Body memory

Sandy, on the plank walkway from the beach approaching
the cabin we always rented on Whidbey Island,
just about a year ago

I'd scribbled thoughts for yesterday's entry on Sunday evening, when I was feeling pretty good. I'd decided just to go to bed, but was pondering the journey of grief, the nature of healing, and the surprise of realizing I really was doing better.

And then I slept poorly Sunday night and found myself irritable, restless, kind of jangly all day yesterday. It seemed weird to me to post the thoughts I'd had Sunday night, when I clearly was no longer feeling better. But I also thought it was just more evidence of the up-and-downness of this process, and I wanted to capture the feeling I'd had this weekend.

I didn't understand the jangliness. Was it Monday's return after a three-day weekend? But I didn't have anything pressing in my work schedule yesterday. Was it just not sleeping well? But I've not slept well most nights the past five months, and I've not usually felt so restless and despairing.

Finally, I recognized the obvious. It was the date: the 19th. Exactly five months after Sandy died. While my conscious brain tried to say, "But I'm better now. I should feel better," my body said, "This is a horrible, scary day, marking a new, uncertain era, and I am not happy about it." (Yes, my body yells at me.)

I felt a certain relief when I realized that. I've always been particularly sensitive to dates. For years, July 3 found me inexplicably needing to escape whatever I was doing, whomever I was with - until in 1990, I recognized it as the anniversary of the day in 1980 that my father attempted to kidnap me. The need to escape made much more sense then, and I was able to plan my day each July 3 to make sure I had the flexibility I needed. In recent years, it's been just another day. (This year, it was the day we returned home from the hospital, a new memory attached to that date.)

For the first ten or fifteen weeks after Sandy died, every Monday night was vexing. Often, I'd be unable even to turn out the light until 1:20, the time of her death. It's been long enough now that I'm counting the months instead of the weeks, and so eventually, presumably, the only date that will affect me so greatly will be the anniversary of her death, July 19 itself.

I'm certain now that yesterday's agitation was about the date, because today I feel great. I slept well, and I woke feeling positive and optimistic, happily remembering all that Sandy and I shared, and looking forward to getting a lot done.