My dearest Tim,
I had told myself this time was going to be hard. This week especially, but mostly the time between Mother’s day and Father’s day when I’d re-live the worst 26 days of my life… the memories of the hospital… when all of the sudden I’d flip the switch, and Facebook would no longer share “1 year ago” memories that you had posted…. all of YOUR posts would all be older than that…. putting you just a little further away from us.
I thought I had prepared myself for how hard this was going to be. But I had no idea. Similar to what I said in my Pain post, its hard to imagine that it’s real – the physical manifestation of grief, or that you have no control over it… much as you may WANT to be happy, to live in the present, the past has a way of sneaking up and taking the wind out of you. Even just seeing May 16th or June 11th on the calendar, or on a meeting notice that I am sent… it takes my breath away. I sometimes think that you would laugh at this… call it my obsession with dates… but I mostly think this was all so beyond your realm of imagination, that you would accept whatever I think/feel/experience as fact.
I’ll tell you what I have planned for tomorrow. Because it will make you laugh. You will shake your head because you think its ridiculous, and smile because it’s so me….
I remember what I wore that day. May 16, 2017. It was a Tuesday. I went into work my regular time after taking A to the bus stop, and taking R and D to daycare. I left work like a bat out of hell after lunchtime because you told me you had vomited and you still had a fever and were sweating through your clothes. But I often wonder, why did I even go to work that day? What if I had realized how sick you were, and simply stayed home and just lay in bed with you… sleeping while all the kids were at school or watching Netflix. What if I had had those final, quiet, peaceful moments with you? Moments I can never get back…. but I rushed to work because we were working a Task Order proposal… because I would have felt so much guilt to send the kids to school and lay in bed with you…so much guilt to not be contributing at work… I remember what I wore because I remember looking down at the skirt in the hospital. A long, flowery skirt. After that day I would look at that skirt and it would remind me that I went to work that day, instead of reading the signs and staying home with you… I couldn’t take seeing it much less wearing it so I put it at the back of the closet. So I wouldn’t have to see it, and feel that guilt and heartbreak. I will wear it again tomorrow. Because let’s be honest, I’m going to feel the guilt and the heartbreak tomorrow no matter what.
A year since I heard your voice. Since you teased me. Since I heard your laugh. Since I told you not to pull out your catheter and freaked out your nurses… who I then had to explain about my bad-patient-father who you, my rule-follower, are nothing like… who told me they thought girls married men like their fathers… and I said, not my sister and I!
So often I hate how things went down. That I never got to ask you… so many things. That I never got to hear directly from you what you’d want me to do on my own… But mostly I don’t hate it. You would have hated to face your own mortality. Better that all you knew was that you had pnemonia.
Here’s a really fun fact about the disease that you got:
Median age at diagnosis of SMZL is 69 years. The overall age-adjusted incidence is 0.13/100,000 habitants per year. The percentage change in age-adjusted incidence is 4.81%, with most of the patients being White. Gender prevalence is controversial, but there is an increasing trend to male predominance. – from the NIH at https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC5457460/
Seriously. 69 years. You had literally JUST turned 37. What. the. fuck?
I had a dream last night in which you and Colleen were playing golf… I can’t imagine Colleen playing golf…and I don’t think you played at all since A was born… Maybe a trip or two to Top Golf with friends?… But you were in this little stretch with strips of green grass… and I had the impression that you guys were growing tomatoes in the patches of dirt in between…the area was small but it overlooked the ocean…like you guys were hitting balls out into the ocean. The kids were up a bunch last night so I was in and out of sleep… I dreamed this scene and later I dreamed it again like I was watching it on TV… with other people… remembering you and Colleen… and I told the people with me “its how I imagine them in paradise.” (Though I’m not sure if that’s true?) You were both facing away from me so I never saw your faces….but I heard your laughter...and I can hear it still.
I had another dream too, which was so much worse. All of the sudden I was at your side as you took your last breaths again. Only this time it wasn’t your dad there with me, it was my sister. And she wasn’t on the other side of you, she was behind me. I remember looking down and both your legs had been amputated at the knee. There were just two silver plus signs. I asked the nurse why and she said because you didn’t need them any more, you couldn’t walk. They told me you were gone… I was lying on your chest again, feeling the last of your warmth, the lack of machine-breathing that there was at the very end. The silence when they turned off all the beeps on all the machines for me…. I forget why but Jean said to me then that you were gone, you were not suffering… And she said that dad was suffering more, so much worse…(in fairness, I know she’d never actually say that to me, but it probably is true)… and my response was “there is nothing worse than this” and I sobbed and fell to the floor. I woke then to D calling for me, in my bed with R asleep beside me. My eyes were dry but squinting, and my whole body was still shaking from those wracking dream-sobs.
Damn, that was a terrible way to start the day. This Tuesday-after-Mother’s-day. You would tell me not to celebrate anniversaries of sadness, but I can’t help it, Tim. I can’t control my dreams. I can’t control re-living the trauma. All I can do is survive it. And keep our kids alive and thriving. I don’t know that I am doing this dead parent child raising thing right, but I’m doing my best.
I have low moments. I have low lows. Sometimes I think they would have been so much better off to have had you rather than me. But I chase away the lows, I chase away the “what ifs” as you would want me to… I don’t make you proud every moment, but damn, I am trying. I miss you as my love, my husband, my partner, my co-parent, but more than anything else, I miss you as my best friend. Isn’t that a funny thing about life?
I don’t know if paradise is playing golf into the ocean and growing tomatoes with Colleen, but I can imagine it to be the sound of your laughter. This morning I heard your son laughing in the other room. It was the most amazing sound of baby giggles. But it was also solid, joyous, sustained laughter, and I thought of you. Wherever you are, Tim, keep laughing, keep Col laughing, and I’ll do the best I can to keep your legacies laughing, until we are reunited.
All my love, always,