I think about what would happen if I were to get better...how I would live without the human delicacy to which I am witness? -- Yoram Kaniuk, novelist/cancer patient
Such is the fear of getting over it, of returning to normal, of shaking off life as a plotless dream.
Except that this fear lacks foundation. The normal is the ethereal. Dead, gone, nothing to get over, a story ended, of substance no more.
Today I notice there is snow. A foot, probably; more in drifts and more coming. This week I'm entering my second month of the Fifth Annual Winter Breakdown, a mixture of exhaustion/cold symptoms/gut pains. So, among other distractions, I didn't pay much attention to the forecast, although I made an effort to remove the snow shovel from the backyard shed, Rich's sanctum that I have not entered since his death. Its stored objects held no interest: shovels, paints, brushes, lawn mower.
My effort fails. Doors are frozen shut, I shrug, I can't budge what's solid. I park the car at the foot of the driveway -- ah, I can be clever. This way, I won't have to shovel out the car when it is buried.
Except I forgot that the snow is probably too deep. I can't get to the car, and the driveway can't be plowed because the car is blocking access. But there is no where I must be.
I have food. I have heat. Snow melts. Soon enough I will be on my way.
Candace
Friday, February 26, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
sloth envy
Some mornings when Rich already had breakfast, solved inscrutable problems, shoveled the driveway, painted the house, travelled to the moon and back, achieving all this while I still blissfully slept, he would come into the bedroom and check for proof.
"Hmmm...surprised there are not three toes..." he would say.
But I could not be insulted. In truth, if I could fill out an application, "Next Time Around," my choice #1 would be "Three-Toed Sloth."
Sloths are the world's slowest-moving mammal. So sedentary, in fact, that National Geographic notes, "algae grows on its furry coat." They sleep 15-20 hours a day; even when awake, they often remain motionless. Sounds and sights do not disturb. In his novel Life of Pi, Yann Martel writes, "the three-toed sloth lives a peaceful, vegetarian life in perfect harmony with its environment...upside-down yogis deep in meditation..."
What I would give for such an existence, these days.
Not that my life should be overly busy. But grief plays with time, stretching a chore that should be one hour into four, and then slopping over into the next day when I won't remember where I left off, or why this was even necessary. Such insanity, I'm assured, is normal.
A well-adjusted sloth -- aren't they all? -- would proceed at the same pace as always, sleeping as always, hanging out as always, in a life untouched by agitated senses that remember and regret and, most of all, miss the touch of the creature who did it all.
Candace
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
no stories
Today I awoke and realized: I am tired of stories. Especially mine, kept on hand for the inevitable questions that do not matter but require answers on forms official and in conversations social.
Still, it would be nice to know my place in the world.
But why do I settle for "nice"? This gives me a core calm, but not a deep peace. Especially when I know that "nice" derives from the Latin nescius, which means "ignorant." Only fools know their place. Only fools believe their stories.
I can re-invent myself. I know how to do this, it's the easier option. I made a start on this yesterday when I decided I will handle the IRS without paying a tax consultant. Three hours later, I had all the necessary materials in hand, confident that on one matter Rich definitely was not in error -- I have documentation to prove it! -- and the other probably was a small error, a mistype.
Or, I can pretend that I'm an enlightened being and drop the entire story of "self." I'm not widowed, I'm not married, I'm not single; I'm neither broken nor whole, free nor trapped, financially astute nor blindingly ignorant.
No amount of retreats or meditation or prayer had taken me to this place of a joyless emptiness, a prelude, I tell myself -- my story -- to living a deathless life.
But how, I do not yet know.
Candace
Still, it would be nice to know my place in the world.
But why do I settle for "nice"? This gives me a core calm, but not a deep peace. Especially when I know that "nice" derives from the Latin nescius, which means "ignorant." Only fools know their place. Only fools believe their stories.
I can re-invent myself. I know how to do this, it's the easier option. I made a start on this yesterday when I decided I will handle the IRS without paying a tax consultant. Three hours later, I had all the necessary materials in hand, confident that on one matter Rich definitely was not in error -- I have documentation to prove it! -- and the other probably was a small error, a mistype.
Or, I can pretend that I'm an enlightened being and drop the entire story of "self." I'm not widowed, I'm not married, I'm not single; I'm neither broken nor whole, free nor trapped, financially astute nor blindingly ignorant.
No amount of retreats or meditation or prayer had taken me to this place of a joyless emptiness, a prelude, I tell myself -- my story -- to living a deathless life.
But how, I do not yet know.
Candace
Saturday, February 13, 2010
impossible stories
Stories are impossible but it's impossible to live without them. That's the mess I'm in.-- Wim Wenders
Yesterday morning, the beginning of a new day, a joyous day. Everything felt good with my winter cold lifting, a fresh haircut, a date in the night. Sweet, to be on this new plateau.
A good day, then, to attempt to settle a still-pending year-old medical bill from Memorial Sloan Kettering for yet another treatment that did not work. I will be calm, I say. I will be respectful.
I reach a machine sadly disguised as a human being. This is her job, I know; she can do no more than parrot the information on her computer screen. You owe $17,000...no, I say, the insurance contract says MSK must accept the payment of $13,000 as sufficient...you can apply for financial assistance, she says...no, I will pay nothing, I say...the next step is a collection agency, she says...I will contact Rich's insurer and get back to you.
Yoga, for 30 minutes. Then, I call. I reach a flesh-and-blood human.
What! she says, as pissed as I am. They always do this, don't worry about it, I will take care of it, you owe nothing, take care of yourself. Have a good rest of day, a good weekend...
I hang up. Then cry, astonished by the tears triggered by -- what? Kindness? Relief? I'm-so-weary-of-"this," whatever "this" might be?
Still, it's done, and my heart lightens as it remembers the day's beginning, and end.
Then the mail arrives.
From the IRS. A thick envelope. Two errors on the 2008 taxes. You owe us. With penalty.
Rich never made errors on the taxes. I skim through the pile of papers, and decide: Tax consultants exist for a reason. Next week, first thing, there I will go.
The day is starting to sink under the weight of impossible stories.
Three days before I had made appointment with a therapist, just to confirm how well I was doing.
Ninety minutes and multiple tissues later, a new book spews forth, irrational and thick...I didn't want to only care for Rich, I wanted to cure him...how could love and science fail?
I want to move onward without stories that have no answers, but my only hope is that they will vanish as they appeared, without a beginning, without an end.
I visit my family at Hospicare. John and Cathy, who cared for Rich; and his social worker, the bereavement director, the office manager, Molly the more-than-human dog. More than anywhere, this is the place I feel most at home, and where Rich's presence is as strong as ever. Being here hurts so good.
Then, the date. We see a show about death and torture. Nicely done, we agree, but as soon as we hit the air the show vanishes into a story that's stronger only because it's mine, and follows me everywhere.
Today I awake at noon. I'm in love and in grief and I can't separate the two, I can't separate the people or the emotions, and decide to give both a sabbath day.
A new story, tomorrow.
Candace
Yesterday morning, the beginning of a new day, a joyous day. Everything felt good with my winter cold lifting, a fresh haircut, a date in the night. Sweet, to be on this new plateau.
A good day, then, to attempt to settle a still-pending year-old medical bill from Memorial Sloan Kettering for yet another treatment that did not work. I will be calm, I say. I will be respectful.
I reach a machine sadly disguised as a human being. This is her job, I know; she can do no more than parrot the information on her computer screen. You owe $17,000...no, I say, the insurance contract says MSK must accept the payment of $13,000 as sufficient...you can apply for financial assistance, she says...no, I will pay nothing, I say...the next step is a collection agency, she says...I will contact Rich's insurer and get back to you.
Yoga, for 30 minutes. Then, I call. I reach a flesh-and-blood human.
What! she says, as pissed as I am. They always do this, don't worry about it, I will take care of it, you owe nothing, take care of yourself. Have a good rest of day, a good weekend...
I hang up. Then cry, astonished by the tears triggered by -- what? Kindness? Relief? I'm-so-weary-of-"this," whatever "this" might be?
Still, it's done, and my heart lightens as it remembers the day's beginning, and end.
Then the mail arrives.
From the IRS. A thick envelope. Two errors on the 2008 taxes. You owe us. With penalty.
Rich never made errors on the taxes. I skim through the pile of papers, and decide: Tax consultants exist for a reason. Next week, first thing, there I will go.
The day is starting to sink under the weight of impossible stories.
Three days before I had made appointment with a therapist, just to confirm how well I was doing.
Ninety minutes and multiple tissues later, a new book spews forth, irrational and thick...I didn't want to only care for Rich, I wanted to cure him...how could love and science fail?
I want to move onward without stories that have no answers, but my only hope is that they will vanish as they appeared, without a beginning, without an end.
I visit my family at Hospicare. John and Cathy, who cared for Rich; and his social worker, the bereavement director, the office manager, Molly the more-than-human dog. More than anywhere, this is the place I feel most at home, and where Rich's presence is as strong as ever. Being here hurts so good.
Then, the date. We see a show about death and torture. Nicely done, we agree, but as soon as we hit the air the show vanishes into a story that's stronger only because it's mine, and follows me everywhere.
Today I awake at noon. I'm in love and in grief and I can't separate the two, I can't separate the people or the emotions, and decide to give both a sabbath day.
A new story, tomorrow.
Candace
Sunday, February 7, 2010
widow
Three months and seven days after Rich's death, I fill out a form. Single, married, divorced, widow/widower.
My hand automatically moves to the second box.
My eyes look up, blurry. On the table in front of me is the last anniversary card (our 31st) from Rich. It was May and he was in the hospital recovering from his fifth and last surgery, but made sure of the card before leaving home. Two figures are in the foreground, holding hands, heading down a long road...on the road of life, there's no one else I'd rather have beside me than you! is written inside. Love always, Rich.
Looking at the scene, with so many miles still in it, with his promise of love always (and Rich couldn't lie), how is it possible that I'm now a "widow"? That Rich is no longer in the picture? That I grab for his hand, his face, all of him, and find only my heart, cut and drained?
Damn it to hell. I check the last box. I'm a widow, no doubt; from the Indo-European root, "be empty."
I don't know of any sure cure for repairing the heart. I don't know what will fill the vacant space.
So I eat grief. Not to become what I eat, but to experience the miracle of transforming bagels and wine and cheese into memories not of what was lost, but of what will remain.
Candace
My hand automatically moves to the second box.
My eyes look up, blurry. On the table in front of me is the last anniversary card (our 31st) from Rich. It was May and he was in the hospital recovering from his fifth and last surgery, but made sure of the card before leaving home. Two figures are in the foreground, holding hands, heading down a long road...on the road of life, there's no one else I'd rather have beside me than you! is written inside. Love always, Rich.
Looking at the scene, with so many miles still in it, with his promise of love always (and Rich couldn't lie), how is it possible that I'm now a "widow"? That Rich is no longer in the picture? That I grab for his hand, his face, all of him, and find only my heart, cut and drained?
Damn it to hell. I check the last box. I'm a widow, no doubt; from the Indo-European root, "be empty."
I don't know of any sure cure for repairing the heart. I don't know what will fill the vacant space.
So I eat grief. Not to become what I eat, but to experience the miracle of transforming bagels and wine and cheese into memories not of what was lost, but of what will remain.
Candace
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