Twenty-three Months

Blog 5/28/10

When adding more wood to the cabin fireplace, three sparks jetted out so quickly that I had only one thought of gratitude that my face wasn’t in their trajectories. Then, I saw the smoldering spots on the carpet and quickly stomped on them. Now left are three melted spots on what was, for all these years, a flawless carpet, same as the day was laid. This event was soon followed by a spill of tea and a dog’s vomit, leaving stains, on his truck’s upholstery. It was with these two incidences that I realized that I had given myself the duty of preserving, of guarding what was ours and what was his. But not only preserving it, but maintaining it exactly as it was before Jack died, as if to say, “Because I loved you so much and everything that was yours and ours, I will keep it as your left it.” I own the duty and the responsibility to preserve what we had and what he had; it’s all mine now, I know…sometimes. I now understand the intact bedrooms of children and partners who have died, preserved by survivors: someone takes the job of preserving the past. Change is not easy. It is a frugal attempt of preserving what was and of keeping or re-enforcing some threads of denial on the tapestry of one’s life. Because, even though it has been 23 months, there is still a part of me that struggles with making it “real,” that this is how my life is now, minus all the “we’s” and “our’s.”

Now, with these “damages” done, I want to apologize to Jack for not doing a good job with his and our possessions. I want him to know that I really, really have tried to keep everything running, in good conditions, just as he left it. I felt like I failed with those three burnt spots on the floor and the stained car seats now. How I wish he had done it and not me. I want him to know that I value his stuff, our stuff, and I am doing the best I can. It seems to me that it’s the only way I can hold on to what was is by freezing in time how things were. I know that things would be stained, dented, scratched, and eventually replaced even if he was here. (I like to think more due to his missteps than mine, , although my track record is not so good right now. ) Without him, it is all my errors. I am the only one to blame.

His truck was less than a month old when I backed it into a light pole and dented the fender. I was devastated and crying as I told him how sorry I was. It is in that moment now, memories of his kindness and compassion, how he forgave me so easily, that I cling when carpets are burnt, car seats stained (OK, dog takes 50% responsibility, too), and other mishaps. Yes, I have asked him for that compassion and kindness and forgiveness.

Sometimes, I think that Jack’s and my love story will not end until I die. Our love did not end with his death. I would carry it, be responsible for preserving the love and its story. That thinking certainly makes moving on difficult, if not a plain ol’ tug-of-war.

Basically, if I hold our [my] material things with such value, imagine my struggles as I begin to think about stepping out and try dating. Imagine how I treasure what we had and how that would delay the process. It is like stepping out of my sacred marriage vows. Yes, I know they were “until death do we part,” but that’s easier to write than for my heart to accept. Am I betraying my commitment to preserving “The Reynolds Story,” because that responsibility to maintain that “story” is a part of the hesitation to open to seeing someone new across a restaurant table or next to me at a movie theater.

I miss hearing telling someone about my day. I miss hearing another’s thoughts, ideas, and moments of the day. Sadly, the bottom line is that it’s Jack’s voice I yearn to hear.

And it is time to move on, I know it. I also know that it’s not a light switch that one day I make this decision to enjoy my living [switch off grief] and not feel the pain of his not being by my side ever again [switch on my life]. The switch doesn’t stay in one spot. Gads, that would make it all easier: done with that, check it off the list, move on. I wish.

With the lapse of 23 months, I am still amazed at how the mind and heart still struggles with loss. Two years next month and how easy it would be to think, “Two years. How much more do I need to put it all to rest?” Simultaneously, I also think, “Is that all? Already?”

Questions to ponder: when do I take his picture off the screen saver on his now my laptop? Move his picture out of the bathroom, kitchen, and by the bed? When do I stop wishing he was here to play with the new dog, or quit imagining her curled up on his lap while he watches TV? When do I stop passing a new barbeque spot and think, “Oh, gotta tell Jack about that one”? When do I drop our rituals of grace before meals, leaving on a trip, or our toast with wine? Only very recently did I drop our toast, which I have done to an empty chair all these months (or in my head with company) and created a new one for me.

I keep measuring the passage of time with odd things, as well as, another “28” comes and goes: toilet paper rolls that were used just by me, food shops that contained foods I liked only, new clothes that are not “modeled” for approval, and I hold the TV remote all the time. The Kenmore house is almost 100% mine, while the cabin carries the “us” in ever wall, on every inch of land. And it is there, in Cashmere, that I seek him the most and find the consolation of missing him so much in Kenmore.

I know he is letting me go. He knows that I have survived the worst, as I am a survivor. He knows that I am resourceful and creative, and will figure out what to do next, even though I miss his consultation and feedback. I forever am thankful that it is me in this spot and not him. I loved him too much to imagine him with this pain and these struggles. Maybe I am stronger than I give myself credit for, as I have survived 23 months.

In the here and now,
Tally

P.S. My new toast: To Life and Living On