The only constant
Last night I ordered a new computer, a new Mac notebook to replace my Gateway laptop that is literally being held together with duct tape at the moment. This is a big step, because the Gateway I have is identical to the one A had. He bought his first, and when my last HP laptop tanked, I decided to get the same computer he had. In addition to being a firm believer in RTFM, A was an ace tinkerer and could be counted on to figure out everything the computer could do, and I wasn’t going to pass on that kind ready tech support and helpful guidance. (I got the same camera he had for the same reasons.) Since I met him, I have begun to regularly read manuals as well. He was a good influence in a lot of ways.
We spent every night chatting on these computers. His was a little worse for wear after he dumped half a cup of coffee in the keyboard, and could only use the Q key for months until he got it fixed. He’d laugh about my duct tape, I’m sure, but wouldn’t be the least bit surprised; my klutziness is legendary. But I’d have the last laugh; all my keys still work. So there’s a sentimental value to this laptop for me. It was something we both had, and if I still have mine, well, then… Ah, the little games we play.
But there’s the duct tape, and the fact that the MacBook Pro is one helluva a sexy machine. And while I feel a little twinge about setting this one aside, it is no match for my gadget lust. As I was exploring the Apple site to learn about the computer I was buying, though, my sweetie let me know that he encouraged the switch. (He had been possessed of a fair amount of gadget lust himself.) The computer I was considering was being advertised with beautiful pictures of hummingbirds, on several pages of the site. And then I went to the Garage Band information, a piece of software I’ve been interested in since I first heard about it, and there was his guitar, exactly. Laugh if you will, but I don’t care. I don’t believe in coincidences.
Maybe he doesn’t give a damn about my laptop computer; I have to think he has far more interesting things to think about in the next life. But I’m pretty sure he’s in favor of anything that indicates that I’m moving forward in my life, even if it’s something as small as leaving a minor symbol behind for something better. I am letting go of the things that don’t really matter because I am ready to. It’s like the change of the seasons here in the desert; people from outside declare that they could never live in a place that didn’t have seasons. I always tell them, and it’s true, that we have seasons as well—they’re just subtle. So it is with healing; the signs are subtle. But when you’ve lived in this country awhile, you learn to recognize them. And sometimes, they look like a new computer.
Late in the evening, when I was talking to him in my journal, I told him about the computer, and found myself rationalizing the purchase thereof to him, probably to excess. And I realized that I’d been rationalizing it since it first occurred to me to get it, and I was really working hard at it. What was that about? Why did I feel like I had to convince him…or me? I was irritated at myself, because I couldn’t just let it be a new computer. It had to be a big deal, a symbol, some kind of commentary on my life, my journey, his and my relationship, blah, blah, blah. Perhaps you know the drill?
As I wrote about it, I finally recognized what my problem was. The thing about recurring issues is that the better you get at spotting them, the better they get about subterfuge. The same issues crop up constantly in our lives, in different guises, and sometimes it takes awhile to realize you’re dealing with the same old thing for the nth time. But that’s exactly what I was doing.
I realized that I’ve been doing so much rationalizing of what, on the surface, is a simple tech purchase because of that boogeyman of grief where change=betrayal. I think it gets all of us at some point during this journey. Agreeing to move forward, in ways small and large, seems like tacit consent to the death of the loved one. There’s a feeling that if we manage to get anything good after their death, it’s as if we’re okay with them being gone, because, hey, I got this new computer! It’s not true, (both because one has nothing to do with the other, and because our approval of their death was never required in the first place, obviously), but that doesn’t mean we don’t feel it. Everyone I know who has been widowed and endeavored to live again has known and fought the guilt that comes with moving forward and stepping back into life.
A part of us, however nonsensical, seems to think that keeping our life in state as it was at the moment of death, is the only way to show love and fidelity and that their passing mattered to us. I think it’s also a defense mechanism, because when your life is changed as devastatingly and completely as it is by the death of your beloved, you cannot stand to have one more thing change, however trivial. We hold on to objects and rituals that don’t necessarily serve the same purpose, or serve us, as they once did, because when you’re drowning, a worm-eaten half of a plank of wood is as good as a life preserver. That would be why there is 2 1/2 year mayo and horseradish in my fridge that I bought for his use. I’m not negating their value; but their irrationality is pretty evident, even when we’re trapped in our deepest grief. OF COURSE we know they’re just things and don’t matter in the grand scheme, but don’t you dare try to take them away from us. Everybody needs his or her woobie.
As I considered the idea of change, and the gut-level resistance of the bereaved (me, at least) to doing too much of it too fast, I had a thought. If it’s true that on some supraconscious level we depart this world at a time of our choosing, then A was the one who changed everything first by leaving; therefore, I am under no obligation to remain the same. Nor could I have if I wanted to.
I know it’s not useful or even correct to think that living again is some kind of insult to our loved ones who have passed on; I preach to others that making the best of a bad situation, which is what learning to live again is to do, is not a betrayal of love; it honors love. Because as much as we may hate to hear it sometimes, they DO want us to live on and find happiness. I even attend my own lectures on that one, and yet I got trapped again in something I thought I had put to rest: the guilt of living well when the one you love died. I had been trying to convince him, and myself, that my wanting a new computer was not a betrayal of something that we’d shared, or a rejection of him. But once I realized what I was dealing with, I was able to stop trying. You can’t argue with demons; all you can do is kick ‘em out. They come back now and again, but if you stop feeding them, eventually they’ll stop coming around.