Reflections of a 4th Past

July 4th weekend is upon us and believe it or not, this has been a tough one for me for the past three years.

I brought Chris to the hospital for the last time on Christmas Day. He exited this world on New Years Day. Neither of those two days conjure up the sadness that July 4th does.

In therapy the other day, I figured out the reason time has been so weird for me. I have a huge mental block that will not allow me to think back into the past. I thought my fear of back-calendaring was over but instead, my fear seems to have morphed from anxiety into an inability to think backwards, a lingering remnant of the fog, a mini-fog of sorts. This lingering effect is the reason I can’t remember exactly which July 4th I am about to describe.

The day was either two or three years ago. I honestly cannot pinpoint the year, without perusing a calendar. Chris had just wrapped up a five-day chemo treatment and was out cold for the next five days, July 4th falling in the middle of that period.

I remember being in our tiny dorm-like Brighton apartment, the blinds and curtains drawn so Chris could sleep. I sat on the couch in the living room, wishing we could take a walk, yearning for Chris to be well so we could enjoy the holiday Chris-and-Robin-style which would simply involve walking, getting caramel coffee coolattas and chit-chatting in the air-conditioned comfort of the Dunkin Donuts in Brookline’s Washington Square. I wanted that scenario more than I could stand. I still do.

Instead, I sat on the couch all weekend waiting as Chris emerged from the bedroom every two hours or so to use the bathroom. He did not even know I was there. He was very sick, very exhausted and knocked completely out of it by the anti-nausea drugs he was taking. God, how I missed him that weekend. But the chemo stole him away from me and away from himself.

The memory is not a nice one, but unfortunately that snippet is in my catalogue now. The 4th of July makes me sad, causes me to remember and to wish that cancer had not come calling, that our lives were not blown apart by the insidious disease.

Watching Keith Lockhart conduct The Pops has become a melancholy event for me. Fireworks possess a lonely quality. The Esplinade, on the 4th of July, is not a place I would like to take a walk. My joy is dimmed.

Still, despite my sadness and the gaping hole left in my soul, my coping skills have sharpened. I will not be sitting inside crying this weekend. I will be running, biking, doing my homework and surrounding myself with friends and loved ones.