I think it was a year ago that I stood in our kitchen, watching our son crawl back and forth like a pinball. I think it was a year ago that I believed everything was OK because you didn't call me when you heard from the doctor.
When you said I would know how worried to be by when you talked to me, I thought you meant you would call me right away if it was cancer and you would wait until later to update me if it was nothing.
In the future, I will ask people to just call me either way. Lesson learned.
You probably thought I didn't remember. If I were to argue with you about it today you would cite it as a prime example of my "not listening." For two communication studies majors, we sure had a hard time communicating.
And just like that, Christmas was sort of over.
I can't even remember what I gave you for Christmas last year. I have no idea what your main present was. It must have really sucked.
But I loved you on Christmas, and every other day. And I have to believe that was enough. And that I heard the important things, and you forgave me for "not listening" to the rest.
I don't know how people deal with cancer for years and years and years. I guess the same way that people deal with loss for years and years and years.
I guess all things get a little easier with time and practice. Even this.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Monday, December 10, 2012
I thought I was doing so well
I thought I was doing so well. But today I was weak and wanted to call his phone, wanted to hear his voice on the message, wanted to remember him as a real person with a voice and a desire and a brain. Instead I heard "this account has not set up their voicemail." 30 min on the phone with a sympathetic but unhelpful AT&T confirmed my fears. For some reason his voicemail had been reset. For some reason his message was gone forever. For some reason. It is such a small thing, I shouldn't have broken down crying. I hadn't even called the number in 7 or 8 weeks. But the fact that I couldn't, that even this last vestige of fantasy had been stolen from me before I was ready, it just pushed me over an edge.
I guess this means I can give up his phone account now, save myself $50 a month that I didn't need to be spending.
Am I ready to let go of his phone line? Am I ready for someone else to have his number? Of course not. But I wasn't ready for any of this.
I go along and I do so well, and I look at myself and think "I sure am doing well!" But that's because I skim past the injustice of it. I ignore the unfairness. I luxuriate so much in the silver linings that it's as if there is no cloud at all. A cloud is just water vapor. A cloud is just passing through. Silver stays. Silver can be melted down and fashioned into something else.
I can't say this is unfair, because life and death are never fair. I can't shout at God because I just don't believe there is this grand order to things. I didn't do anything wrong. Keith didn't really do anything wrong (I specifically avoid the small things that perhaps could have maybe made some small difference). We had good luck and then we had bad luck. I will never be the same now that he is gone, but I'm mostly the same person I've always been. This sucks, but spending months or years just swimming in the suckiness of it seems so wrong.
I guess this means I can give up his phone account now, save myself $50 a month that I didn't need to be spending.
Am I ready to let go of his phone line? Am I ready for someone else to have his number? Of course not. But I wasn't ready for any of this.
I go along and I do so well, and I look at myself and think "I sure am doing well!" But that's because I skim past the injustice of it. I ignore the unfairness. I luxuriate so much in the silver linings that it's as if there is no cloud at all. A cloud is just water vapor. A cloud is just passing through. Silver stays. Silver can be melted down and fashioned into something else.
I can't say this is unfair, because life and death are never fair. I can't shout at God because I just don't believe there is this grand order to things. I didn't do anything wrong. Keith didn't really do anything wrong (I specifically avoid the small things that perhaps could have maybe made some small difference). We had good luck and then we had bad luck. I will never be the same now that he is gone, but I'm mostly the same person I've always been. This sucks, but spending months or years just swimming in the suckiness of it seems so wrong.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
I try to remember
I try to remember my life a year ago, when I had no idea. I try to remember when I knew this would be my life. I try to count how many days passed between the knowing and the acceptance. I try to remember the bad times, because they are just as important. I try to remember the nondescript times, because those are the ones that will quickly be lost.
A few weeks before he died, I was looking at some of our pictures from our first summer, our Prague summer. I realized that the details had already faded. I cried. "I will lose these days without you. What will I do without you to help me remember?" I was looking at the first picture ever taken of us. I thought a different picture was our first one, but it turns out I'd been wrong. The little numbers on the back proved that this photo in my hands was our first. We had never thought about it that way because Keith's eyes were closed, so it was never printed or framed. Keith went through the pictures with me "Don't you remember..."? he said. And he told me, again, the stories of those days. Of the hikes and the chickens. But already I've forgotten. Even as I tried to concentrate, I was forgetting. I try to remember hundreds of ordinary days. But they are already gone.
When did I know? I can't even remember that. I didn't know when I stood in the kitchen and he told me it was cancer. I didn't know as the clock ticked towards 2012 and for the first time in my life I tried to drag the minutes backward, tried to undo the ticking. I think it was when we watched a doctor look at a PET scan and say "oh no." But maybe it wasn't until I sat on a couch and Keith told me that the Oncologist had been blunt. "This is what will get you."
A few weeks before he died, I was looking at some of our pictures from our first summer, our Prague summer. I realized that the details had already faded. I cried. "I will lose these days without you. What will I do without you to help me remember?" I was looking at the first picture ever taken of us. I thought a different picture was our first one, but it turns out I'd been wrong. The little numbers on the back proved that this photo in my hands was our first. We had never thought about it that way because Keith's eyes were closed, so it was never printed or framed. Keith went through the pictures with me "Don't you remember..."? he said. And he told me, again, the stories of those days. Of the hikes and the chickens. But already I've forgotten. Even as I tried to concentrate, I was forgetting. I try to remember hundreds of ordinary days. But they are already gone.
When did I know? I can't even remember that. I didn't know when I stood in the kitchen and he told me it was cancer. I didn't know as the clock ticked towards 2012 and for the first time in my life I tried to drag the minutes backward, tried to undo the ticking. I think it was when we watched a doctor look at a PET scan and say "oh no." But maybe it wasn't until I sat on a couch and Keith told me that the Oncologist had been blunt. "This is what will get you."
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