Shifts in perspective

As Sandy was dying and after she died, many of her friends, family, and people who'd never even met her described her community-building focus, her intelligence, her generosity, and her laughter. I basked in the world's appreciation of her, and I was grateful that so much of it spilled forth while she was still able to hear it and soak it up.

In contrast, though, my own life looked pretty unimpressive. I'd been so intent on taking care of Sandy that I'd pulled away from many of the people and activities that had defined me in earlier years. The landscape of my life — not just the future, but the past as well — looked bleak to me. I honestly wondered whether there'd be a hole left in the world when I died, and I was a little relieved to think that there might not be. That I could just go, end, and leave no pain in my wake.

Over time, I've reconnected with people, rediscovered my passions, started exploring new interests. Last night, I went to a gathering of folks I'd never met, and I enjoyed hearing about their achievements and sharing some of my stories. As I talked with them, I started to realize that I do have something to offer, that I have made differences here and there, have done interesting things.

That in itself is not a huge revelation. Few lives are actually uninteresting. The revelation was that it's the vantage point that makes all the difference. While I'm definitely more engaged in the world now than I was shortly after Sandy's death, that engagement doesn't actually change what I accomplished in the 43 years I lived before Sandy died. What's changed is how I describe my life.

Early last June, suffering from pain and nausea that doctors could neither identify nor control, Sandy was frustrated with her inability to get things done. Each day, she had an appointment somewhere, so she got out in the world for a massage or physical therapy or yoga. But she managed little else; she required close to twelve hours of sleep a night and her energy was spent after one outing. She wasn't making progress on any of her to-do lists, and her pain was keeping her from doing many of the things she'd always done around the house. (I remember her insistence on doing some things, even though they hurt, despite my urging her to let me do them. She said,"I don't want you to feel like you live alone." That echoes in my head frequently now. I didn't feel like I lived alone then, and I don't now, most of the time.)

Lives look different close up, from afar, from different angles,
from different moods. Sandy's image of herself was often at
odds with the way others saw her, but I'm glad she knew
there were multiple perspectives, and that she was loved.

If asked last June to describe the totality of her life, she would have focused on disability, fatigue, depression, obesity, crankiness, unrealized dreams, and all the ways she'd let herself and others down. It would have been an uncharitable summary of her life, but those things would have been true, at least at times. In contrast, the way others have described her life paints a completely different picture, that of a vivacious woman who gave and shared so much. And that portrait was very true. I knew Sandy to claim both visions of herself, depending on her mood, sometimes within the space of an hour.

Every life is bleak; every life is glorious. The effect is all in which aspects we choose to emphasize. I remember my mother telling me a few years ago about an old high school friend who had had a hard life. I can't remember the details now, but it was a string of things like divorce and troubled kids and unemployment. Mom hadn't seen the woman herself, but had heard this sad description. I laughed and asked Mom whether she thought she had had a good life. Of course! And then I described her life for her: two divorces, following mental and physical abuse, a kid (me) who dropped out of college, open-heart surgery at the age of 62, never having annual income above $20K. Those aren't the phrases that spring to mind when I usually describe my mother, but they're all true. And if you only list those things, it sounds like she's had an awful life. But these aren't the things that define her.

So from one perspective, I'm a lonely widow living with two cats, working alone and rarely leaving the house. I've lost contact with many friends, never travel, have an ongoing mysterious autoimmune disorder, etc. But from another perspective, I had a remarkable relationship with an amazing woman for 15 and a half years, have had my own successful business as a freelance writer and editor for twelve years, bike, garden, and volunteer with community organizations, etc. Which person would you rather hang out with? I think the second one is a lot more attractive, and I'm grateful to have the shift in vantage point that lets me recognize her.