Splitting Hairs

Why can’t a fun night be just that and not tinged with regret? Ugh!

We had such a great time tonight, and I was happy and everything until the calm of the ride home when I started to regret that Adam wasn’t there too. Ok, so this is normal and whatever but I just want to *enjoy* something in its wholeness without there being some kind of dark shadow.

Of course that might be possible were it not diagnosis week. I don’t know. Am just putting it out there in case you’re wondering the same thing.

But what would happen if I *did* have a night where everything was joyful and then I didn’t think of Adam? Would I chastise myself the next morning? This is complicated ground, and probably full of minutiae not even worth considering. I’m splitting hairs. Accept and move on.


Sobering Yet Necessary

Just completed a really sobering exercise, on the recommendation of my doc. In order to prevent these anniversaries from sneaking up on me and taking such a toll on my body, since my mind refuses to acknowledge them, I just put them all in my calendar, with a yearly repeat and a week-ahead reminder. Hopefully the warning will keep me from letting my body suffer while my mind is oblivious.
I had to read our Caring Bridge log in order to find the correct dates. All I could bear, really, was to skim it for big events. I’m still not strong enough to go back and read it all.

Four Years

The body demands attention to that which the mind wishes to ignore. Rashes, tummy rumbles, fatigue and body aches, and too many social commitments. I know these as harbingers of anniversaries that I don’t want to remember.

Upon recognizing the signs, the mind opens and allows the stunned memory to form, the memory that it’s now been four years since on February 17 2012, we learned that Adam had cancer. In his brain. Everywhere.

I’m starting to feel much stronger. I can think critically again, a skill that has eluded me since Adam’s diagnosis. Emotions sit deeper under the skin, probably accounting for my now-infrequent posts. It’s been months since I was wracked with sobs.

The malaise started to settle in around Valentine’s Day and I thought it was about that, though I didn’t feel any of the dread and resentment I have felt in the past on that day. Just something like a low emotional fever. Even after coming across Adam’s iPhone photos, which I’d forgotten were still on the device I now use as a music player only, the images he’d taken of his bathroom counter cluttered with medications, the selfies he’d taken of his craniotomy scar and his head in a fixator before gamma-knife surgery only saddened me, but didn’t tip me off to the anniversary to come.

It wasn’t until my friend, who taught me about the signs mentioned above, talked of her own cancer-discovery anniversary on her blog that it hit me like a club—four years. Four years since our lives became not our lives anymore, but the lives of those whose loved one was taken by cancer.

It’s taken me two days to get this post down. Usually I tick them off in a flash driven by the heat of emotion. On this anniversary I just feel stunned. Like back then.

(I am so sorry that it’s been so long since my last post. WordPress changed something, I have no idea what, and my site simply disappeared for a while. I hope someone is still out there, reading.)