Perpetuation

To say that it was not easy to have lived with and loved someone who became ill is to say that it was excruciatingly painful, for neither of those statements comes close to conveying the true horror and sadness of an event such as the one Chris and I endured together. I thought I was feeling anguish while it was happening, but it’s only in hindsight that I have become fully aware of the sadness that his disease and death have filled me, his family and his friends with…and acquaintances…and even people who had never met him. While Chris was alive and undergoing chemo, my emotions were anger, fear and extreme panic. After the chemo was over and the surgery behind him, when we thought he was cured, my spirit soared. I can still remember the carefree happiness that came along with “knowing” it was over and that he was going to be fine. Now that he has died, my body and soul are consumed with a black hole of sadness of infinite depths.

The truth is that I have the capacity to be quite happy, even euphoric at times…and those times fill me with dismay the moment I realize they’re happening. That’s the great conflict I’m facing these days. It’s what stops me dead in my tracks and makes me question myself and my love for Chris. I know that I loved him. I cherished him. And I cherish and love that I knew him; that for one moment in time, I came into contact with him, holding the door open and in effect opening the door into the deepest part of my soul. I didn’t even stop to take notice that I was falling in love. I was blindsided. For that to have happened just once in my lifetime, I feel extremely fortunate and blessed. I’m not expecting it to happen again, though I hope that it does. A love like ours can addict a person to love.

It has become apparent to me that each new experience for me creates another experience to be grieved. I can be happy that I bought a new set of dishes and then distraught that Chris didn’t get to see them because I know he would have loved them (They coincidentally match the salt shaker he picked up!). The new couch Robby and Gene gave me is so comfy and soft, but Chris wasn’t around to enjoy it and to add guilt to injury, he had to endure months undergoing chemo “resting” on an uncomfortable futon couch. We had decided to buy a new couch and an easy chair together, but he was too sick to come out and shop for them. I can feel happy that I’m beginning to remember what independence feels like, staying out without worrying that he’s not feeling well or that he might need something (like Ben and Jerry’s ice cream) but that independence comes at the expense of Chris’ death, too high a price to pay.

My mother always tells me that I have to accept things in life. Her own husband died of cancer a few years back so she understands exactly what I'm going through. She has a way with popping me back into reality. I'm grateful for that, and sad for her experience. What I, myself, find is that accepting whatever phase I’m in is less painful than fighting it. In fact, I realized that back at the 2nd diagnosis. I remember not really believing that it had happened again and then becoming aware that going with it just hurt less than screaming about it. That being said, my next order of business, is simply accepting that for a while, every time I find myself laughing, my laughter will be immediately followed by what can only be described as the initial shock of getting the news that Chris was going to die. That’s the cycle…at least for a while.