Blah, Blah, Blog...
Absence of Meaning...
I've been having a rough time... And it's hard to explain. I'm getting out, and I enjoy the time I spend talking with and hanging out with friends, I may even act (and feel) like "same old Stephen" in some social situations... But when I'm alone, I realize that time has not healed my wounds... As time goes by, I feel the void and emptiness get deeper. I miss Chrys more and more each day. Each day, I think about what Chrys and I were doing exactly one year ago today...
Chrys's birthday falls on Father's day this year (June 18), and every Father's day ad on TV reminds me of this... All I can think about is how we would have celebrated his 35th birthday. This sucks!
I just finished reading Joan Didion's book "The Year of Magical Thinking." She wrote the book during the year after her husband died. It took me a long time to get through the book because it just hit too close to home... Near the end of the book, almost a year after her husband died, she described her grief. I couldn't possibly explain it more eloquently, so here's the (long) paragraph that sums up how I feel (emphasis added):
Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. We anticipate
(we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few
days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death. We misconstrue the
nature of even those few days or weeks. We might expect if the death is sudden
to feel shock. We do not expect this shock to be obliterative, dislocating to
both body and mind. We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable,
crazy with loss. We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe
that their husband is about to return and need his shoes. In the version of
grief we imagine, the model will be "healing." A certain forward movement will
prevail. The worst days will be the earliest days We imagine that the moment to
most severely test us will be the funeral, after which this hypothetical healing
will take place. When we anticipate the funeral we wonder about failing to "get
through it," rise to the occasion, exhibit the "strength" that invariably gets
mentioned as the correct response to death. We anticipate needing to steel
ourselves for the moment: will I be able to greet people, will I be able to
leave the scene, will I be able to even get dressed that day? We have no way of
knowing that this will not be the issue. We have no way of knowing that the
funeral itself will be anodyne, a kind of narcotic regression in which we are
wrapped in the care of others and the gravity and meaning of the occasion. Nor can we know ahead of the fact (and here lies the heart of the difference between grief as we imagine it and grief as it is) the unending absence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the relentless succession of moments during which we will confront the experience of
meaningless itself.
Thank you -- But I want you back...
Hey baby,
I want to thank you soooo much for visiting me in my dream the other night...
It's been more than 3 1/2 months, but that was the first time you visited me in a healthy, beautiful, happy state... I don't know how many nightmares I've had with you in the hospital - This was different, and special...
I was waking up in my apartment, I heard the puppies rustle, and I figured you were heading off to work early for a meeting. You walked in the door and you looked fabulous. You were wearing your red and blue striped shirt and your khaki pants. You were clean shaven and smelled like you just jumped out of the shower (a mix of cologne, soap and deodorant)... You tip-toed into my room and you saw that I was awake... I was able to squeak out a "hey baby" before you leapt onto the bed to give me a good morning kiss. Just as I wrapped my hand around the back of your wet hair and pulled you in for a hug, I felt a rush of joy -- this had all been a bad dream - you were never sick, you didn't die, I haven't been grieving -- it was all just a bad dream! Certainly you were fine, because your hug felt more real than the nightmare that I thought dragged on for the past 4 months...
When I realized you were alive, I pulled you in closer for a tighter hug I felt your cheek against my face for just a split second -- and then you disappeared.
I woke up in your apartment all alone, with my heart racing, and I soaked the pillow with tears (both tears of joy and loss)...
You were only in my dream for about 5 seconds, but it was the best 5 seconds of my life. I can't stop thinking about it. It was so real. I know you are physically gone, but I'm trying to figure out how to get you back in my dreams... My grief counselor (and the grief books I have read) have warned me about this... Welcome to the bargaining phase of grief... What I would give to have you back - at least in my dreams... you name it and I I'll do it... Please come back... I love you.
Hurts so much...
This hurts so much... No, not just my ass... Ok, that hurts too, but it's not what you think...
It's been a flurry of activity since I got back from Hong Kong... I packed up my apartment, and last weekend, I moved into Chrys's apartment... I'm still living out of boxes, as I still don't have room to unpack. I knew that I was going to keep his most precious items here (The fireplace mantle and hall display shelves remain unchanged), but what I wasn't expecting is how difficult it is to pack up or dispose of some of Chrys's trivial items... The fridge is filled with beer that I will never drink... and his toothbrush is still in the bathroom. I've tried a number of times, but I can't bring myself to throw it away...
It's not just a toothbrush, it's a memory - a vision of Chrys brushing his teeth in the morning. I can see his back, and his smiling face reflecting in the mirror. I can remember how I'd often try to engage him in conversation just to hear him mumble out an incoherent response. I can remember the minty fresh good morning kiss I'd get afterwards... Now Chrys is gone, and all I have is his fucking toothbrush and a memory... Fuck you leukemia.
Even though I haven't started packing the most emotional items, I've been plenty busy getting my stuff set up (I do believe that I have enough wires to circle the globe). So for the past week, I've been mounting speakers, setting up network cables, and trying to find my socks (I know they are in one of these damn boxes)... I've been keeping busy enough to keep my mind preoccupied... I even fooled myself into thinking that this move was less painful than I was expecting... Until Friday night...
On Friday night I ate some bad chicken and got food poisoning (or maybe the chicken was innocent and a stomach virus was the culprit)... Saturday morning I was puking and had horrible diarrhea... the puking stopped, but the diarrhea continued throughout the day... by the end of the day I was extremely dizzy, dehydrated, confused, and running a high fever... After a call to my health insurance "on call" nurse, I was told to go to the emergency room... Of coarse, the nearest ER is the same one I took Chrys to a little over 3 months ago, ugh, emotional trauma on top of gastrointestinal trauma... After a couple bags of IV fluid (and some morphine) I started to feel better and they sent me home... (special thanks to Matt for taking me and keeping me company during the ordeal)
I've felt better today, (no headache, no fever, no extreme fatigue) but the horrible diarrhea continued... I'm on my 9th "double-roll" of quilted Northern (thank goodness Adriana and I went to Costco last week)... Needless to say - but I'll say it anyway - my ass feels like it's been gang raped by a herd of elephants... I don't care how "quilted soft" your toilet paper is, after nine rolls it all feels like alcohol soaked sandpaper...
With a sore ass, and stomach cramps, I wasn't able to get much done today... other than lay in bed... so it was the first day in Chrys's apartment that I couldn't keep my mind preoccupied, and the realization hit me that I'm here all alone... He's not coming back to brush his teeth, he's not going to drink the beer in the fridge, and he can't comfort me when I'm sick...
This hurts so much...
