Ordinary Lives

"The truth you believe and cling to makes you unavailable to hear anything new."

Pema Chodron

After a person dies, that first year for the survivor(s) is filled with little anniversaries. Each day is an anniversary of something you'll never do again with the person who's suddenly gone. You can't watch them shave, brush their hair or teeth. You'll never decorate the tree together again or plant a garden. No more arguing, no more dinners, no more celebrations.

In that first year past my husband's death in 2001, some days would go by without any consciousness around holding a particular memory of a day, though many days contained bittersweet memories of events we had attended, things we had done together, birthdays or holidays. That first year is a real bitch to get through.

Last night I went to a support group that I haven't gone to in a few months. On my way home, I wanted to drive to Chris's house. I used to go to his house and spend the night after this meeting so it seemed natch to drive in that direction. I thought of calling him and asking him to meet me for a drink. (I would have had Pellegrino. I swear.)

I really dislike the feeling of sadness that comes with rejection so I didn't make that call. I didn't want to hear him say "no." Last night was my first anniversary of going to that particular support group and not being allowed to snuggle with Chris afterward. (He is a most excellent snuggler!) This probably doesn't even seem all that important or serious to anyone reading though I felt despondent. I wanted a to stuff my feelings but there was nothing to stuff them with. "One order of stuffed feelings to go, please!" -- to go, of course, because I was driving -- home, by myself in the opposite direction of Chris's house. I stopped at one store for an ingredient for my morning smoothie and purchased a (teeny) packet of chocolate covered cocoa nibs - they're sort of like chocolate-covered dirt. I hadn't eaten any dinner so I didn't chastise myself for eating them. (I suppose I could have chastised myself for not eating dinner.) I continued the drive home.

Near the end of my husband's life, I wrote a short story. I felt so much pain for him and for myself that I had to get the words out of me. Like an exorcism -- similar to the reasons I began writing about cancer, and then, finally digging through to humor while dealing with a cancer diagnosis and life in general. Part of the story I wrote explains some of our last opportunities together. We took one of his final days to drive down to the ocean. I wrote:

I knew it was the last time Greg and I would sit on that bench, the last time we’d see the ocean together, the last time we’d see Monterey off in the distance or watch tourists riding bicycles.

The sun was incredibly bright bouncing off the water. I was wearing dark sunglasses and weeping though I didn't let on to him -- the revelation that every. single. event. taking place on that day, at that moment in time, would be his last experience, was almost too much to bear. Behind the dark glasses I imagined for him that everything was fine -- I was sunning, calm, and peaceful.

I am utterly stunned to witness his dying. It's like being pregnant and not being allowed to tell anyone. With cancer there is so much isolation. The world has the nerve to continue on as if nothing were happening while we move through this test tube of suffering together.

We are so ordinary in this space.

How many people pass their days, swimming in a pool of similar suffering, cast adrift with a secret they cannot share because other people are simply preoccupied with their ordinary lives?

Sometimes these little "anniversaries" bring up feelings I'd rather not feel, and then, I don't want to go into reverse. When the feelings come, I gotta dig deep to keep myself from making a U-turn. In recovery I've heard the saying "act as if" so that's what I did. I acted as if I were driving. I acted as if I didn't need to stuff my feelings. I acted as if I were a sane person driving home from a support group meeting. I made it home, not making phone calls, drinking, or stuffing my feelings with buckets of chocolate-covered, dirt-tasting cocoa nibs, and there is nothing ordinary about that.