Route 30

My first audition was this evening. Singing with an ensemble of eight people in six-part harmony was an absolute rush. Whether I get cast or not, the evening was well worth the joy.

When it was over, I decided to drive home the long way from Wayland to Malden, taking route 30 all the way into Kenmore Square and then connecting with Sturrow Drive to 93 N. The entire ride took about an hour. If I had taken 90 W, as suggested by the auditor, I would have been home in half an hour. I felt like wandering.

Route 30 reminds me of the early days of Chris’ chemo treatments which he endured at Southshore Hospital before switching to Dana Farber.

The ride, itself, brought on a vague sense of memories past, as if my life used to be one thing and now it’s not that thing anymore. The Zoloft makes me feel as though it’s possible that the entire episode (my meeting Chris, us moving to L.A., his getting sick and his death) may not have really occurred. I’m already finding the memory of being somebody's wife slip away. Did that really happen?

When I reached the intersection of Commonwealth Avenue and Washington Street in Brighton, a feeling of heaviness washed over me. I experienced the same sense of defeat as in the early days of my grief. We lived there. We grabbed breakfast or lunch at the Brighton Cafe and celebrated nothings at Tasca. We walked up Commonwealth Ave. to the Blue Diner or whatever the hell it’s called. We walked to Coolidge Corner and Harvard Ave. and got coffees and all the while I existed in a silent state of panic, horrified at the thought of him dying.

Sometimes I wonder if the silent panic will ever really leave me. The feeling is like the music behind the knife in the movie Psycho and I am overcome with two forces: heaviness that makes me want to go to sleep and fear that leaves me needing to remember to breathe.

I think this is just me, now.