This month I arrived at the end of First. I have traveled for a little more than a year–my birthday was my first ‘without,’ then to Valentine’s Day [One of Tom’s favorites..he’d make me coupon books of promises] to Easter, then summer–all of it! Our wedding anniversary. His birthday. Halloween. [Another favorite] Thanksgiving. Christmas, New Year’s. Through January, right up to the day he left. The only time he ever left.
Elizabeth Kübler-Ross opined there are five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. When her book came out in ’69 I understood this to be more for the dying, than the ones left behind. Still, there I was, plodding along First. Denial was not a question, it was all very obvious, of the two, I was the pragmatist. And I was experiencing some anger, mainly because Tom always said he would out live me, and frankly, I was …well, angry. I had no time for depression during, so why have it after? And, just who was I going to bargain with? I learned long ago, in first grade, from Mother Govinina, that bargaining could exact a difficult price. I had, years before the actual day, understood we were traveling the same road, but not always ‘with’, so I could tick off acceptance.
Looking back over my shoulder I see that before First, we traveled along Last. Just like we had traveled all those other paths–newlywed, first kid, first move, new job, old jobs, retirement– for the forty plus years before that…together. We agreed to keep Last as level and as smooth as possible. We watched our diet, exercised, went to therapy and eventually relied on medication….But just when you think you’ve done your bit for improving the path, filled all the potholes, widened, leveled and stretched it out, put in curbs and sidewalks, it starts to slope downhill. In the beginning, not even a full degree, barely even noticeable. Despite gravity, fate, destiny, but mostly by God’s will, the slope increases. You barely register the slope. Truth is, you may not be careening downhill, you still can feel the breeze on your cheek.
My mom always said funerals were for those who were left behind. The dead were already on their way into the sight of God, if they were lucky. I think Tom was more than lucky. A good man, kind, funny, caring, he rarely complained through the eight months of hospitalization that drastically impacted his overall well-being. During the next seven years, he understood what he was losing, and tried hard to hold, with amazing determination and grit, on to self and his sense of humor.
Last is in the rear view but not forgotten. The macadam on First has been bumpy, weeds grow in the cracks and there are rocky sidewalks and damaged curbs. Lord knows, there have been plenty of potholes. Ones big enough to swallow me whole, looking dark and dank, deep and sad. If I stop they hold me in place while time outside passes. The smaller ones twitch my ankle or bruise my cheek with a fond yet stray memory, overwhelming, bringing me up short, stopping me in my tracks, reminding me of the ‘without’.
This month, I reached the end of First. I am turning onto Normal. Not willfully, but there is no choice in this. Ahead doesn’t look as bleak as I imagined. The colors seem muted. Still, I see hills and valleys, the paths winding through good neighborhoods and probably some sketchy ones. I hope for a bright shining sun, soft breezes and only occasional rain falls.
Normal will, I suspect, like the past, have sharp curves and potholes and inane stop signs and red lights, loud and noisy people and kind and caring ones. And there will be smooth and level stretches ahead.
I’ve always been happy to take my chances and see where the next step takes me. It got me to Tom and a wonderful life. I know I’ll get where I am supposed to be. It seems a bit late in life to worry about this Normal.