Too Cluttered to Think Up a Title

My longing and yearning for Chris has been particularly strong since I spent the night at Bonnie’s house. I had never even gone to Bonnie's without him until he died. Also, as my impending move date nears, I’m forced to realize that I’m about to say goodbye to the home I shared with Chris. We had fun here. It’s a big place. I don’t even know what I’m saying. I have been wanting to write this entry for days, but I’ve not been able to corral my thoughts. Confusion, disorganization and procrastination (though, even as I write that word, I realize I really have plowed through many of my goals) are some of the toughest symptoms of my grief that I have grappled with. It’s difficult to think and even more difficult to get motivated.

I went to Mt. Auburn Hospital the other day to have a mammogram and ultrasound that my doctor ordered after finding a lump in my breast. I was slightly panicked in the days leading up to the testing. It all had such a familiar flavor; testing, hoping, panicking, knowing I had no control over the outcome of the tests.................cancer? No. Still, before I knew that, I could hear the words coming out of her mouth in my mind, see the formation of that fucking word on her lips; that evil, fucking disease. I thought all the same things I thought when Chris was going through his testing. “It can’t be cancer. It’s a cyst, I'm sure. I’ll have to have chemo. I’ll lose my hair. I’m not wearing a wig. Will I die?” and so on. I was simultaneously certain it was cancer and certain that it wasn’t. My brain kept flipping back and forth between the two, and all the while I was ready for the needles, the hair loss, the lost quality of life and for death.

She found nothing abnormal. I’m scheduled to see a breast specialist in a few weeks, anyway. You can’t be too safe.

On my way back to Harvard Square after my appointment, I felt different. I felt extremely happy. I didn’t realize it at first but as I walked, one single thought passed through my mind repeatedly. “I want to live.” I realized that despite my death wishes as of late and despite the loss I will undoubtedly feel for the remainder of my life, the truth is that I really want to live. I’m so happy that I don’t have cancer. I thought of all the things I keep wanting to do but not doing. Running. Lifting. Singing. Helping others. I’m ready now.

Walking home from Davis Square, yesterday, I had a thought. I used to be petrified at the thought of forgetting Chris and who he was, but on the way home, I realized that I won’t ever forget Chris; not the man I knew. Even so, my memory has already dimmed in regards to what everyday life was with Chris. I can remember a sense of it. Intellectually, I know we had fun together. I know we annoyed each other. I know we watched our spending together and saved our money, cooked dinner and all of the other components of our lives together, but I can’t quite latch onto the feeling of knowing he was coming home. It’s hazy, now, the same way it’s hazy trying to remember what it was like to have to ask your teacher if you could go to the girl’s room or trying to recall what it felt like to ask your parents’ permission to go out with your friends. I can’t remember what that felt like, anymore. I’m losing my sense of that familiar feeling of knowing that Chris was coming. Eventually, he was always coming. I don’t remember that anymore. That’s sad for me. I have seen so many pictures of him from so many sources and so many times throughout his life since he died, that I can’t even decide which Chris is in my memory, anymore. Not really. Sometimes he has hair. Sometimes he’s bald. Sometimes he’s wearing his old glasses and sometimes his new ones. It’s a very liquid memory of his physical appearance. I almost have to look at his pictures, now, to really remember what he looked like and I’m so thankful that pictures exist. But even looking at his pictures I feel a disconnect. It’s tough to reconcile the fact that the guy in those pictures once stood next to me.

So, this week, I’m a little bit freer and a little reflective. I’m happy to be alive, even though I miss my husband. I’m ready for the next push forward. There has been another shift.