Coming Apart

Coming Apart

                It has been nearly two years since my beloved Susan left this life. Since that time, I have tried extremely hard to follow all the advice, adhere to the conventional wisdom, not make any major decisions while grieving, and so forth. My friends and family have been wonderful in trying to provide company and support.

                But I miss her. I miss her terribly. And as the anniversary of her death approaches, I find that it feels to me like I am coming apart. My memories of those last weeks of her life are so crystal clear and vivid that it is like being there. The irrational guilt that I feel because of her disease and death is a relatively constant companion.

                Throughout this year there have been literally thousands of occasions where I had some tidbit, some quip, some fear, some joke, some deep feeling that I wanted to share with her (and indeed did in the metaphysical sense). The day Gwen Ifill’s death was announced, for example, I felt gob smacked. Another wonderful woman struck down by a gynecological cancer that we seem powerless to cure. I am certain Susan and I would have talked through that situation, as we had so many things that affected our lives. Without her incredible mind and temperament with which to interact, everything that happens feels like a shard of glass sticking in my flesh, unresolved and throbbing in a distasteful dissonance..

                The entire horrendous election cycle would have been far more tolerable had I had Susan here to bear witness with me. I am certain she would have been apoplectic at the result, as was I, but we would have arrived at a coping strategy, would have determined what was next, like so many times that we did just that. With her presence, I would have sailed through my heart problems of this year.

                Since her death, life has taken the same type of zigs and zags that it normally takes. Things go wrong, things break. People get elected of whom some of us do not approve. The economy rises and falls. These things all happened routinely when Susan was alive. The difference is that I knew that as long as we were together, we could get through anything, and indeed we did. Now that she is no longer here, the question that comes most often to mind is, “what is the point of all this?”. 

                Without her here to share this life, with its vicissitudes, I lay awake at night pondering that question, struggling to find an answer that will satisfy. It has yet to come. On most days, the best I can hope for is the ability to muddle through the numbing isolation, satisfying all the various obligations I have, and to go to bed and once again ponder how it could have gone so terribly wrong on that late autumn day two years ago.

                I am extremely grateful to all my family and friends, without whom I might not have lasted this long, and I understand that it is not up to them to heal the wounds of loss I carry, nor is it for them to assuage the horrific lack of confidence with which I currently greet each new day. These struggles are mine to try to resolve.  And it seems to me there are two questions at the heart of this struggle: First, do I really want things to become OK? And I must tell you that I do not know the answer to that question. Sometimes it feels like if I make this OK that I am disrespecting Susan’s memory or forgetting her, which I cannot and will not do.

 The second and more important question is this: How is it possible to be a source of light, when ALL of the light has been ripped away out of my life. As much as I try to meet the world with kindness, equanimity and calm, the effort required to do so is massive, and extremely stressful. I do not know the solution to this puzzle either.  I can only hope that with time, either the answers will become apparent, or in the alternative, become irrelevant.

MPC:11-20-2016