Six months

On July 19, 2011, I woke up to a new world, a bleak, empty world. I'd cobbled together a to-do list for the tasks of death: contacting Social Security, providing the information for the death certificate, arranging for an attorney to deal with her estate, notifying friends and caregivers and anyone else who needed to know.

I'd been jotting down simple to-do lists at various points most days we were in the hospital, and then home, and then at the hospice. Those lists were very immediate, many of them just lists of things I needed to accomplish during a short visit home: feed the cats, take a shower, grab whatever Sandy had requested, take my pills, make a call, take out the trash. My life was completely removed from the greater life I'd had just a few weeks before. I lived in the present. Fully, completely, in the present. Not daring to look more than a day or two ahead.

After Sandy died, I still lived in the present. The future was bleak and dark, unreal and impossible to embrace. The past was painful. The present had tasks I could cross off, people I could cry with, books to read and Sandy's things to go through. I could feel her presence even before she'd started showing up in spirit. I dug out every card or note she'd ever given me and posted them all around my desk in my office. I went through old photos. I started wearing all her clothes. Each day was painful, physically and emotionally, but it was contained. I was in the present.

Now, six months later, I'm still very dependent on my to-do list, but it's expanded considerably to contain its usual range of short- and long-term tasks. I've felt great satisfaction whenever I've accomplished something that Sandy and I had both hoped to achieve. Big tasks (paying off the house) and small tasks (replacing the blender blade or cleaning out the pantry) both feel like something I'm doing for both of us. That's the benefit of having the kind of to-do list that items linger on for years, I guess.

I thought today would be painful, given my body's propensity for remembering dates. And there have been moments of intense grief and disbelief. But mostly it's been an opportunity for reflection. I've been evaluating my grief process, recognizing how it's changed from month to month, sometimes day to day or even hour to hour. And acknowledging that I really am doing much better. Discovering that I no longer feel so guilty about not feeling so much pain.

A week after Sandy died, my therapist said to me, "Your pain is not what binds you to Sandy; it's your love that does." I heard her. I tried to hold that thought. But truthfully, for a long time, not feeling pain felt like a betrayal. I feared fading memories, even fading love. And now, six months in, I'm relieved and comforted to recognize that my love for Sandy is as strong as ever, and that it's clear she's still present in the world, still herself, and still loving me. I'm more likely to feel her presence, more likely to have a visitation dream, more likely to get a message from her in any way, when I'm not in pain. Something about the pain and angst clouds my perceptions, I think (for I can't imagine that she punishes my pain by staying away); in effect, my lack of pain lets me feel a stronger connection. And that's what I call a win-win.