The Door

At the end of my suffering, there was a door. It was heavy oak, and there was no handle on my side. I stood for a moment, not sure what to make of it. I wasn't where I was supposed to be. The memory was fading--I had been going in for surgery, and Peggy was there, holding my hand and talking to me. It got fuzzy after that...lights, and sounds, but then that all faded and I woke up here.

I don't hurt now, so that's good. They must have got the cancer. I'm not hungry either, which seems odd. Wasn't I hungry for a while? Something is not right. I look around, and I call out for her, but she's not here. Surely they wouldn't have moved me without letting Peg know? And why would there be a door here, anyway?

There isn't anyone around, and since I can't open the door from this side, I give it a knock and wait. Before long, the door opens, and light pours in. I didn't realize I was in the dark, but now as the light floods me, I stand dazzled. "Hi, Son. I'm so glad to see you again."

I immediately recognize her voice. It's been so many years since I've heard her speak that I openly weep. "No, Tim, you don't need to cry. I'm so glad you're here." She wraps her arms around me and draws me inside and closes the door quietly.

"Why am I here, Mom? I was with Peggy." I think about her, and I wonder if she knows where I am.

"You're starting your new journey today, Tim. Peggy will be along later, and you can see her then. You each will travel separately for now. I'm here to help you on your way."

I love my Mom, and I'm so glad to see her, but I feel like I left something undone. "But what about Peggy? How will I know when I can see her again?"

"You'll hear her knock. That's how I knew to come to the Door now--I heard your knock, and I knew it was time for our paths to join once again." She took my hand in hers, and smiled at me. "Are you ready, Tim? We have places to go."

I know she wouldn't lie to me. I turn away from the Door. "I'm ready."

The World is Changed

This is Galadriel's opening monologue from the Lord of the Rings: Fellowship of the Ring movie.

(I amar prestar aen.)

The world is changed.

(Han matho ne nen.)

I feel it in the water.

(Han mathon ned cae.)

I feel it in the earth.

(A han noston ned gwilith.)

I smell it in the air.

Much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it.

Thinking about the movies and even the book will now be forever entwined with my memories of him. I have been a lifelong LOTR fan, having read the book multiple times since I first discovered it in elementary school. I was nervous and excited about them making the trilogy. I wanted to see the story told on the big screen, but I was worried that they would mess it up. From my perspective, they did a glorious job.

The movies came out long before I met him, but once we met, they were something I wanted to share with him. He was never a fiction reader--he found it tedious. But he loved movies, and I was sure this was a series he would love.

But he didn't. He gave me endless grief about how long they were, how slow they were, how silly the multiple endings were. He told me all the time that the story could be made in one movie.

Despite his disdain, he supported my love for the story. He bought me beautiful new bound editions of the books to replace my much-loved and much-worn copy. Whenever I wanted to do a LOTR movie marathon, he set aside whatever chunk of time it would take for me to get my fix.

My world is changed now. What once was is now lost. But I remember--grief is everywhere.

I cannot hold

We met
Laughing and blushing
fresh world, new words
discovery ahead.

We married
fall leaves
promises made
hands entwined
paths joined.

We tarried
built lives
shared days
carried burdens
arms encircled.

You fell
from my grasp
what I have loved
I cannot hold.

Colors

White lights and white clothes and white sheets, and your not-quite-white pallor as they worked on you. So many of them worked on you. The doctor called me and warned me—wanted me to have a heads-up before they walked me in there. I am glad he did—it gave me a couple of minutes to put my brave face on, to suck in a breath and push back the panic and the fear, so I could focus on you.

Blue eyes, rolling in your head, desperate as you gasped for air, as they worked on you, trying to get you breathing. Talking to you, calming you down so you knew I was there. You quit flailing, you focused on me, and I told you it would be all right, they were taking care of you. I held your hand the whole time, lying to you yet again, knowing nothing would ever be right after this.

Red monitor, flashing codes and numbers and lines, showing your desperate fight to keep going. Your body thought it was worth fighting on, even though the battle was already lost.

Brown wood, shrouding you from me forever.

Gray.

Hereafter kind

"Let me be to my sad self hereafter kind."

~Peter Pouncey, Rules for Old Men Waiting: A Novel

Kindness towards myself used to be a rare commodity. I knew all of my faults and weaknesses, none better. Growing up at school I was mocked and ridiculed for my weight, and as a defense mechanism, I started being the one who was unkind to myself. It was a way of saying "Yeah, I know you think I'm ugly and fat, but I've already said it so you don't have to."

Over the years, I have tried to move away from that mindset. I have tried to realize that regardless of what I look like, I am valuable and have worthwhile contributions to make. There is no point in stabbing myself first so that the wounds others inflict would seem like afterthoughts.

But grief has brought me to a place where I need more kindness. "Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing." I have known sorrow deeply and repeatedly. I have spent many years with grief as my companion, showing me the deep things inside myself: fears, doubts, and remorse. But I have also discovered resilience and empathy.

So kindness for me looks like honest reflection. Seeing in myself everything that is there, both the things that I am ashamed of, and the things that I am proud of. Seeing them equally and unflinchingly, and being tender towards myself. Seeing myself as someone worth caring for, worth taking time for. Knowing that there is no such thing as perfect, but that I can work towards better.

Kindness looks like naps when I'm tired, reaching out to my family when I am scared. It looks like patience when I make mistakes, and compassion for the worn-out woman who is trying her best to make it through this chaotic time.

The Shadow of Love

I enter the room. I have been here before, been with her, but she never invites me. I have to let myself in. Things look different than I remember--she's gained some weight, her hair is different, but I know her well. I have taken her on this journey several times, and I linger around every moment of joy, waiting out of sight for my cue. I am in the dark, for I am the Shadow of Love.

People think I enjoy this journey of pain that I take them on, as if I'm some monster. I am beautiful, if they could only see, but vision is limited in these dark places. There may be a glimpse--an errant beam of light ahead on the path. But they never look at me in those moments--they run on ahead, desperate for the light and the warmth it brings. They never look to see that I bear the face of Love, for I am her Shadow.

This one--she thought she knew me. We have walked this path before, on longer and shorter journeys. She even tempts herself with moments contemplating what life will be like when the ones she loves are gone. The tears she sheds are the pools in my lands, but she hastens to dry them and stop the flow before they can become rivers.

I do not revel in this journey, but I know that it cannot be bypassed. I wait for her, reaching out my hands to touch her, but she shrinks from the shadows I cast. I would show her the resting places--the cool, dark hollows where the heat cannot burn, but she fears the darkness I am cloaked in.

On each journey, she does come to know me better than the time before. In the time we're together, she learns how the road winds, where there are pits and fissures, and which ways are straight. I put my arm over her shoulder, showing her how the depth of my Shadow matches perfectly to the depth of her Love. We are partners, she and I, as much as it pains her to know this. If she wished to be rid of me, she could--I would never darken her door again. But I am the Shadow of Love, and I follow where Love is. If I am gone, she will not love. She will not make that choice, I feel--she is a lover, this one, and she is in too deep. 

My journey with her never really ends. The paths start to meander, the light spreads and the path is easier to tread. But I remain in the shadows, prepared to walk the path again when those moments hit; the light hits just right and she remembers, and the shadow falls and she is with me again. I never leave her, but I love her, for I am the Shadow of Love, and I follow where Love has gone.

Scent memory

We didn't argue about much, but there was one thing we disagreed about constantly: his use of cologne. He loved cologne, especially fancy designer colognes. It made him feel put-together and polished, and he never left home without a squirt of cologne. In fact, I could come home from work hours later and smell his cologne on the dog, since he would give her a cuddle before he left for work.

I, on the other hand, had opinions about this. I don't really have anything against a nice cologne, but it should definitely be kept at a minimal level--something that can be smelled when someone gives you a hug, but not something that follows you in a trail as you walk through a room.

I would argue with him, telling him that he was working in a small therapy office and it was overwhelming. I said people have perfume allergies. I told him people would assume that he was covering himself up because he wasn't clean.

And that was the big point for me--I liked how he smelled without any addition. His own natural scent was clean and fresh and never offensive. I didn't like him covering himself in something fake-smelling, when he himself smelled so good to me.

I now have his cologne in his drawer. It reminds me of him because he loved it, not because the scent itself is pleasant to me. I wish I could have bottled his natural scent and kept that with me. The dogs sleep on his pillows now--it is the last of his natural scent in the house, and they bask in it. I wish I had their sense of smell for a day so I could soak it in the way they do. Part of missing his hugs is missing his scent. I have pictures so I can see him, I have recordings so I can hear his voice. I will never get to smell him again, and that's a grief I would never have anticipated in this morass of missing him.

Thus you will live in the desert.

Life before death was green and verdant, with shady places to rest from the heat. Make no doubt--there was heat, for our star burns brightly, bringing life and death to all landscapes. But there was respite--cool shade to escape the burning, green grass to soften the path, and bubbling brooks to sing songs to my soul.

Now the heat is unbearable. The sand scratches and scrapes. The view blurs as the heat radiates back off the ground. Life in the desert is dependent on precious water---hard to come by, and harder to hold. Many things go underground to survive, and so do I. I bury the tender, living part of my heart beneath whatever soil I can scrape up: platitudes, busy-ness, distraction, numbness. I walk in the heat of the scorching sun with my heart buried deep for safety, waiting for a day far-off, when gentle rains may come and bring it to life, ready to bear fruit again.

Thus I will live in the desert.

What doesn't show

The duality is what surprises me. There are days when I am an Easter chocolate bunny. Wrapped up shiny on the outside, but an empty shell inside. A void of howling wind nothingness. The opposite of presence, a complete vacuum.

Other times, I am a black hole,infinitely dense and drawing all things inside me, full of darkness so complete the light cannot escape. I am frozen within, unable to thaw, to breathe, to live.

Then someone says "You're doing so well through this," and I think "How can you not see the eternal emptiness that has taken my soul?" How good must my mask be to keep them blind to this truth?

I am not the person I used to be

There was a time when my days made sense. The ebb and flow was as steady as the tide. I knew my role, I knew what was expected of me, and I flowed easily between work and leisure, duty and pleasure. The days now are disjointed, requiring more than I have to give. I jerk and stutter between roles, and have had to step into new roles where I have no skill.

There was a time when my nights made sense. The dark was peaceful, the bed beckoned me to its embrace. Now the night is fearful, full of unknowns and terrors. I do not look forward to repose, as tears dampen the pillow night after night.

There was a girl who was carefree. She was loved, and she loved. Now she is alone, facing the once anticipated future with dread and disinterest.

I am not the person I used to be. Death took the light away, and the grey remnants hang in tatters of what was once a beautiful tapestry.

Waking up the blog

I walked away from this blog a long time ago, and many things have changed in the meantime. I met someone, we got married. We rescued two dogs. We bought a house. He started a business. And then he died.

I thought I knew what grief was. I lost my parents many years ago, and I've lost beloved pets too. Aunts and uncles have died, and I've hurt, and cried, and mourned them all.

But losing your partner is so different. Everything is touched. What I watch, what I eat, where I go, what I do, when I do it, who I talk to, the questions I get asked, what my responsibilities are. I sleep differently, if I'm lucky enough to sleep. There isn't any corner of my life that he didn't touch.

Obviously, his presence is gone, but his things remain. Some I had no qualms about--not the least sentimental about socks. But shirts--yes.

I will start writing this month, to memorialize him, and to process my grief. I don't want to forget what he was like, or what he meant to me. I wish I had another chance to tell him.