even if i am. (33 page)

chapter fifty-three

track 3

Saturday, September 15

I wonder if I am supposed to cry this much, because it seems like that’s all I do. I cry when I’m in the shower, wake up, before bed, in the car, go for a walk, when I read a book, get dressed, breathe. I cry.

I try to put on this believable game face with friends and family. I never cry in front of them. Instead I give animated smiles and positive status reports to my grieving process. Everyone usually seems pleased with my response, and compliments me on my strength. I’ve come up with generic answers to favored questions like, “How are things?” “How’s work?” “You doing okaaay?” I give them stock replies because my honest answers would cause most people to worry. If okay means I need sleeping pills to rest at night, or I’ve lost ten pounds in two months, or I eat bags of popcorn for dinner because I don’t want to cook for only one — then yes, I’m doing fine.

Sunday, November 25

I have this reoccurring dream. I carry around your head. No body, no shoulders even. Disgusting, I know. But I tell people “it is all I have left and I am afraid to let it go.” I carry it around. Look at your sweet face. Change the bandage on your cheek. Kiss your forehead and nuzzle your face, like we use to do, like Eskimos. Your lips form a half moon and smile back, as I place your sleeping head back into my bag. Everywhere I go. You are with me.

I’m careless in the few memories I have left of you. I’m composing settings all my own while creating scenarios of untruths. “Remember that time we traveled to Bali for our wedding anniversary?” Developing a mind’s snapshot to frame rather than repetitiously filing memories true. I’ve lost our memories to my desire of wanting you here. I’m sorry. But you left me with so few. I don’t have thirty years like your mother, or numerous good times like friends. I barely have a year. I’m afraid a single memory might slip through the cracks of my fingers, not unlike holding water. No matter how tight I squeeze my fingers, I’m afraid I might lose you. I have so little to grasp.

As a result I’ve continued my elliptical march of filing memories to a place I won’t forget, squeezing my hands so tight not to lose you. I place your sleeping head in my bag. Everywhere I go. You are with me.

Thursday, February 14

resembling that of a phantom limb,
an element of me no longer connected.
today grief feels like an amputation.

like an absent piece of self;
an absent piece of something whole,
something familiar.
half of a whole.

I am learning to take my first steps with artificial legs,
learning to embrace with my torso, and not both arms.
is it possible to become an amputee of an emotion?
such as love?
a hole so vast in your chest, breathing becomes difficult.

how do you pray for a missing piece
that is a part of your own heart?

still, there is no denying that in some sense I do, feel better.
my phantom love has now become my prosthetic sorrow.

careers are on the horizon.
a healthy Gladys skipping alongside.
my friends near.
my family close.
as I learn to take first steps, as half of a whole.
and finding some joy in between.

…

Anthony, I’ve been writing this story, wonderfully wondering what I should include and disclose. It’s hard to not want to skip ahead, past the daily doses of disease and grieving journal entries and discontent and get to the good days. There are good days but there sure were a ton of bad ones. The months I’d hoped to spend with you were hijacked by malignancies — they told us maybe a year, months, certainly not days. When you asked me if I’d be okay without you, I lied. I mean I did, and I didn’t. That first year without you, I felt lost, fending for myself in a daunting landscape of being alone. This unquenchable emptiness eating away at my soul, my stomach, my insides. Trying to understand what the word grief meant. I asked myself all too often, “Now what?” I was faced with the scalding reality of being on this side of life without you. I was afraid that if I let go of my sorrow and put out the fire in my heart, I would lose you.

It was the little things that wrecked me, like loading the dishwasher without you, or strolling down every aisle in the supermarket, placing my toothbrush in the slot next to yours. I was learning to take first steps like a child. Learning to walk again. Learning what to do with your tools in the garage and the Cruiser and socks. I still have them, your socks. I didn’t know what to do with them. There needs to be a pamphlet for that. On what to do with socks and toothbrushes after someone dies. I started wearing them and your flannels too, sometimes even your deodorant. You felt closer when I did. Sometimes I still wear them.

…

I used to be sad when I thought about this time, that first year alone. What I didn’t realize was that it would be filled with people and prayers and lasagna and homemade soups and daisies and sunflowers and paperwork. After the funeral the house filled with people, doing activities. I was never lonely. I had support buzzing around me, helping me, holding me up whenever I wobbled. Gladys had a dozen aunts and uncles to play ball with, to love. Jay even fed her table scraps when I wasn’t looking.

An outside friend labeled our home “Camp Mourn.” I didn’t mind. I was proud of the camaraderie, to be surrounded by such warmth. Julie cooked a turkey that first Christmas. My first birthday York lit the candles on my cake.
On Valentine’s Day, Jane and I went traveling. On our wedding anniversary, Jay and I ate the frozen chocolate cake from our wedding day and shared stories of you.
The cake was disgusting. I’m still not sure why it’s tradition to keep frozen cake until the first anniversary. The year of your death we all went for a bike ride to the beach and toasted you with champagne exactly like we did when we spread your ashes. (Remind me to tell you that story.) In August I went to Maine and visited your family.

All the holidays, time markers, days without you, Camp Mourn was there. Always in love, some days in despair, but it was all the same. I certainly wouldn’t be where I am today without them. Without that first year and their comfort. Those twelve friends who came to our reception were my wedding gift, my honeymoon, my happily-ever-after. Whenever I miss you, I call them. You live in their stories, in their smiles, in the ways they love, and ways they laugh. Without you I can’t imagine anymore.

…

It’s been five years since you left. It took me five years to write these pages. Every day is a new piece of my learning. A lot has happened in five years. This entire journey has drawn me into a labyrinth of feelings. I have been able to discover so many aspects of myself, once buried and lost. I no longer believe in words like forever. All that I have is here and now, and that is enough. You taught me that. You taught me that love is the language, the laugh lines, the spaces between the words written and jokes told and stories shared and beers drunk. Love is what living is for. You taught me that sometimes love is something you can’t let go of. And sometimes love is something you’d do anything to forget. And sometimes, we learn something about love that changes everything we know about ourselves.

There is so much more I need to tell you. So many more stories — OHMYGOD, York and Julie are MARRIED! Ten years together and they had a secret ceremony, only the two of them. We’re still awaiting a rowdy reception. Maybe they’ll have one in Portland. They live there now.

Oooh, and you’ll never guess who I’m living with these days: Jay. I know, crazy right? He moved into the house shortly after you left to help me stay grounded. “I would love to move in with you and Anthony if you’ll let me.” Jay is a saint. In all his distance from you and your disease, he helped me a great deal that first year. Listening, not questioning or pushing me along in my grieving. We talked openly about you, both missing you terribly. You’d be proud of him. I know — you’re proud of him already. He fixed up the Cruiser. She looks amazing with new fabric and tires and transmission and he even replaced the cracked dashboard.

Gladys still sits in the passenger seat panting with her face out the window, lips flapping in the wind. She is a funny dog. She’s getting old now, twelve this year. Not sure how much time she has left, but I think she’s ready. She’ll be so excited to see you.

Um, let’s see — Zach continues his travels. I think he’s somewhere in Europe now, Bulgaria maybe, trying to find his sense of purpose. I think he’s going to end his two-year journey in India. I’ll be curious to see if he still has his heart intact or if he’s given it away completely.

As for Jane, you were right, she is an amazing friend, and the perfect travel companion. Spain was our first destination. I even brought along your journal from your trip with Jay. I read about your rowdy Spain travels and the girl and the drinks and the cities. I filled the back pages of the journal with my own adventures.

You’ve missed such good music the last couple of years, like Bon Iver and Greg Laswell and Passion Pit and Angus and Julia Stone and the Avett Brothers. I swear, some of the songs were meant for you and me. I like to think you’re writing songs in heaven and sending them to me. I am certain you wrote track three on York’s latest mix. I don’t even know who sings it or the band. All I know is that it is perfect. Thank you.

…

I am doing well. I’m now in a place where there is no more confusion over why you left or why God took you from me. People have told me time heals all wounds. I disagree. Time gives you space and distance and understanding. There is still a scar, an eternal ache, but there is also a bandage of acceptance. I’m in a place where there is only peace and joy and perfect love and gratitude. And I thank God for those things again. I was mad at Him that first year, maybe even the second and third. He was distant and remote and I felt completely abandoned. But I trust in Him again. I told God the truth.

I told him I missed you and every time I thought the words, “miss you,” I cried. I’m not sure if that feeling will ever go away. I told Him that. The more I talked to Him, the more I cried, feeling every emotion I had collected along the way. I cried through every stage of grief and then back around again. Round and round. I’m not numb anymore. I am living, breathing, existing at my most raw. I am human and God is always right there. Right where I need Him to be. In my heart. In my love. In my you.

I have held on to a number of voicemail messages in my phone. I listen to them when I need a smile or reminder or something as simple as a voice. Today I erased a bunch of them, leaving me with two left. One is from you.
I miss you, call me.

The other one is from someone you haven’t met. I think you’d like him, though. He reminds me of you in the way he can get me to laugh loud and sudden and squirt beer out of my nose. He feels like Minnesota in the winter of freshly chopped wood and hot cocoa. I feel lighter when he is around. And he makes excellent coffee. That has to count for something. No?

Like I said, a lot has happened in these five years. I’ve somehow made my way out of Los Angeles, out of the discontent, and headed east. Martha’s Vineyard is home these days and I can’t imagine a more ideal place from which to write to you today. It’s summer, it’s July, and I’m thinking of celebrating our wedding anniversary by sipping a Blue Moon on the dock of Menemsha, eating lobster with my friend Jessica. Don’t worry, I’ll get on a bike, too. I promise.

It feels like you’re near. Just beyond my reach. I like that feeling. Anyway, I should get back to coffee and listening to my friend chatter more about experiencing love, instead of trying to figure it all out. Maybe we can talk more tomorrow? I’ll continue the story from where we left off and tell you about our infamous bike ride the night we spread your ashes on Venice Beach. Today, I just wanted you to hear our love story again and know I wrote these words for you and no one else.

I miss you. It still makes me cry.

acknowledgments

Simply acknowledging each person listed below isn’t nearly enough gratitude.

I’ve considered getting “I
❤
York” tattooed on my butt, for I could never thank Royal York Funston enough. He believed in this story long before I did. His audio interviews are proof that his heart is pure gold, even if he can be a complete pain in the ass sometimes. To a fantastic artist and friend, I honestly couldn’t have done this without your help, York. Thank you.

When I borrowed $3000 from my dad and left all my belongings in my mother’s garage, telling my parents I’m moving to Martha’s Vineyard to write a book — their love and continued support were amazing to me.

To Gladys my dog, thank you for showing me absolute affection — and for growing old, even with cancer.

Gladys happily smiling in our backyard.

To my in-laws, I want you to know how much you mean to me now, and how much you meant to me then. Without your kindheartedness, I wouldn’t be smiling as bright as I am today.

Much gratitude to my editor, Sarah Cypher, for reminding me of the strength of perspective.

To the early readers: Jaclyn Thomas, Ann Peterson, Carin Zakes, Catherine Mayhew, Jessica Soleil, Julie Ragland and the remarkable writing group on Martha’s Vineyard — thank you for listening with open arms, ears and hearts.

To Jeff Sliney, thank you for editing the audio with great strength, and fine-tuning the details.

To a loving support group on Martha’s Vineyard. I know now, I am not alone in this journey.

To Tim and Kaethy, thank you for adopting me into your family.

A huge, “fat” love-filled thank you to the angels that fit into the title “Camp Mourn.”

To Zach, for being the perfect third wheel.

To Jay, thank you for honoring that first year, and for loving Glencoe as much as we did.

To Jane, thank you for helping me stand on my own two feet again.

To every person mentioned within this story, and those I’ve missed. I am so very proud to have you as a part of our story.

I’m struck by how the grace of God works in my life — Thank you, Grant, for meeting me for coffee and sharing your cancer experience.

Anthony, I hope I’ve told our story truthfully and lovingly… and babe, I miss you.