Love is forever…One woman’s journey with grief

I was having lunch with a friend, and we were discussing the monsoon, which is a favorite local summer sport.  We get real weather so rarely, we have to discuss it while we have the chance.  I shared with her my little anecdote about raking as the lightning struck closer and closer to where I was working, and she tsked me for waiting to take cover.  I explained to her, as I did in my last post, that my philosophy now is that if it’s not my time, I won’t get hit, and if it is, ain’t much I can do about it anyway.  She said, "I don’t like that attitude."  I shrugged.  Tough, I thought. 

I was a little irked, and remain so, because she was of the camp who told me that he was in a better place, and that it must’ve been his time, because all of us leave this earth voluntarily, according to our soul contract, regardless of what we are consciously aware of wanting and planning.  That is her belief. 

If she truly believes that, then she should be fine with my "attitude," which is right in line with that belief.  But she’s not.  So whose faith in this crazy universe is shaky?  I don’t know from soul contracts, but I assume the soul has will, and I believe we go on, and that’s enough for me.  It’s not like I’m throwing myself off of cliffs or diving with sharks in a wetsuit made of beef.  I’m raking in my yard; not a high-risk activity by most measures.  It’s not indicative of a death wish.  You’re not going to see my neighbors on the 10 o’clock news after my death saying, "That one…we always knew she was trouble, what with her raking and all.  We knew it would come to no good end."

I drive carefully, looking both ways when my light turns green because I live in a city full of red-light-runners.  I make sure that my extension ladder is at a proper 45-degree angle to the house and that three rungs are above the roofline before I go up on the roof, maintaining 3 points of contact at all times.  I wear a mask and gloves when working with caustic chemicals or when I’m sawing shell.  Those are known and common dangers to my health.  I think it’s a waste of energy to worry about freak accidents; they are rare, and they are unpredictable, which is why they’re "freak" accidents.    I am far more likely to be the casualty of heart disease, cancer, or car accident then I am of being struck by lightning. 

And yet while those things cross my mind, I know I can’t predict them, either.  I was rear-ended with significant force when I was sitting placidly at a red light.  I don’t tan and I don’t smoke.  If/when I turn 40, I’ll probably start getting an annual mammogram.  Beyond that, I’m not sure what else is in my control.  She told me, "you still have to be careful."  What kind of carefulness will allow me to avoid a brain tumor, or a crazy person that shoots up a restaurant I happen to be in?

She tells me that she’s not afraid of dying.  Neither am I.  Not being afraid to die is not the same as wanting to die, and she’s the last person I should think I’d have to explain that to.  I don’t like being chided for my philosophies, especially by someone who ostensibly shares them.  I suppose she just cares, and doesn’t want anything to happen to me, just like I don’t want anything to happen to those I love.  But I guess I thought I was speaking to a more understanding audience.

One of the long-term side effects of bereavement that I didn’t expect (but probably should’ve) is paranoia, specifically, paranoia about the health and well-being of those I care about.  I thought I’d left the insanities of grieving behind me for awhile now, but this one persists.  It is not news to anyone who’s lived it that losing someone you love deeply is the last loss of innocence, with, perhaps, the exception of our own deaths.  I think it’s because we have an appreciation of how suddenly someone can be taken from you.   I lost my beloved to a sudden death, out of the blue.  But even if you lost your loved one to a disease that takes him or her slowly, it’s still sudden.  I can only think that the moment you get a diagnosis, your life changes instantaneously.  The change between being a person with a long life in front of you to being a person who may truly be facing death can only be sudden, startling, and frightening.

And that’s where my paranoia comes from, from knowing that one minute you’re planning a future with a specific cast of characters, and the next minute you’re trying to figure out where your loved one, and the life you had, went. 

I have always had a tendency to mentally jump to the worst case scenario, even before A died.  I don’t know why, but I do.  When I drive over high bridges, I have the image of my car flying over the side, every time. I always envision myself being kidnapped (or worse) when I walk alone in the dark.  I freak myself out thinking that way, but while I can stop myself continuing the dark fantasy, I can’t stop it before it occurs.   But now I know it could happen; stuff like that happens every day, and I do not imagine myself immune to the dangers of the world.  I’ve had a 2-year master class on the subject; I know better.

Tonight I was outside raking as the monsoon started moving in, and the lightning was flying.  I was out there at that time because it’s the only time it’s cool enough to do any yard work.  And I thought, "Am I going to get struck by lightning?  If I do, how long will I be out in the back yard before E finds me?"  I kept raking anyway, because I figure if it isn’t my time, I’m not going to get hit, and if it is my time, there’s no avoiding it anyway.  It was only after the third strike came just over my head that I decided to take shelter.

My dear friend who works at the same place I do was an hour late to work the other day, and hadn’t called in sick or late.  She’ll be 70 in 2 weeks.  I worry, for her.  And for me, should she, too, leave me.  I was worried, and felt that controlled panic of my reptilian mind being controlled by my logical mind.  When she finally walked in the door, I informed her that had she been 10 minutes later, I would’ve been on the phone to her daughter. 

It was my dad’s 59th birthday this week.  I called to wish him a happy birthday, and though it was 8:30 their time, he wasn’t home.  And the phone rang and rang instead of the machine picking up, which was odd.  And I was this close to calling my brother to find out when he’d last talked to them, and would he go check on them?  I ended up trying my dad on his cell instead, and was so relieved when he answered.

Every time the phone rings outside of what I consider acceptable phoning times (10 a.m. to 10 p.m.), I am afraid to answer it, fearing it can only be bad news.  Usually it brings a wrong number and a brief conversation to that effect in Spanish.  (I get almost no English wrong numbers; I have no idea why this is the case.)

When E, the king of promptness, is 10 minutes late, I imagine his car smashed in traffic, and wonder what I’m going to do with all his comic books now.  It’s not right, but it is, nonetheless.

Today I got a phone call, a reminder from the salon where tomorrow I’ll be taking the same friend who was late to work for a pre-birthday pedicure.  I missed the call because I was outside with the dogs.  It took me 5 minutes to get to the message, though, because I had to resave a bunch of saved messages on my voicemail.  I have saved messages from A’s best friend; both my parents; E; my brother; my friend’s mother, and I keep resaving them.  Why?  Because if they die suddenly, I will want to be able to hear their voices.  I have no such recording of A, and I won’t get caught out again.  Death lurks in every exhalation, and I’m going to be prepared this time, dammit. 

I’m aware of so many woulda/shoulda/couldas that came up after A died, that I’m taking that knowledge and trying to have fewer of them the next time death takes someone I love. 

I know this is all the result of A’s death, and because he didn’t answer the phone when I called, and he wasn’t where I expected him to be at the time I was expecting him to be there.  I myself have a pretty relaxed relationship with time, and being 10 minutes late or early doesn’t faze me.  And it didn’t bother me if other people were late, either…until A died. 

The only reason I fear that people can just up and die on me is because it happened.  It’s hard to talk yourself out of a fear that is based on experience.

I just realized today that the Tour de France is going on.  A was a fan.   He liked all the sports that weren’t football, basketball, baseball, and hockey.  World Cup soccer, sailing races, Formula 1 racing, and biking through France.   Last year, I was more aware of it, and I knew how disappointed he’d be in old Floyd Whatshisbucket for his chemical cheating.  This year, I happened upon it by accident, and felt a momentary flash of that peculiar widow guilt of having forgotten what is truly forgettable, but made sacred beyond its own merits because of the connection to the loved one. 

Like Peet’s Coffee.  I don’t drink coffee, never have.  E drinks coffee, though.  Our local grocery store stopped carrying his preferred brand, so when he was looking for a new coffee to try, I mentioned that A liked Peet’s.  We’d had some in the house when A visited, and E liked it all right, so for a long while after A died, he drank Peet’s because he liked it, and in memory of A, which I appreciated; I think he did it for me.  When he decided again to make a change from Peet’s, I felt a little twinge at another loss, but that’s all it was.  I can survive a twinge, and kind of laugh at myself that these things have become important to me when, if A were alive, I wouldn’t give it a second thought, and probably not even a first thought.  Nixon becomes a hero in death, and coffee becomes sacrosanct.  I know it’s totally unreasonable, but still, there it is.

Given my experience with the first sadiversary, I was prepared for a long emotional siege this year as well.  I was surprised to wake up on the 17th feeling steadier, stronger, and positive.  I felt like my "new normal" self on a reasonably good day.  I don’t know why, but I’ll take it.  I am grateful for every good day, because I will never forget those months and months of seemingly endless terrible days.

I’ve been talking with my friend whose dad passed, and trying to be there for her.  She is more stoic than I was, and I don’t know if that’s how she is, or how she thinks she should be, but I’m determined not to impress my way upon her when her way is perfectly fine for her.  It occurred to me that I am glad that I am this far out when her father passed.  His passing at the same time of year as A brought up a lot of stuff for me as it was, but at this point, I’m strong enough to deal with my stuff AND be there for her and not make this all about me.  I don’t know if I could say the same would be true had it happened a year ago.  I didn’t mention the sadiversary, figuring that she had enough to deal with, but she found out and asked me about it anyway, which was exceptionally kind and loving of her given her own circumstances.  Other than those of you here who lent your support, and those at the widow board, she was one of 2 people I know personally who even mentioned the day; the other is a woman whom I’ve never met in person, an internet friend in Dubai.  No word from his family; I didn’t expect one, but I still hoped to be wrong.

I wasn’t.

Speaking of support, I’ve been considering attending Alicia’s bago this weekend, which she was kind enough to invite me to.  I’m planning to go, if it’s an evening gathering.  My only dilemma at this point is the matter of my rings.  Do I take them off to avoid getting myself into conversations I don’t really want to have with strangers, or do I leave them on and take a quiet stand for personal integrity?

My inclination is to go the latter route, and hope it just doesn’t come up.  It’s been a long time since I’ve had to come out to anyone, and the longer it goes, the less relevant it seems.  And that would be true to the rest of the world, but not necessarily at a gathering of widows.  Most people would assume I was remarried; after all, it’s been a decent interval, and I might’ve gotten lucky right out of the gate.  I did—it was just that the starter pistol went off 18 years go.  One could argue that the dilemma is enough to make avoiding the whole encounter a smart idea, and I certainly have considered it.  But at the same time, there is community there I wouldn’t mind participating in, given the opportunity.  And I don’t like to give in to my fears; I’m stubborn like that.

This has been a problem for me since the day A died, and it continues.  I can engage in lies of omission and commission to avoid shocking the conventional, or I can just be who I am, and let the chips fall where they may.  I don’t imagine they’ll run me off with torches and pitchforks; the worst-case scenario isn’t all that bad.  Besides, I’ve survived A’s death; there is little that could equal that in terms of pain.  If things get uncomfortable, I can go home.  But do I have a duty to others to avoid making them uncomfortable?  I want support for my loss, not my marriage, so maybe there’s no harm in avoiding the subject and leaving the jewelry at home.  E won’t care.

But I do.  The idea that I can be accepted for who I’m not, but not for who I am chafes.  Maybe I need to have more faith in people?  No one I’ve told has attacked me yet.  But how much of that is my discretion in whom I tell, and their discretion in expressing their opinions, I don’t know.

I have had this debate with myself too many times to count, and I grow weary of it.  The risks and realities are always the same, and there’s no single right answer.  And the other thing is, I go through all this internal conflict every time, and as often as not, no one asks.  I go in alert for danger, and nothing happens.   It’s entirely possible no one would even notice my rings.  Or they might assume I was married to A and just hadn’t taken them off yet, but I wasn’t married to him, officially.  In my heart, I surely was.  Am.

I’m pretty sure I’ve gone right into overthink mode at this point. 

My massage therapist is Mormon, and was explaining to me the details involved in mission trips this morning as I was on the table.  She told me that when the kids are dropped off at the training center, they send the missionaries one direction and the families in another, and they will basically only have mail contact for the next two years.

It immediately struck me as analogous to my own situation.  Two years ago, A was sent one direction and I another.  Only I will not get him back now that my 2-year mission into the land of grief has passed, and while I believe I am skirting the border of this strange land, I don’t know that I have my ticket home yet.  It seems I will have to walk, and that will take some time.  In some ways, I’m sure it will take all the time I’ve left to me.

These separations must be temporary, but of course some are more temporary than others.  I know what it is to miss a person you love for 2 years, but I have no way of knowing when my reunion will be, when my mission will be over.  It could be 3:14 this afternoon, or it could be 50 years from now.  If it were the former, I could stay positive and look forward to that reunion with a smile on my face, but it’s hard to look forward to something for 50 years and keep the same level of enthusiasm, untainted by sadness and longing.  Plus, there’s the fact that I’m not particularly interested in dying at 3:14 this afternoon.  It’s a weird place to be.  And yet it is the place that every one of us is, all the time.   Leave it to me to find what is baseline human existence "weird."   Where else would I be but between birth and death?

I’ve been reading everyone’s "bucket list" posts, and thinking about what, if anything, I had left on mine.  I wrote one, maybe 4 years ago, before the movie was out.  It was a short list even then, and at this point, everything on it has either been accomplished or become irrelevant as my greater understanding of myself over time made it clear that I didn’t actually want those things.  Like being a published author.  A dozen people read my words every day; that, it turns out, is enough for me.  Or being in a rock band—that was also on the list.  However, I find that my independent streak makes staying solo seem the most sensible course of action, (barring an ideal situation which I haven’t managed to find yet).    There was a time I wanted to travel the world, but like Dorothy Gale, I’ve realized that everything I could find anywhere else, I could find in my own backyard, or in my own heart.  Plus, traveling these days is as onerous in its way as it was a hundred years ago; I’d rather watch a travelogue video.

I never had ambitious plans for myself like a lot of people do.  I imagined myself employed, middle-class, and married.  Beyond that, I had no specific vision.  I know a lot of folks who find their suburban family-centered existence stifling, and far afield from the life they’d envisioned for themselves.  I hoped to fall in love, have a decent job, own a home, and have a few kids and dogs.  I fell in love twice and skipped the kids, but otherwise, everything else has come to pass.  For the most part, it seems like my dreams came true, and I don’t really have a list anymore.  I want to get better at the things I’m already doing.  I’ll try new things as they strike my fancy; but if I go home after work today, eat dinner, reinstall the toilet, talk to E, play with my dogs, and strum my guitar, and don’t wake up tomorrow morning, I’m okay with that.  That’s how I like to spend my days, and in truth, my life has been somewhat more adventurous than I would’ve imagined before.  I think I’ve had my share of adventure.  But while I have passing fancies of fame and fortune and fabulousness, at the end of the day, I don’t need to be somebody.  I just need to be. 

Sometimes when I think about what my mission may be, and come up empty, I think "being" may well be it.  And if it isn’t, I’d like to request the universe give me a big damn hint.  Because right now, the one thing I really and truly want is impossibly out of reach.