A year, in the measure of time, can be expressed in many ways: twelve months, four quarters, 26 bi-weekly pay periods, 52 weeks, 365 days. But what about a year in the midst of grief? Grief is its’ own continuum, seemingly not bound by the universal laws of time and space. In simplest terms, it is a line between “before” and “after”. However, it is not linear in the sense of the shortest distance between two points!
The initial days, weeks, and even the first few months after your final breath were like being in a state of hibernation, or perhaps more accurately, a coma. At first, it was mostly the cumulative effect of the 15 months of physical, and emotional stress, and anxiety. In some ways, the side effects of being a partner and caregiver are almost as bad as the chemotherapy and radiation treatments are on the patient.
Cancer’s final insidious act is to distort the very moment of transition to elicit an initial guilt-laden response of relief and release that it is over in the ones remaining. So, at first, there was exhaustion and a need for rest and recovery of the body. But, unlike a bear which gorges itself to sustain its body during the long sleep, we enter into our hibernation in a weakened state without that preparation.
For me, it was during this physical rest and recovery period that my brain started processing the reality that you were gone. There were vivid dreams, and visions of you; and lingering moments of longing in the candlelight glow to listen for your breathing, to look over to see you next to me, and to feel your touch. The presence of the dogs in the bed helped provide a sense of gravity and companionship, but it was not the same. A year later, I still find myself sleeping on my left side facing where you would be; wishing I could skootch over to cuddle with you again, instead of a dog or a pillow.
After a time, I emerged from this regenerative cocoon and operated in a sort of zombie-like state. I was up and about and going through the motions of daily life; but only partially engaged and present. Most of my focus was turned inward to try to push away the crushing feelings of loss and loneliness, and cling to memories of and longings for the past.
I’m not sure how long I operated in the “zombie” state, but somewhere along the way, there was a fundamental change. I was still looking back to you, and the life we had “before”; but, instead of desperately clinging to the past, the memories became warmer and less painful. I guess the experts would call this the acceptance stage. For me, it was during this phase that I started the process of turning from looking backward to “before” to facing forward to “after”, much like one of those railway turntables used to turn a locomotive around to push a train in the opposite direction.
After this reorientation, the challenge is to overcome the gravitational pull of the black hole of “before” and consciously start moving forward toward the seemingly tiny vanishing point of “after”. At first there is fear and uncertainty about the future. Part of my path forward involved my own lonely journey of health-related tests and procedures, some of which were all too familiar to experiences I shared with you. Thankfully, I came out on the other side of that gauntlet okay; and I started to pick up speed and momentum to carry me forward through this year of “firsts”.
Thanks to Aldo, we experienced a full measure of joy and renewal at our first Thanksgiving gathering together in Telluride without you. And now, I have just completed my first week in a new job as the Public Works Director for the town of Hilliard.
The first anniversary of your death, the last milestone of this “year of firsts”, is upon us; and we will pause to light a candle and remember, reflect, and mourn your absence. But there is comfort in the forward momentum of life; not that we forget, but that we can learn to move forward without.
While I know that there is no magic formula which defines the duration or completion of grief, I believe there is significance in the first year - not measured in days, weeks, or months; but, instead, in the volume of tears shed and the number of heartbeats and breaths taken in the space between “before” and “after”.
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