Parallel universes

Many times in the past several months, I've thought about how different the day would be if Sandy had lived. But the game gets harder as the weeks and months pass. I know how life would have looked in May and June if she'd not had the pain and nausea. I know how a Wednesday in October might have played out had the cancer not spread further in her brain at all, so we'd proceeded with a chemo break and then a new drug. But by now? By January?

She might have been off chemo again, but this time because the drug had been so effective that there was no active cancer in her body (that was our hope). Or she might have been off it again because the second-line therapy had run its course and we were preparing to try a third. Or she might have been involved in a cutting-edge clinical trial. She might be dying, slowly or quickly. She might be dead.

What was a soothing exercise in the weeks after her death has become a source of sadness now. The cancer and its treatment stole a great deal from her, and we had both grown so weary even a year ago. As much as I want her here with me, I also want her to have a rich and full life. I wouldn't want her to be hanging on just to mark more days off the calendar.

Not just marking time. She was thrilled to go
to the Adam Lambert concert with friends,
despite chemo fatigue, in July 2010.

In truth, Sandy's moods were far more varied than that, and her ambitions far exceeded her energy even when she was completely healthy. She wasn't just marking time,last spring, and if she'd lived, she wouldn't be just marking time now. But I can't quite get my mind around what she would be doing with her days right now.

So I change the game. I imagine instead what our lives would be like if the cure had come a year ago, and she was now fully healthy, and we were both energetic, looking toward the future. Or I imagine our lives if she had never had cancer, never developed osteoarthritis in her hip as a result of the chemo, never had the surgeries or the chemo or the radiation, if she'd continued running and we'd been able to bike across the country for her 50th birthday, as we'd originally planned.

But despite my resistance to it, I am very aware that the cancer attacked and she died. So the most satisfying fantasy is picturing her return. Everything that happened did in fact happen. She's been dead; I've been despondent; the world continued against all reason. But then, poof!, she returns, in a fresh new body, with whatever wisdom and compassion her post-death experience has given her, to spend the rest of my life with me. In that vision, I can suddenly see, embrace, and even become excited about the future. There's so much that I want to do with my life, and if she were back, I'd have the energy and the peace of mind to do it.

Since I also know that her return is (ahem) unlikely, imagining it gives me both more time with her and a much-needed vacation from the weight of grief.