There’s a scene in season one of Breaking Bad referred to as the Talking Pillow scene. In it, members of Walt’s family gather and attempt to convince him to change his mind and begin treatment for his lung cancer. The meeting begins to fall apart, and as everyone is yelling, Walt decides he’s had enough; he whistles loudly and yanks the talking pillow from Marie. He says:
Skyler, you've read the statistics. These doctors...talking about surviving. One year, two years, like it's the only thing that matters. But what good is it, to just survive if I am too sick to work, to enjoy a meal, to make love? For what time I have left, I want to live in my own house. I want to sleep in my own bed. I don't wanna choke down 30 or 40 pills every single day, lose my hair, and lie around too tired to get up...and so nauseated that I can't even move my head. And you cleaning up after me? Me, with...some dead man, some artificially alive...just marking time? No. No. And that's how you would remember me. That's the worst part. So...that is my thought process, Skyler. I'm sorry. I just...I choose not to do it.
I’ve rewatched Breaking Bad several times over the years, but this was the first time I watched this episode since A. died. I couldn’t finish the episode. The line about “and that’s how you would remember me” broke me, and I realized then, for the first time, that the physical changes A. underwent as a result of her treatment has complicated my grieving process. About three months before she died, we attended a performance by her chorale group. Not being able to perform with her peers was so painful for her. Afterward, most of her peers, with whom she had sang alongside for several years, didn’t immediately recognize her. The steroids had changed the appearance of her face. She was unable to open her left eye. The chemo had drained much of the color from her complexion. It was awful, and my heart broke for her because, despite her not mentioning it, I know it devastated her. And it is that memory, along with so many countless others, that breaks me to tears.
The recent holiday and six and twelve month anniversaries have caused me much emotional pain. I now cry on a regular basis, and sometimes, once the tears begin, I fear I cannot stop them. I’ve stopped therapy. My insecurities ran amok and so I’ve left the support group. No one— and I mean no one— understands my pain.
No one believes me when I say my life is over. But it is. My mental health was declining in the months leading to A.’s diagnosis, and now— there’s very little left to salvage. And the idea I could meet new people or reimagine my life in this state is preposterous.
Losing A. was’t supposed to happen.
I remember whispering into your ear, “I’ll be ok.” And I think I believed it when I said it. But losing you has broken my life in ways I never could have imagined.