re evil; I just think they were wrong. Sometimes I think I should’ve pitched a hairy fit until I got what I wanted; maybe that would’ve worked. Maybe it would’ve made me feel better to point out their thoughtlessness. But that is not my way, and I didn’t want to behave in a way that would reflect poorly on A. Plus, I was ever cognizant of the fact that they had lost the same person I had, and were grieving, too, and how could I make things harder for them? So I did what I always do: I suck it up shit; I don’t start it.
I don’t know. I didn’t know how to do it any better than I did; I’d never been widowed before. I’d never known that kind of emotional pain before; never could’ve imagined it. I don’t claim to have done it well at all; and I’d just as soon not have the opportunity to practice it a second time and see if I can improve upon my initial performance. I don’t know what his family was thinking, about me or about any of it. It seems that dealing with the living is as much a mystery as dealing with death.