A million miles away

Reading: The Deep by Alma Katsu

Listening to: "Into The Woods" - a Mysterious Folk/Pop Playlist

Outside: Rainclouds roll against a blue backdrop

When people going through their own tough times turn to me now for guidance, I have only the simplest advice. Make sure you take care of yourself. See the sun every day. Breathe fresh air and go outside. Do something that makes you happy... Exercise, because you need to be strong for the grief you're going through. It takes a lot out of you. 

        - I'LL SEE YOU AGAIN by Jackie Hance with Janice Kaplan

I am a million miles away from where I was since my last post. 

Dave at Scarborough, April 2022

    

Back last October, I was finding my feet again after a turbulent year of Maternity Leave. I was circulating between diaper changes and formula bottles and handling our mail with a pinched finger-and-thumb, my face reflecting the same Icky-ness expression someone has handling an apple sauce-covered bib, or vomit-soaked sheets. My whole life had become an endless cycle of preparing for mess, for steeling myself against a virus that was trying to destroy everything. I was toddler-proofing the house. I was coming up with a secret phrase with Lena, incase someone tried to kidnap her. I was, in essence, operating under the illusion that I have control over life.

In the seven months that have passed since then, I said goodbye to two very important people in my life. One was my husband's father, who was a smiling, loving and ever-helpful part of our lives. The other was my very, very close friend, who passed away unexpectedly only four days after my father-in-law. 

I had no idea it would be only four short months until those two people would disappear. Sixteen weeks of having them walking and talking and working and laughing.

Disappeared? Well, they have and haven't. I can see my father-in-law in Dave's eyes, and hear his voice every time Dave speaks. He is there, always, in a comforting way. 

My dear friend, on the other hand, is the one who haunts me in my dreams. My grief for him has been heavier, pulled by its own gravity. (This kind of grief is different, even, from the kind I feel for my mom, who passed five years ago.) 

In my dreams he is baffled by my surprise to see him, and maybe even slightly embarrassed that I hug him so hard - and for way too long than was our customary two-second limit - that I insist on it. He seems to question my sanity. And he disappears every time I have held on too long - an empty chair at our shared desks in our Sheffield office, an empty floor in front of me, the air still swirling with his warmth. 

When I go for a jog around the neighborhood, I am running through my guilt (What kind of friend was I if I wasn't there to help?), my regret at my last stupid text (Why wasn't it something deep and meaningful, or simple, like a heart emoji?), an echo of his last voice messages rolling endlessly around in my head (asking me how I've slept, telling me to take care of myself, always reassuring). 

Every morning I wake up and with every new chat on my FB messenger, his chat sinks lower and lower down. This cannot be. And yet it is.

Every day I work, I am facing the same computer screen, doing the same job. We worked together proofreading death notices, and we still work together - he still asks the same questions he used to ask me - what's the deadline for this newspaper, how many breakpoints for the County Times, and in my mind I'm still asking him all the same stuff, too. He is everywhere around me, all the time. 

My life has taken on a different tinge. I am powerless to tell him about something cute my toddler son has done. But sometimes I feel he already knows what my boy has done, how Indy can say "Thank you," now, and how he can say "I'm sorry." 

So I continue to toddler-proof. 

I have random safety-checks with Lena, now eight, who rolls her eyes at my seriousness when I ask over our dinner plates, "Somebody pulls their car up next to you when you're walking home from school. They say I'm in the hospital, and I've asked them to bring you there. Do you get in the car?"

    "No."

    "What's the phrase?"

     She always knows. 

I do the best I can.

 

So, I guess, for whoever needs to read this: impact people. It's the most we can do in this world. Be the reason they smile, give them a wink or a hug or a "Hi." Make them laugh. Make them miss you when you're gone. Meanwhile, also:

Look forward to that homemade fruit smoothie.

Be the art.

Indulge. Fix that door, repaint that room. Plant that tree. Make a toast. Listen to your favorite song again (and again). Save nothing for special, because every day is special. Be the most unabashed version of you, because nobody else can do it. Let the ghosts in your heart speak. Listen.

Have a beautiful Friday, everyone.