bedtime thoughts

Her service, or the laying-in ceremony as Recompose calls it, was Friday, just two days ago. The ceremony was poignant and beautiful, and I want to write about the experience, but I’m still processing it.

After the ceremony, one of her friends told me, “Grief isn’t linear.” And this is where I’m struggling. I suppose I view grief as an illness, some terrible disease with a predictable sequence of symptoms, and, after some time, the patient improves and carries on with their life. But grief isn’t like that, of course. Grief is unpredictable, and I’m beginning to learn that each day should be the focus, and I need not be concerned about stacking good days, as if this will earn me less grief time.

Is there therapeutic value in forcing myself to look at photographs of her? This evening, I felt the urge to see her face. And as I looked at image after image, I began to cry. And in the pit of my chest, I felt the naked impact of her being gone forever. And her death still stuns me.

Tomorrow

A.‘s service is tomorrow.

So much sorrow and despair tonight. It’s crushing me.

She passed nearly two months ago, yet the pain is as raw as ever.

Never in my life have I felt a pain this deep.

And tomorrow, I say goodbye. One final time.

Funeral duties

Several weeks before you died, I admitted to myself the grave nature of your condition and asked you for your Passcode. And since you’ve been gone, I’ve visited that digital tomb numerous times. Today, on this gray Sunday, I’m scrolling through all the photos you’ve taken over the last decade. Selifes in San Diego with your sister. Selfies with me when we drove the Pacific Highway to Cow Hollow. Panoramas of unknown landscapes and screenshots of memes.

And on this gray Sunday, it’s as if I’m traveling back in time. We looked so young and happy, totally unaware of the forthcoming fracture that would break everything. My tears force me to pause (images are indecipherable when one is crying), so I stand, pace around this apartment, and try to become unrestrained. Open yourself to the pain. Ease the pressure from the shadows. But lately, the loss feels like forever, and I sometimes feel it so strongly in my chest I feel I may collapse and never collect my bones to stand again.

I’m lost, and for the first time since you died, I cried out to a god I’ve dismissed and asked it to take me. And before I can complete the command, I’m reminded of my mother, who cried the same words in the days after her second husband died (she would pass just 30 days after his death). I eventually compose myself, enter the Passcode and continue scrolling, knowing I must compose a slideshow of you for your funeral, just five days away. And as much as I desire to put you to rest, I’m terrified, fearful I will no longer have these funeral duties of which to cling. My source of devotion shall be no more. And what will then become of me? This apartment feels like a mausoleum washed in colors only the living can appreciate. And so, I drag my bare feet and feed the cat. And I can’t shake the feeling we’re both just waiting to die.

Tears to screens

We’re talking to screens and recollecting lives lost and the subsequent damage. I tell my story, and as I begin to speak, I think it’s peculiar the emotions remain manageable. But then, I tell these strangers who you were and what you represented to me, and it all falls apart. And everyone is quiet, and I’m losing the story (a collection of events and emotions I’ve relayed so many times), and then I say something about spinning my wheels, upset — and slightly terrified — that the days aren’t getting easier and how hope isn’t a word that makes sense to me anymore.

After 90 minutes, we disconnect from our screens, and I’m proud of myself. And if you still existed in a form that could express emotions, you would be proud of me too. But soon, the sense of accomplishment fades, and I think about the strangers I met tonight and the stories they told. She was years away from her loss, but her face remained etched forlorn and frowning. “Things don’t necessarily get better. They get different.” And I tell myself, No, that won’t be you. You will wear this loss, but things will get better. I say this to myself again, but this time, the optimism isn’t there, and here come the tears.

eight

Eight years ago today, A. and I (with Sydney the tabby in the backseat) left our home in Urbana, Illinois, to start a new life in Seattle. We would arrive three days later.

grief pose

This Wednesday, I will attend a grief support group. The cohort meets twice per month, and while I am pressed to find any hope in my life right now, I am hopeful this group can provide something I’ve yet to discover. A. left this world six weeks ago, and I’m still here, stuck in a feedback cycle from hell. Yesterday, I made my first attempt at yoga since she died. But grief defeated me in five minutes. A. introduced me to yoga several years ago. We would frequently practice together. “How’s my form, boo?” I would ask her from downward dog. Every pose is a different face of grief, repositioned.

In a previous post, I wrote about the insidiousness of companionship. You don’t realize it until they’re gone, but when you lose the person with whom you’ve shared the last decade, you discover that, through those many years, they’ve enmeshed themselves in nearly every facet of your life. And so, how does one piece themselves together when everything has been blown to bits? In this current state, I do not have a life. I’m simply surviving. I’m reminded of the soldier on Omaha Beach in Saving Private Ryan: the man, dazed and confused, walks aimlessly while holding his severed arm.

I suppose there is no yardstick for grief. Six weeks out, I don’t feel I’ve gained any ground in coming back from this. I have little hope for my future. Suicide is a daily thought, but, as of today, it lacks any real intent. So, I’ll be at the support group. I’ll share my story. And I’ll hope for a sense of sad comradery.

itch

Scratching your face until the blood begins to trickle. There’s this thing inside that’s slowly eating away all that is familiar. Neighborhood walks used to provide a slice of solace, but now, the scenery is all so alienating. One foot leads the other in a purposeless exercise. Early in the pandemic, she sent you the meme of the eagle and the stupid little walk. But now, the only thing you feel is the loss of everything. You used to watch the ferries cut across the bay, a scene so serene. But now, you’re afraid of it all. Fearful of the proximity and the associated binds that engage just to pull you in and stimulate sentiments you no longer want to recognize. And so you close your eyes and envision rotting ships sinking into the sea. Overhead, all the clouds have dispersed, and a green moon illuminates the cataclysm that will alter lives forever. And suddenly, you’re awakened by the smell of iron and hemoglobin from an itch you’ll never quell.

Thirty-six days

Thirty-six days since you passed,

and here I am, a mess,

calling out for you:

“Honey,

Can you hear me?

I need you to tell me you can hear me.”

Fearful I will miss an utterance, I try to quell the cries.

But you are gone forever, and these desperate fantasies are self-imposed punishments I'm incapable of ending.

“Please tell me you can hear me.”

Silence is the sole response.

Defeated again, I drop my head, turn away, and time continues to churn into a future forever unfathomable.

purpose

How does one again find purpose when his life is awash in grief? I am lost at sea, and on the horizon, I can see my trajectory, and the longer this lostness churns, the more concerned I become about my mental wellbeing. Most of my life has been lived alongside some sort of mental malaise, and buried deep in the back of my mind is an idea, a notion that maybe, just maybe, this will be the thing that brings me down. So I must find purpose. For the previous six months, A. was my sole purpose. I dedicated nearly every waking moment to her. I was as devout as a human being can be. And now, not only have I lost that purpose, but I lost the woman with whom I spent the previous decade. I’ve lost nearly everything. And what I haven’t lost remains tattered and frayed, and the stitches are struggling to hold. Purpose, please. don’t elude me.

observations

Broke down in the shower today, but the tears wouldn’t come.

I recognize she is gone forever, but still, I am occasionally swept away by disbelief. There is something beyond emptiness. There is something beyond sadness. And there is something beyond grief. I do not know its name, but when it strikes it is all-consuming. My chest hurts. Clenched in agony, my face aches. And while I’m in this cavern of pain, the edges cannot be seen. All the oceans on the earth cannot contain this sense of loss.

I’ve returned to work. Being back with my colleagues feels good, and I view many of them as extended family. The breaks are difficult, however. During those times, I would routinely message A. And at the end of my shift, coming home is different. No A. here to greet me. No dinner waiting. Things will never be as they were.

Thank you, David

I feel this song now more than ever. Thank you, David 💙

bed

You've been gone three weeks now.

And I just finished writing your obituary.

And I still sleep on the left side of the bed.

Castle

The shadow of grief has shifted. The permanence of A.’s absence can no longer be ignored or deferred. Her absence is everywhere. She was my everything. My life partner. My confidante. My love. My support system. My best friend. And now I look below from this strange vantage point. People are milling about, and many appear happy, laughing. Elsewhere, children jump with excitement; they seem to be playing a game. Life continues, and from up here, they are silent. My distance doesn’t allow me to eavesdrop, but their body language is evident: they are happy. And I cannot participate, even if I had the desire. I’d been building a castle of loneliness for decades, but A. prevented me from placing the final stone. She is now gone, and the stone set itself. This castle is complete.

And so, I have lost practically everything. My life ended the night she died. And at some point, I was reborn. I don’t look the same. My eating habits have changed. Even my flesh feels different. The life I now call my own is becoming less foreign, but I’m far from feeling comfortable here. I’m far from everything. I know where the sex workers walk, and I’ve thought about — these thoughts are far from fantasy — engaging, copulating, and thrusting myself out of this endless loop of pain and loneliness. I need something to break through this hell, even if it’s for a brief evening. But those are temporary measures, and refusing to engage grief will only prolong the suffering, so I stay here, in this new home, and all the screens are on, and they’re all flashing and sounds like sirens are ringing because the silence is now terrifying.

My therapist encourages me to confront these feelings through writing. Through music. And I haven’t missed a day of Peloton since the bike arrived. “See, mom, I’m trying,” I would tell her over the phone if she were still alive. She’d be drunk, tripping over her platitudes, but it’d be better than nothing. Her voice would feel familiar. Predictable. A connection, fraying, but symbiosis nonetheless. But it’s a fantasy. No one is here, and in the shadow of grief, I’m inconsolable.

The death and the grieving

The death and the grieving

Death is the tsunami you see from your perch on the coast

You take stock and try to prepare

Because you know escaping it is not possible

And the grieving is the aftermath

Everything awash in an unfathomable vastness

And the sadness

The sadness

The sadness

Preparation is something you do

A task to occupy a mind fraying on the edges

But it is foolish in its futility

Because nothing can prepare you for the aftermath

A change that wipes clean the pleasures of a previous existence

Now so foreign

And this,

So strange

Foley

I forgot to clip the Foley bag. I’ve been a registered nurse for ten years, and I forgot to clip the Foley bag. You were tossing and turning, and I was afraid, in your confused state, you would leave the bed and crash to the floor into a heap I could never recover. And so, I checked the Foley bag, afraid, again, that you could have removed it from your body. Since your family left, you’ve changed. Forgetful. Confused. Even giddy, at times. And so, I wanted to check your Foley. And that’s when I saw it. The urine, stinking and saturating the carpet (THIS FUCKING CARPET! WE WERE SUPPOSED TO REDO THE FLOORS THIS SPRING!). A slow dawn was creeping through the windows, and in the fading darkness, on my hands and knees, I dropped my head as if to, again, admit defeat and surrender to the cosmos. And so I gathered the vinegar, the cold water, towels and more towels. On my hands and knees, I’m cleaning, and you awaken. You stare at me. You see me, on my hands and knees, and stare, saying nothing and asking nothing. And you would die two nights later.

And so, I’m leaving this place today. I’m leaving so much behind, but I’m going. I have to. And while I could never stay in this place after what the disease did to you, there’s a little twinge. A sadness that breathes because I’m leaving behind tiny pieces of you. Genetic material. DNA. In the bathroom sink. The kitchen floor. The piss in the carpet. You’re everywhere in there, but you’re nowhere. But I have to leave. I must. And I still can’t believe I forgot to clip the Foley bag.

The ride back

When A. died last week, it marked precisely 6 months since we learned something was wrong. And about two weeks later, the pathology returned, and our lives were completely upended. That day, in that hospital room, will forever live inside my mind. Psychologists call them flashbulb memories, and if I choose to perseverate on that day, it feels like yesterday. In the days, weeks, and months following, my life would frequently feel as if it were in suspended animation. A macabre existence. A slow nightmare. The feeling of being slowly buried by boulders. My therapist told me I began grieving that day. And while I’m still grieving, it isn’t a persistent fog like it used to be. There are plenty of moments when the clouds break, and I can breathe, easier. Bursts of happiness sometime come through. And other times, and without warning, the totality of the last six months crushes me like an anvil. And sometimes, I’ll freeze in pain as the naked realization of never seeing her face again descends over everything. And when this happens, I try to be mindful of the experience. The grief, the loss, the pain, the sadness— these are all valid emotions, and there’s no need to fear them. All our emotions exist on a spectrum, a plane where they all have equal footing. Some years ago, a meditation instructor told me that happiness is not life. Happiness is an emotion that ebbs and flows with our life experiences. And living in the West, we view the other side of happiness as something negative. Something that should be treated as an infection. And while I 100% support the use of medications in treating mental illness, I believe they are overused and seen by some as a magic pill. As if to say, I take this, and pharmacology does the rest. Unfortunately, that isn’t the case. So I embrace the sadness. I welcome the tears. And I try to experience that emotion fully and unrestrained.

So what does the road back look like? It’s impossible to say, but what I can do is be proactive in self-care to promote mental wellness and resiliency. During the last six months, all my self-care activities were significantly reduced or rubbed away entirely by the stress of it all. Hiking. Yoga. Meditation. Walking. Kettlebells. Intermittent fasting. All of it in total disarray. But that changed yesterday. I invested in a Peloton bike and intend to use it as my primary focus of personal fitness and self-care. I rode for 50 minutes and felt rejuvenated afterward, as if I threw off some of those boulders and reclaimed a piece — but just a fraction — of my life. Day by day, I hope to recover a little more of myself.

Six days after A. died, I moved out. She died there. It was supposed to be “our home.” Leaving the oppressive nature of that home was paramount. I’m so grateful for my uncle and his wife, who flew here to help me with packing. I’m thankful for having the financial resources to move so quickly. Despite the pain of losing A., I’ve found so much for which to be grateful. And while the new normal feels awkward and sometimes sad, I’m focused on the ride back. Piece by piece. Moment by moment.

Gratitude

Since A. died (she passed away just shy of midnight, May 25), I’ve found immense reward in expressing gratitude. When possible, I’ve tried to physically thank the many people who helped A. and me over these last months (six, to be exact). On Thursday, I visited the proton radiation center to thank the reception staff, who always greeted us so warmly during A.’s weekly radiation treatments. I also visited my workplace, where I’ve been absent since December, to thank my colleagues for their incredible support.

As a healthcare worker, I understand how important it is to receive gratitude from others. It rejuvenates you. It heals you. It makes it a little easier to go to work the following day. And it’s also what A. would want. She was the recipient of gratitude. And also gave it out freely. And, for me, moving forward from this tragedy is about bringing her with me. Keeping her legacy alive.

And so, we need more gratitude.

We live in a time in which murdered school children (the Uvalde tragedy also occurred on May 25) are seen as a necessary price to be paid for “freedom.”

We live in a time when women are on the verge of losing bodily autonomy.

The fascists are winning, but those of us who side with love must persevere. And for me, in this moment of my life, expressing gratitude is my best weapon. It’s my only weapon, actually. I’m too exhausted to fight with anything else. Because I’m heartbroken. I’m tired.

And I miss A.

The last time I saw you

It’s 2 in the morning when the gurney arrives. The transporter solemnly bows her head. “Condolences,” she says. Her partner wheels the death metal into the room where you lay.

“This is the last time I will ever see you.”

I watch the two women work, unzipping a bag and unfurling another, and they carefully slide the woman I met ten years ago into the white plastic bag. I’m torn. I can’t believe what I am seeing, but I’m comprehending everything, and yes, this is actually happening. The two women will take you away to a cold, sterile room with fluorescent bulbs so bright everything is white. And there, tools will be used to excise your brain. Ph. Ds will then study and examine tissue separated from tissue, and a thesis will be made. They’re going to write a thesis about your brain. And yes, this is actually happening. The bag is zipped—

“Goodbye, my love”—

and straps are snapped to secure you to the gurney. I scribble my signature on a release form and watch as you pass through the door of our home one final time.

And outside, an early morning spring rain begins to tumble from the sky. Sounds like soft static surround me. And the white van drives away.

24 hours

I aged ten years today.

A.’s family left yesterday. Said their final goodbyes and left. And now, tonight, everything has changed. She’s hallucinating. Confused. Delirious. Forgetful. Even her voice has changed. In the span of 24 hours, she’s become unrecognizable. I saw the changes this morning as she ate her breakfast. And eventually, it all snowballed into this.

I’m terrified. And alone. Her father and sister are apparently returning. They want to be here for “the end.” And while I’ve always struggled in their company, I welcome their return. In the meantime, I’ve arranged for a home health aide for four hours tomorrow. I might even sign a lease for a new apartment. Once A. is gone, I will spend less than a week in this condo. My real estate agent will handle everything, and I’ll never step foot in this cursed building again.

And so, I kissed her goodnight tonight. And kissed her as if it may be her last goodnight. And I now long for the end. A ceasing of the suffering. A release. Goodbye.

Saturday night hospice

Fentanyl patches for pain. Haloperidol for nausea. And an oxygen generator for comfort.

You’ve been dying since the diagnosis five months ago. But now, everything is accelerating, and you are becoming overcome. The life that remains offers you fleeting glimpses of lucidity. But the tide always retreats.

The tide always retreats.

And I’m left standing here, my flesh a ghostly blue, cast by a full moon overhead.

I wonder what will become of all the things you’ve left behind. Perhaps I will pack your belongings inside a shipping container and lead a line straight to the sea. I will deposit the vessel into the corner of the ocean, and I will follow,

diving after and sinking so far below, the machines of time are rendered obsolete.

Fentanyl patches for the pain and haloperidol for nausea. The oxygen generator hums, and I land a kiss soft as sand onto your cheek.

Goodnight, my Love.

Your journey is nearly over.