Last week was the 1 1/2 year marker since Eddie's death. It's hard to believe, but here we are.
I had an epiphany of sorts. I didn't set out to have one, and it took me a few days to process and understand it, but I've got to say: it is setting me free. I don't want to jinx anything by talking about it here, but I believe it's worth sharing... if for no other reason than to give others a glimmer of hope that there can indeed be life after the death of a loved one.
A couple years after we got married, when he was 27 and I was 23, Eddie was diagnosed with Myasthenia Gravis, an autoimmune neuromuscular disease that breaks down the communication between nerves and muscles. It primarily affects the muscles in one's face, throat, arms and legs. Eddie suffered from double vision, severe fatigue and weakness in his arms and legs. With medication, he was eventually able to live a normal (at the end he called it "extraordinary") life in spite of the disorder. Most people didn't even know he was sick, but there were enough physical activities he couldn't do that we had to adjust our vision for the future. This wasn't easy, and honestly, it became something we had to tweak throughout the five decades we were together.
Eddie was a natural caregiver. He was generous to a fault and wasn't happy until he'd made sure everyone around him was taken care of. He was an attentive son, a kind friend, a doting father and well, someone whose top priority was to make life easy and good for his partner - me.
Over the years there were many things we simply couldn't do together, and sometimes it was hard to hide my disappointment. What would Eddie say on those occasions? The guy who wanted to make sure I was happy? The man who was so good at putting others' needs before his? This exquisite human who never once complained or felt sorry for himself? I think you can guess.
Hey Glo. You go on ahead. I'll catch up with you later.
So when I was involved in my non-profit that supported orphans in Africa, I went to Uganda eleven times, and he accompanied me only once. The trip was just too difficult for him to make, but he insisted I get on with the work I felt compelled to do. Instead of making the trips, he became the head honcho of development, the organization's bookkeeper, number one cheerleader and idea-guy. And if a trail we were hiking in Oregon ended with a spectacular view, and he couldn't make it to the top, he insisted I keep going. He was happy to wait patiently for me to come back down. He was always excited to hear about the things I experienced without him. Never resentful, never bitter, never wallowing in self-pity.
Hey Glo. You go on ahead. I'll catch up with you later.
I think you can see where this is going.
I hadn't really been considering this particular aspect of our relationship, but the other day when I thought I heard Eddie say you go on ahead, it occurred to me that he'd been saying this all along, so why not now?
I suppose I wasn't ready to receive the message from him until now. I think it's taken me a year and a half to muster up the strength to even consider going on ahead.
I'm starting to notice big shifts. I'm in New York, and yesterday I came upon a neighborhood festival featuring Puerto Rican music. There were exuberant couples dancing, lots of salsa going on and the band was fantastic. I found myself grinning from ear to ear. I didn't feel sad that Eddie wasn't there to dance with me. Instead, I truly felt happy for the couples who were able to be together. I was going on ahead, enjoying the journey, enjoying the view, feeling joy for the music and those moving to the rhythm of it. And something that had worried me before I came to NYC to help take care of my new grandchild was that the sadness of not having Eddie with us would usurp any joy I might feel. To the contrary, I'm overcome with gladness as I watch the new parents fall in love with their baby boy and as I stare into his sweet face. This is the sense of freedom I referred to earlier. The loss of my beloved doesn't seem to be weighing me down any longer; I feel lighter, able to eagerly put one foot in front of the other and truly enjoy where those feet are taking me.
The epiphany is that I know for certain Eddie wants me to go on ahead without him, that he'll catch up with me later and that, in the meantime, he's still excited to hear about my experiences (yes, I talk to him).
Now there's a spring in my step more often than not. I'm experiencing each day more fully and feeling things more deeply than I have since Eddie died. Colors seem more saturated, music sounds richer, laughter is louder, people are more friendly and life, once again, feels full of adventure.
Even my creativity has been affected. I'm subletting a studio in East Harlem, and this past week I made (what I feel is) my most fully realized painting yet. It's called "Sandhill Cranes" and is pictured above.
So, it seems that I'm no longer trudging through a thick fog. I'm going on ahead, firmly believing Eddie will catch up with me later. That assurance, as it turns out, is a powerful thing to carry around in my heart each day.
