Three months on: Some reflections

Almost four years ago, I wrote that I did not want this blog to become a “cancer blog”, and it didn’t. I also don’t want it to become a “grief blog”, and it won’t. But today marks exactly three months since Jack died, and I feel compelled to recognize that.

A lot of people are grieving right now. Grieving and alone. I need to remind myself of that when I lapse into one of my “O woe is me” moments which roll around with some regularity these days. Those who are losing spouses, friends, even children to COVID are grieving a sudden and arguably preventable loss. Mine was predicted and prepared for, the result of an older body succumbing to a gradually worsening condition.

Although we are all prone to say, from time to time, “I could be hit by a car tomorrow”—and it’s true—no one really expects to be. And although people say, over and over, that “nothing can prepare you,” I disagree. Nothing can insulate you from the pain. But I was far more prepared for loss than the families of COVID victims, or those who really arehit by a car. I’m grateful for that.

But you can only own your own grief which, I am learning, comes in waves, without logic or warning. And while the waves may be a bit farther apart than they were a couple of months ago, they are no less intense when they arrive.

In the first few weeks, still in a more-or-less numb state, I made some random observations in my journal:

That last point embarrasses me a bit. I have always craved order and tidiness. They are now quite achievable, but it turns out, of course, no substitute for the messiness of a shared life. Jack would be pleased to know that, as he sometimes questioned my priorities; I hope he wouldn’t be surprised.

In three months, I’ve moved on in many ways. I can sit quietly and read again, though I’m still watching more TV than I ever have. Sometimes I even sit in “Jack’s chair” to read. I am generally content to be alone. I have learned that routines help me navigate the day—and I hope that I am not becoming obsessive about them. I have decided to make some changes around home that Jack resisted, and I feel okay about that. It really does make me feel better about everything if I can make myself get outside and walk.

Though Jack was the “cat person” in our house, Bleu and I have become buddies. He’s still not talking to me, but the more I talk to him, the more likely it seems that he will eventually respond. I think about getting a dog.

Yesterday, I picked up a copy of Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinkingfrom my bookshelf, thinking I might relate to her story, which I first read years ago. It is very different from my own, but I did find some overlaps.

First, a tendency to revisit the final days almost obsessively. She claims this is an attempt to reverse the story. How far back would I have to go to have it turn out differently? In her case, it was just hours. (Her husband died suddenly of a heart attack.) In mine, it would be years. And yet, she’s on to something. I realized that, in the endless re-runs, I am constantly reassuring myself that, during those last weeks and days, there was nothingI could have done to change the outcome. And nothing he would have wanted me to do. 

This is related to what Didion calls the vortex. A spiraling series of “what ifs” that pull you back in time to a point where things might have been different. It’s possible, for example, that Jack’s cancer was related to the fumes and toxins associated with pottery. We can never know. But what if he hadn’t taken a pottery class in college, and what if he hadn’t decided to pick it up again twenty-five years later, and then what if he hadn’t built the studio? A partial answer: Maybe he would still be alive. A more complete answer: He wouldn’t have experienced what turned out to be one of his greatest pleasures. He was living his dream, and often said so.

Joan Didion found herself doing a lot of cross-word puzzles. So am I. Make of that what you will. But I’m getting quite good at them.

And then there’s the answering machine. Didion could not bring herself to erase her husband’s voice. In my case, the voice is my own. But the welcome message is from us both, and I have been unable to change it. This seems odd, as I had no difficulty disposing of clothing, electronics, camera equipment.

I received many messages of condolence just after Jack died. The one that continues to stay with me is the one I mentioned in an earlier post, from a man still grieving the loss of his wife. It bears repeating: We all must decide for ourselves how to deal with grief. It’s a lonely job

I know I’m far from done with the job. But I’m getting better at it, and I think I’m done writing about it. And now, I think I should take myself out into this lovely afternoon and walk.