Today is Jan. 19th, the 2nd anniversary of Jeffs death, and I promised this post to you. You have been so wonderful to me in these last two years as Ive struggled with finding my path through grief, and so I owe you this update so you can see how important to me these last months have been. Remembering the night he died, I have to laugh. That must seem odd, but then you didnt know Jeff like I did. He always had to have the last laugh, and he did. I remember my last touch, and knowing he was gone. I called the nurse, who listened for vital signs and found none. She turned to me and said, Yes, hes gone. At that very moment, he gave a last gasp, and she jumped with a yelp. We both laughed. Thats Jeff, I said. Always has to have the last word. You might have thought I would have been completely distraught after that, but I wasnt. The old social worker in me returned, allowing me to shove who I am back into a dark corner and take care of others, other problems, and ignore myself. This time it came out and took over with a vengeance. He was my love, my lover, my best friend, for 33 years. And I could feel nothing more than some vague sadness. I could not cry, more than a tear or two. Not even once. For over a year I struggled with the guilt that I could not grieve. I had counseled and consoled so many people over the years, felt their pain, cried with them. I knew the process of death and dying well. But I had no help for myself. Our last years had been difficult. Emotionally, he seemed to be losing his maturity, returning to the very troubled adolescent he had once been. I could not please him, and many times I just stopped trying. When he died, I believed he had died hating me. That was the truth I could not manage. Finally, when I was in Portugal , something broke through. Something, I think, about the bombardment of new knowledge, the new part of the world--every rock and plant, the smells of lavender, new words in a new language, and everywhere, surrounded by wonderful, exciting people, hammered through the walls of protection and forced me to find what Id lost. I cried, I slept, I dreamed then woke and cried again, all night long. And it was good. I came home and poured myself into writing, changing my life and body, and most of all, my new-found grief. But it still took me to September before I finally had the break-through I needed. Ive always believed most people do pretty much the best they can, most of the time. I finally began to realize Jeff, too, had been doing the best he could, but his body and his mind were betraying him. Like a man with Alzheimers-yet different, too-his mind was losing its ability to manage emotions, and memory was going too. But I didnt connect it to the loss of maturity, the anger, the impatience. I could now see, though, things I had missed as he was dying. I could see where he had been trying to control his anger, but couldnt. And in the end, I was the one he turned to when he decided he needed to go. I was the one he asked to remove that hated breathing mask (for he was claustrophobic). I could understand hed rather die sooner than die in terror. You dont ask an enemy to do something like that. You ask the person you love and trust. He did not hate me. He did, instead, trust me with the anger that needed to come out, that he couldnt control. I did that pretty well for him, but not well enough for me. All along he had been doing his best. But with what he had left, it just wasnt good enough. And I had been doing my best. But with so little information, I made many mistakes, and my best was not good enough. Yet we are only people. And what was not good enough was perhaps good enough, after all. There was no longer any blame, for it had no place to settle. That night I woke, and I saw him in my bed, sleeping as he always had. I thought it might be the pillows I use during the day to prop me while I type, but then throw to the floor before going to sleep. But I reached out and touched him, felt living flesh. He reached out and touched me, and then he was gone. And I was free. I do not care if it was a dream, or real, or even if it was a psychotic hallucination. It only matters that he was real to me, and we both are at peace. I know I am not through grieving, and I do not mind that- I cherish it, in fact. All those wonderful years we had together should not be merely set aside as if they had no importance. I have said this before and will say it again, for it has become my guiding mantra: He is gone. Im still here. Its my job to live, and I intend to do it the very best I can.
Posted on: Mon, 19 Jan 2015 19:00:36 +0000
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