Time Stop

I turn 31 on Sunday.  This has sparked thought about time and its passage and even though I hadn't realized it until tonight, I guess I've been thinking about it a lot lately.  Friends, family, authors - they all say time will make things easier, heal the wounds.  At first I thought they might be misspeaking - isn't it just that the shock will fade and the pain will become my norm?  Now, I'm beginning to worry that they might be right for I have had moments of laughter and my 365 Gratitude project has helped me focus on something wonderfully distracting and positive each day.  For three months and five days I have endured waves of forgetting only to remember, stifled pain and one step at a time.  I ask for relief, but tonight I think maybe I could fend it off forever.

I work in a high school.  I went to high school.  The usual stint is four years which is longer than the length of time we were married.  I lost him three years and three months to the day after I married him which is shorter than the blip of time I was a high school student.  How is that for cruelty?

So since I'm over 30, high school was about half my life ago.  Think about what you remember from high school.  Are those memories clear?  Are they only brought to mind by a rare scent or song?  Are they fresh and present in your daily thoughts or are they faded and worn, sparked by a few old pictures?  Mine are the latter.  I see pictures of myself from high school and occasionally I don't recognize that person.  I don't remember sitting at that restaurant or owning that sweatshirt.  Some of the long lost friends in these photos are merely familiar faces without easily recalled names.  Now there are the stories, the special nights, the events you relive in your mind over and over.  That vision, those friends, those experiences are still with me, but the day-to-day of being in high school is gone.  I am losing what it felt like.  When I was there, I thought it was intense and forever.  But now?  I'm sure if I went back there the building would feel small and the smell would be unrecognizable.

Certainly, it is absurd to compare my marriage to my high school career in many ways, but in length of time?  I can't stop myself.  What if I can't remember my every day with Matt in 15 years?  I cannot bear it.  I've been so focused on worry for Daphne who won't remember her own experiences with her dad that I haven't stopped to worry about my own memories turning into old glory day stories.  He is not just some old boyfriend, boiled down to the five stories your friends hear whenever his name is conjured.  But like an old boyfriend, my memories created with him are finite.  The pictures are already no longer current.  So how do I make sure I save each experience and not just the photos?  And not just the special stories.  How can you file away the millions of seemingly unmemorable pieces of a life?

I want to remember how he made a goofy and dramatic face when he had the sniffles.  He used one of those protein shake bottles with the metal ball inside about six hundred times a day and the sound drove me nuts.  His handwriting - he always hated it.  His tooth that overlapped just a little in the front and only from certain angles.  All of his made up lyrics to real pop songs.  That time when we had a big argument before he stormed off to work, only to come back after having driven all the way there so he could hug me and then hash it out even though he would be late.  The way he put on Daphne's diaper cream far too thin and not nearly enough.  The way the skin between his forefinger and his thumb was always dry and how his eyes crinkled when he open-mouth smiled at our baby's every word.  How it felt to just sit on the couch near him even if we weren't talking or touching and how Daphne and I both went straight for the laundry room entrance to greet him when we heard the garage door lift.  I want to remember these things, but not just in this list.  Writing the list may have ruined them already - now they are trophy stories, the highlights of a life that can never actually add up to everything that he was, is, for me.

Faced with the idea that I might one day forget that he really loved to warm his feet (frigid) up with mine (warm) in bed or the way he always presented his grocery store purchases to me like they were prizes from a treasure hunt, I'd rather stop time now and keep every knife of pain.  I've said recently that I feel stuck.  I've also said that the farther away we get from October, the farther away he feels.  Panicked, stuck, drifting, healing... None is better than the others and I find that thinking about it causes me to feel like I can barely breathe.

Stone

Yesterday afternoon, in the middle of my very safe work day, I got an email from the funeral home director informing me that Matt's gravestone had been placed in the garden.  The garden. Gravestone.

I actually had to design it.  Like the plans for a house or a commissioned piece of art, they asked me for my vision and there was a series of back and forth emails, proofs, confirmations, etc.   I am 30 and I have already designed my husband's gravestone.  I held his hand while he died.  I watched them close the casket.  I designed his gravestone.  These are the things of nightmares. 

I want to see it, make sure they didn't screw it up, be close to something I can look at that represents him.  Now that I know it is actually there, I can't stop thinking about visiting it, but I just can't do it yet.  With my close friends, I think I spill a lot of information about myself - maybe too much.  With anyone outside that circle, I gather lately that I must seem a little guarded.  This blog is certainly the exception.  I have no idea who reads it, but sending it out into the world seems to take a little weight out of my situation.  But being a private griever, as I have always known I am, doesn't really seem to match up with going to a public garden to visit.  Maybe it's just too unreal that this is my life, maybe visiting his grave makes me feel like I am now just a cliche, or maybe I'm worried someone else will ruin my moment with him. Maybe I'm worried I won't feel any different than I do now, on my couch, staring at the Direct TV screen saver bouncing around the television screen. I worry that when I go there it is just going to be me, full of sorrow, in the grass, staring at a stone. What I want to feel is how I felt when he would make me feel better...about anything... just by being near.  

I tried to make the stone represent him, but how do you embody your most important person, your biggest loss, your happiest moments in a few symbols?  Not possible.  With no other choices but to think it through or draw out the painful process by avoiding it, I chose a fleur de lis because he loved them after living in New Orleans.  The metal clock in our living room is textured with them.  We bought a New Orleans flour de lis ornament for our Christmas tree when we were on our honeymoon.  He gravitated toward them always.  I have recently learned that the fleur de lis is also a sign of resilience which is nice to know.  On either side of the symbol I asked them to place three horizontal stripes.  The designer found this a strange request, but I don't care.  The stone is black marble and the etching is white.  These horizontal lines are my subtle nod to referee stripes because it was his biggest and most passionate pursuit outside of family.   I really hope he would have liked it.  I really hope I am strong enough to carry myself to see it soon.

Tomorrow marks three terrible months of missing him. 

Assignments

I have given myself two assignments recently.  Maybe it's the teacher in me.  Maybe I'm weary of feeling hopeless.  Maybe I'm just clinging to anything that keeps me from the brink of sorrow.

Assignment #1:  I recently found myself at a coffee shop for 14 whole minutes of unscheduled time before my next errand.  Without a toddler in tow.  I cannot remember the last time this happened.  So while I'm currently in the middle of a book that has actually been able to capture my scattered attention for more than ten minutes, I chose not to get it out.  Instead, I ordered my favorite cup of black coffee and an apricot rugelach - my old standby.  I sat in my favorite old spot in the window.  I checked the time and for five whole minutes, I forced myself to unplug from my phone, iPad, other people, and most of my brain.  For five whole minutes, I made myself think of only Matt's goodness.  I watched the steam rising from the tops of downtown buildings and thought of him and his beautiful soul - everyday memories only a wife would be able to recall.  I tried not to think about how much I missed that goodness and just moved on to another of his wonderful qualities when I veered toward a negative thought.  It was a difficult exercise, not because I lacked for things to think about - but because I do miss him so much. For about 24 hours, I felt a little stronger.  Now that I write this, the sadness is taking over once again.  Maybe it's time for me to practice my homework.

Assignment #2:  By chance, I found information online about a website and movement called 365grateful.  In the spirit of the project and to force myself to really appreciate the positive in my life each day - more than just be aware - I have decided to document my gratitude.  I am already aware that I am so lucky, but this project will force me to examine and focus in a way that is proving difficult for me lately.  I have chosen Instagram as my vehicle, so I plan to post once every day about something positive from the previous day. I will reflect on my last 24 hours and find the good - even on the bad days.  I'm on day 4/365.  If interested, my Instagram name is fosley.