Thursday, December 13, 2012

No Less Sad

How is it that today I can be wearing jeans with paint spots on them, not from the room I painted in our new home- but from three homes ago- our last apartment in Brooklyn- the bedroom that was painted grey like the rest of the apartment, but I painted an ocean blue.  The room that I painted in those jeans while a few days pregnant without knowing it.  The room I later came home to after my baby shower and found you had rearranged and put together Audrey's co-sleeper while I was gone.  The room we left as we walked out of our building and down Ridge Boulevard to get you sushi and cheer you up because you confessed you were sad that you weren't at the shower.  And then as we crossed the street, I stepped on uneven pavement and fell, 8 months pregnant, skinning my knee like I hadn't since I was a child.

How is it I can be wearing these jeans today?  Today while I scrape off the morning frost from my car.  Today while I take Audrey to school, take her to a play date and chit chat with other moms, while I set up a white pressed paper winter village under the Christmas tree and bake banana muffins with her for her holiday celebration at school tomorrow.  Today in a different apartment in which you do not exist.  On this coming Monday, we would have celebrated your 36th birthday.

I still hear you in my mind all the time- telling me that angel in the store for the top of the tree is tacky, rolling your eyes at me as Audrey sings the 106.7 light FM song and the 24 hour Christmas music starts while I drive.  I shrug my shoulders at no one as if to say, "Sorry...this is it."  Mostly it's teasing, the thing Oates says in her memoir that the widow misses most.  This is mostly it.  Sometimes, I almost laugh out loud because it's so funny the way you're teasing me...while I'm here alone now.  I suppose you taught me how to laugh at myself.

With our tree up, I've been thinking of Christmas' past.  The first one we spent together- the way we exchanged gifts at midnight in my parents' living room facing each other while sitting Indian style on the sofa-  with the tree lit- the strong scent of balsam as you handed me a box from Tiffany's.   The first one as a married couple in our first place in Brooklyn- the little artificial tree I bought that year and the ornaments from Target, poinsettias on either side of the fireplace, and Christmas cards strung around the doorframe to our bedroom.  Or perhaps that was the second or third Christmas- I do not remember.

But despite wearing these jeans today, and the checkered scarf you bought me in Europe on the first tour that you said you ended up wearing most of that leg of the tour because you were so cold- and despite wearing my wedding ring, and laying your cell phone on the night stand beside my bed at night- you slip away.

"Do not think of it, do not think of it..." I tell myself when, every now and then, the manner of your death horrifies me.  I am learning how to live with you gone, but I can not deal with the way you went- how alone you were.

Yesterday, in the afternoon while resting after a busy morning of cooping at Audrey's school- I sat up in the middle of our bed for the very first time.  It felt so strange not being relegated to "my side" on the right.  Audrey came running in and hugged me and I felt like I was on my death bed sitting up in the middle like that under the covers.

I remember a friend telling me "You guys are gonna have a lot to catch up on," sometime after you died.  She is a devout Christian and I suppose thought it was a bold but hopeful thing to say.  It replays in my mind though, quite often.  I had the hunch then, and understand now, that it doesn't ring true.  You become further and further away each day.  Even if you are there...as your mom tells me, "Don't worry...he's there, waiting..."  how will we "catch up?"  Even the hope of heaven does not seem to make up for all that we have lost.  We have lost who we were together, then.  Before all this.  While I could keep a running list of things to tell you when you got home when you were away for three weeks- (Audrey found the parrot at Trader Joe's and got a red lollipop, we went to the senior center to put on a little stroller forth of July parade for the residents, Audrey's been role playing with her dolls in the stroller for the first time- wait 'til you see it!)  I cannot keep a running list of decades of change.  Even then, after three weeks apart in the same dimension- there was a palpable distance between us when you returned.  It took some adjusting.

I tell another widow friend that I'm afraid I'm forgetting you, and she says it's not so much the man - her husband- they're forgetting- as much as "forgetting daily life, day to day stuff, with him."  Sadly, neither the bonds of love nor the chains of grief seem strong enough to keep that kind of forgetting from happening...to make a heavenly reunion a time for "catching up."  "Never has anything in our lives together so divided us..." writes Oates as in her mind, she pleads with her husband's dead body to "wake up!"

I am busier now...the pace quickens.

"One thought occupies me night and day... She is dead — She is dead! All day I am weary and sad," wrote Longfellow after his first wife died.  This has been my life for the past 29 months.  So much so that it is always slightly funny if someone mentions you and then adds, "I don't want to bring anything up that might be hard..."  But now this weariness- this thought- has settled into my bones and being.  Whether I think about it or not, there it is and will be.  One day while driving I realize that I always refer to you - see there I go- as "you" here when I write.  I cannot bring myself to  refer to you by name.  Then you leave me.  Then you are gone in a different way with just that one word.  You.  "Hey you..." we often began correspondence.   

But you...the true you- not the you in my head that follows me around...are far away now even as I sit in my paint splattered jeans from three homes ago- on our bed with our sleeping daughter beside me.  Yesterday as I'm putting Audrey to sleep and praying for her to have "sweet dreams," suddenly the feeling that you and I used to sometimes say things like, "Meet me at the fountain at Central Park," or "I'll be waiting under the Poet's Walk," before we closed our eyes and went to sleep.  This seems so sentimental and is such a vague memory that for a moment I doubt we ever did this, but it has the noxious taste of nostalgia and it is true- we did do this- my often intense, but always passionate marriage to you actually contained sweet moments like this.  

At some point your questions change from why, where, whatthe-ck? (that actually stays)- to how- how will I go on...how will I pick myself up and do this now?  Because a hopeful reunion, as it turns out- makes the parting no less sad.  

"What, Lucy!  You're not crying? With Aslan ahead, and all of us here?" 

"Don't try to stop me, Peter," said Lucy.  "I am sure Aslan would not.  I am sure it is not wrong to mourn for Narnia.  Think of all that lies dead and frozen behind that door." 






Friday, December 7, 2012

This is December

One of the effects of a move is leaving behind your mail.  You still received mail at our old apartment- not much- a stray card or two from our old dentist in NYC- you were due for a visit.  A large postcard asking if you had hearing loss.   In the past few weeks I was surprised to find there are still a few people sending you things here at our new address.  The 20% off entire purchase- not the ubiquitous 20% off a single purchase - Bed Bath and Beyond coupon you get when you move came addressed to you.  A furniture store welcomed you to your new home and neighborhood.

I am tired lately like the kind of tired/discomfort you feel while traveling after living out of a suitcase for a few days too long.  Packing, unpacking, in a makeshift home.  I am incomplete lately like the moon partially full- when my eyes play tricks on me and I can still see the rest of the circle outlined in the darkness.

Audrey had a traumatic experience at the dentist for her cleaning a few weeks ago.  Apparently, it was all my own fault.  I tried to scare her into brushing by telling her the tale of a preschool mate of hers who had to go to the hospital and be put under to get her cavities filled.  "I"m pretty sure she must have heard about somebody at school..." the dentist offered as Audrey, who has been to the dentist for cleanings four times already without any issues or even nervousness, writhed in my arms.  Hmmm...I thought- maybe the story I told her?  Whoops.  I had no one to blame but myself when, after one completely unsuccessful appointment of screaming, fruitless bribery and rationalizing back in the waiting room, and the receptionist's "Maybe it's just not a good day..." we went back a few days later and we did OK until she saw the chair again.  After more screaming and writhing, the dentist, a very patient and kind Korean woman- looked at me and said it again, "Maybe today's just not a good day."  "But this is the second time- I really want her to get her teeth cleaned," I said.   "What about if Daddy takes her- would that help- maybe Daddy?" she asked hopefully.  "Who?" I replied.  "Daddy?"  "He died."  "Oh I'm so sorry..."

I keep replaying this chaotic scene in my head for some reason- mostly the part when it gets quiet and I say, "Who?"  I heard what she said.  I comprehended it, but I replied, "Who?"

Meanwhile, I play the radio station that plays non-stop Christmas songs loudly in the car while we drive to and from Audrey's preschool every morning.  I sing along.  "I don't mind the holidays; it's a welcome distraction and something good I can offer my daughter," I tell a pastor and an elderly woman freshly widowed in a seminar they have one morning at the church that houses Audrey's preschool entitled, "Surviving the Holidays."  I attend because I usually need something to do for the couple of hours Audrey's in school and because- it's an event that is geared towards me- instead of all the happy families all of the other publicized events are for- a little reprieve from the mask I must wear while chit chatting with other preschool moms, "Oh- I just got rid of a chunk of the baby gear- it felt sooo good..." the mothers of three say as we wait in the hall one day.  I think about how difficult it was for me to part with any of Audrey's baby gear and nod my head slowly.

The hardest day for me though, I told the pastor and the elderly woman, is your upcoming birthday.  This December is different than previous ones.  For Christmas, we are staying home.  The first two years we've gone away - to Arizona, to Disneyland.  This year, I felt I wanted Audrey to wake up in her own house and find presents under her own tree rather than open them on a hotel bed.  I was also just too tired to think about traveling.  For your birthday the first year- during the day I sat in bed eating Christmas cookies- but later, I'd put together a dinner of your friends in K-town.  Afterwards we toasted you at an Irish pub.  Last year, I attempted to do the same thing, but no one could make it but two people so Audrey and I spent the day walking the aisles of Target and eating Thai food at a newer restaurant in our old neighborhood. I had ordered all of our favorites- the ones you and I always ordered and shared- and to my dismay, it was way too much food for myself and a three-year old.  This year- I already understand that this is a day for me alone now.  We will visit the cemetery with flowers.  I won't plan anything strenuous.   I break down in tears telling the pastor and the older woman how at this point, I don't hear from many people and how the dynamics of all my friendships changed- how all of my "friends" are so busy with their large, young, families.  The pastor hands me a few napkins and tells me that whether they know it on a conscious level or not, to my friends- I am living their worst nightmare- which might make it hard for them.   "It is a nightmare," I answer.  "My own worst nightmare."

I decide to host a cookie decorating/Charlie Brown Christmas watching party for Audrey and all the girls in her preschool class.  It's something else I can offer her when I feel I fall so short in other ways as a competent mother and person.  A distraction for me as I order miniature rolling pins to attach the invitations to.  One of the moms emails and tells me that she and her husband have a holiday party to attend that night, but if it's earlier, she can drop by with her daughter.  "-- and I have a holiday party to attend together..." This sentence is so full of luxury to me.  I miss going out as a couple- to dinner- sitting across from one another- making eye contact, talking, laughing, sharing food.  To the movie theater- I have not been once since you died...sharing popcorn, your laughter while I weep at sappy previews, your wide eyes as you watch the screen, holding hands- we held hands.  To a party with other adults- paying attention to what I wear, hearing you tell me I look pretty, having a drink without worrying about driving home...coming home together.

Sometimes I think that my "scholarly" approach to grief- the reading, writing, thinking- has all been one brave attempt to avoid missing the simple beauty of your companionship.  In that way, when I have heard other widows talking about how hard the holidays are, or how one simply posted, "I miss being the most important person to someone," or when another preschool mom I run into at Starbucks tells me she's running out to get her husband's boss a Christmas gift- I can pretend to myself that I don't miss those things- that the holidays aren't any harder than the normal days, (which is mostly true still) or that I don't miss being the most important person, or even the wifely duties I used to do like buying your co-workers Christmas gifts.  No- I am concerned with the larger questions, universal suffering, the purpose of humanity on earth, the afterlife.  And I am, I can't deny that the realm your death thrust me into feels like such a different place that I am full of questions about these things.  Or that you grieve who you are, and I've always been more concerned with these things.  But don't be foolish, I tell myself lately, those little things shared- when our eyes met at something sweet our daughter did, a shared meal of panang curry and pad see ew, the tender squeeze of your hand at a suspenseful moment in a darkened movie theater, the coming home, debriefing on the party, and sleeping side by side...are as significant as these larger intellectual questions of philosophy and theology and where you are right now at this moment while I type (the answer to which truly changes everything doesn't it?).   This morning, on the drive to school, Audrey tells me she can still see all of the dolls, her "daughters," she left eating at our dining table eating- "because I have a telescope at my back."  What if those sweet moments of companionship I feel so deprived of now are actually part of the answer to the questions I carry like some kind of cosmic vagabond- my own telescope at my back.  But to put it simply, I miss you very, very much.

Audrey and I attend the small town tree lighting down the street in the misting rain tonight.  She has hot chocolate, the Girl Scouts lead us in some incredibly off-key carols that you and I would've chuckled at together, and Santa arrives on a fire truck and gives out candy canes.   On the short walk home, I push her stroller and feel your striking absence.  At home, an old acquaintance from our church in Brooklyn that I don't really remember but who recently messaged me, has sent me photos he'd taken of you at our old church- playing in the band- and later at Audrey's baptism.  Evidence of what was- there you are.  I study your face and features in a photo I've never seen before- the fear of forgetting is always there.  Before falling asleep, Audrey is hugging me and telling me, "I just really love you so much mom..."  I hug her back and say, "We're a special family you and me."  "And appa..." she adds.  "I just miss him every day," she continues.  "I know, me too..."  "I think that's the way it'll always be- I'll just miss him every day until I die," she says.  "Yup, me too.  But in the meantime, appa wants us to live and be happy...we have to live with all our strength (a phrase I borrow from a K-drama- hey, it works.)  "Oh ok..." she assents begrudgingly with a sigh.  This is December- the third since you have died.