recalculating

The gut-wrenching, painful memories are slowly letting go of me, no doubt tired of gripping my brain for so long. I no longer lie down in my bed and immediately think of Tad's corpse that was there less than two months ago.  I no longer wander the aisles of Trader Joe's my eyes wet with sorrow my heart yearning to prepare him dishes he enjoys.

I vaguely remember the seizures that took him to the floor, the spontaneous bleeding here and there, the moments of exhaustion when I would struggle to move his 195 pound body from the bed to the toilet on his office chair with five little wheels as support.

I've been called "resilient" by many of my friends. I find myself wondering if this is simply a well-developed capacity to forget pain.

More and more what I do remember - actually it's not a memory, it's a new original thought each time. So let me start again: More and more what I hear in my head is Tad's loving voice encouraging me.

This pisses me off somewhat.

I always swore I would not turn someone into a demi-god just because they're dead. Death does not make us perfect; Tad was by no means perfect.

And yet what remains in my head is Tad's perfection. The voice that appears when I stop and listen is that of Tad so full of love that every word he utters is supportive and kind; reminding me not to "sweat the small stuff", to dive in face first, to relish it all.

This voice also delights me beyond belief.

It seems I have always only had one voice inside me: a strident, rather demanding, easily distractable voice. Tad's departure has left me with a new voice. A loving voice. Not permanently - I have to lean into it to really hear it. But it's there.

I can think of other departure's in my life where people left a negative voice in my head. These departures were mostly painful ones: separations, divorce. Then there are the many departures which have left no voice in my head at all.

Couples specialist Jonathon Gottman tells us it takes five positive bits of feedback from our beloved to balance out the damage done by one single negative message. Imagine the power our loved ones hold over us!

So perhaps it's possible that in the face of an incredible 18-month long human tragedy during which I received thousands of loving messages from my beloved that somehow I have been able to replace the harping voice from my childhood with a caring voice for my adulthood.

It's possible when we walk someone to the edge of the precipice with complete love that the gift we get in return is a loving voice whispering in our ear. I find myself wondering what I can do to maintain it - to keep it whispering til my own body stops functioning.

What if Tad and I had had a fight the day before? Would this all look different today? Is it possible that his last words sealed the deal somehow? When he looked at our friend Carl and slurred through the fog of what was probably a brain hemmorhage: "I am okay to die, where is Greg?" was he setting our love in stone?

It's almost as if I can finally hear the "loving voice of God" promised to me time and again by the elders of my childhood church. Only now God sounds vaguely like Tad on a good day.

I maintain a family plan with the atrocious AT&T until I can find a way to record Tad's voice mails for eternity (funny choice of words, right?). But ironically when I listen to them they don't really deliver on my hopes of rekindling something with him. They're rather disappointing.

The ashes don't really work for me either. I just assumed when the crematorium gave them back to me that I'd feel some kind of satisfaction like people on TV. After all I did give them a body - you'd think I could fetishize what is left of that body. But I can't seem to relate to these ashes in any way despite my efforts to keep them in a central place on my altar.

It seems the only thing that evokes Tad in me is a photo. I find I prefer the ones of him hiking in nature. I tend to reach out, to caress the surface of the photo when I walk by as if I were caressing his cheek and I say aloud, "Tad, I love you." In that moment he is there.

But finding Tadness is a tricky thing. I have been giving away a lot of his belongings, to his family, to neighbors, to Goodwill. I keep wondering at one point will I go over the edge and suddenly his world will disappear forever. Why is that sofa an important part of maintaining Tadness but not that chair? How is it I can't find anyone who wears size nine and half shoes - is this Tad telling me not to get rid of his abundant collection of sports shoes?

This kind of superstitious thinking can take me to strange uncomfortable places. A few days ago I was so altered by my thoughts and emotions that I ran into the car in front of me at a stop light. Fortunately the other driver was extremely compassionate. I felt a strong need to explain to her the reasons I couldn't stop crying had little to do with the fender bender- yet the words wouldn't come out; just sobbing. "My", "husband", "just", "died", "of",  "cancer" got slowly pieced together and she put her arm around me lovingly. The strident voice immediately corrected in my head reminding me it had been five weeks and I should be more 'together' than this.

Ironically we had pulled over to exchange numbers onto the parking lot of the clinic where Tad once got his blood drawn. She had actually slammed on the brakes to avoid an emerging ambulance. I remember those.

After Tad died I thought my "job" was to:
1 - keep his belongings that are meaningful to me
2 - get rid of his belongings that aren't and
3 - start a private practice either in San Francisco, Santa Cruz or both.

I see now that this is far more complicated than I had ever imagined. Any task I engage in is potentially overwhelming if it happens to bring up emotional material. Needless to say just about everything in the above list brings up deeply emotional material. Some things I trudge through nonetheless but most of the time I simply stop and do something else, something not on my list.

Turning off Tad's telephone line, sorting through his office, redecorating his living room, repainting parts of the bathroom have all taken weeks. I went to see a clairvoyant who told me to let go of my goals for now so instead I decided to go get coddled in Bordeaux by my sweet friend Madina. Suddenly buying a plane ticket to take a break from my emotions was too emotional. It took me three weeks to decide on a date, an airlines and an itinerary!

I've begun attending a "grief group" (on top of grief counseling and therapy). One of the facilitators shared with me her impression that people grieving are doing an incredible amount of work, even when they are not working. This notion resonated strongly with me even though it was not clear what this "work" is.

Last weekend I attended a men's gathering - a gathering held in the very place Tad and I met and where this summer we had a beautiful commitment ceremony. While there I understood what this "work" is. It became clear while listening to a friend tell a story about getting lost with a GPS.

Imagine you've decided to take a month-long trip across country. Let's say you're driving from New York to Los Angeles. You don't have an exact itinerary but you have a pretty clear idea where you'll be each day for the next thirty days. But then, when you get to Missouri you suddenly  discover for reasons beyond your control that you can't go any further. No matter how convincing you are, no matter who you know, no matter how smart you are - you are stuck all alone in Missouri. This notion in and of itself is overwhelming. Your whole relationship to Missouri begins to transform. But the more time you spend there the more the two end points take on a different meaning as well. New York becomes this place of memories; the sacred land of life events both happy and sad. And LA becomes the unattainable land of unrealized dreams.

Then the space between the two changes in significance. That nap in the rest stop in Ohio suddenly takes on new value as does that sweet Bed and Breakfast in Amish country.

The entire time your GPS keeps muttering "Recalculating", "recalculating". The poor one-chip computer keeps trying to figure out what the hell happened. Its sole purpose is to get you to LA.

And that is the "work" I'm doing even when I'm not doing any work: Recalculating.

The bunk bed in room one of cabin two at Saratoga Springs Retreat Center is no longer just a bunk bed - it has become a sacred temple built solely to celebrate the first time Tad and I made love. A ticket to Bordeaux isn't just a visit to my family on that side of the world - it's a bittersweet pilgrimage to what Tad called his "favorite memory ever". The garden he carefully constructed over six years now full of historical significance merits national park status  - worthy of millions of visitors.

As I do all this recalculating work I wonder how long I need to stay in Missouri. At what point am I doing damage to myself just sitting and reminiscing on my years with Tad? How long should I stand staring at a photo of him? Was the timing right for me to have that sweet tryst over the weekend or was it too soon? Do I really love living in Santa Cruz or is it just a way for me to keep Tad's home intact a bit longer? Am I rushing back into the real world or am I lingering too long in the world of the dead?

I don't have answers to any of these questions. Actually I do have answers in my head but they keep changing. They are the subject of a gentle disagreement between the strident voice and Tad's voice. "Stay", "Go", "Linger", "Work".

But there is one thing I am dead certain of (another great choice of words): connecting with loving people always feels right, even if they can't talk about Tad or the events of the last year. The handsome guy at my favorite coffee shop, the gentle hug with my sweet neighbor who just got a cancer diagnosis - the same woman who told me I could call her day or night if I needed help moving Tad, lunch al fresco with my dear friend Carl, a support group of broken hearted widows...At times I find myself wishing it were the 1950's again so people could drop by unexpectedly with tuna casseroles or to refresh the water in the living room bouquet.

These encounters are the crumbs showing me the path out of Missouri and on to the next voyage. Actually let me recalculate: they are the bountiful, nutritious picnics laid out beautifully in pastures along the winding road that might take me back to my next departure point.

My "job" today is to feast and wander. And if I stop and listen to Tad-God Voice while I'm there, it's saying to me: "YES! Keep loving! Keep crying! Keep laughing!"

PS Apologies to my loving cousins in Missouri - it's not personal!