What’s in a month?

I did something I have not done before yesterday. I was at a craft fair running a booth for Walking with Jane and carcinoid/NETs awareness–which is nothing new. I take every opportunity I can find to talk about carcinoid/NETs and raise money for the research I hope will finally find a cure. But someone asked me yesterday how long ago Jane died and I told them it would be four years the tenth of next month.

It measures time, not healing.

Usually, I speak of her death in terms of how many months have passed. Actually, the clock in my head knows to the day how long I have lived without her–and if I am near a clock, I can state it to the hour–sometimes to the minute–without working up a sweat. As I write this on Sunday afternoon, in preparation for NET Cancer Awareness Day tomorrow, Jane died precisely 46 months, 29 days, 18 hours and 29 minutes ago.

The tenth of every month

People out in the world who are not widows and widowers look at me like I’m crazy when I state things that precisely. Those who are, nod their heads knowingly–as do, I suspect, those who have lost children. There are, ultimately, two kinds of people in the world: those who have experienced soul-shattering loss and those who have not. And I would not wish the experience on anyone.

…Jane died precisely 46 months, 29 days, 18 hours and 29 minutes ago.

I still visit Jane’s grave every Saturday, every tenth of the month, every anniversary, birthday and holiday. I still can’t believe that she is dead–even though I know she is. The evidence is all around me every day. It is there in the silence of the house, in the solitary meals, and the empty bed at night. She is the last thing I think about at night and the first thought I have every morning.

The silence of the month

My mind escapes loss for hours at a time if I am out with other people or working on a project that requires my full concentration. But friends know that in the midst of a party or social event that a grey mist will suddenly envelop me. I will move away from the crowd and find a quiet place to sit alone for a few minutes. It happens most often when I am out with a group of couples. Suddenly, I am totally aware of what they have I don’t–and who is not waiting for me at home.

I still visit Jane’s grave every Saturday…

I have struggled for nearly 47 months to find words or analogies to explain what this is like. One day last week I realized I was waiting for the refrigerator to come on to break the silence in the house–that sometimes I hope for the heat to come on for the same reason. That is how desperately empty my life has become if I let myself think about it. And I can’t imagine how depressed and crazy I would be without the work I do here and at craft shows and meetings and the 10,000 other things I fill each month with.

One month from today

Still, I am better than I was 47 months ago. I am better than I was 46 months ago or 45 months ago. I don’t remember much of anything about the two years after Jane died beyond the grinding emptiness and despair that formed a damp cloak around every waking minute–and every sleeping one as well. Fall remains a difficult time, full of unfulfilled dreams and daily nightmares that keep me from wanting to sleep. It hurts too much.

My mind escapes loss for hours at a time…

One month from today, four years will have passed: four years alone at Christmas, even with my family around me. Four years of single midnight toasts at New Year’s. Four years of waking up alone and gift less on Valentine’s Day and my birthday. Four years without fireworks on July Fourth. Four years spent in the cemetery on our Anniversary. Four years of greeting the trick-or-treaters alone with no one to share it. Four years of catching myself looking for birthday and Christmas presents for her. Four years without the smell of her baking on Thanksgiving morning. Four years of not making fruitcakes together. Four years of empty silence.

What is a month?

I want to believe the fourth anniversary of her death will bring the peace the first three anniversaries have not. From a month away, it doesn’t look likely. There is no magic in the date. It measures time, not healing.

One month from today, four years will have passed…

Change is incremental and does not run like a clock. Healing is the same–even from grief.