by Anthology
It was the definition of me.
Chapter One
B-R-A-V-E
Five letters.
Two Vowels.
Three Consonants.
Really not much of anything until you put them together. When merged, they form a word that encompasses a meaning previously foreign to me. Today I was struggling to comprehend its intent. I stood tall, squared my shoulders, and wore a gentle smile on my face. Today I was projecting the epitome of the strength I did not have. Today I was burying my true feelings, all while holding something precious and irreplaceable in my arms.
An urn.
The memorial service was a new experience for me. Set several weeks after Judge’s passing, the sting of death was no less painful now. I had hoped that it would be. Instead, it tore at the newly formed scabs on my heart. Judge had dictated his desires concerning the marking of his passing. Part of me wished he had planned this himself, but another part was honored to carry out his requests. Cremation was also new to me. My father's final resting place was beside a shallow pond. A beautiful small gazebo completed the landscape of serenity and I had spent much time sitting near his grave to cry my heart out. Now I had a cobalt blue and silver urn that would accompany me home. Where is the perfect place to put an urn? A mantle? A functional but decorative shelf in the family room? Was this a dilemma faced by the best interior decorators?
As my mind volleyed simple thoughts to deflect the grief, one-by-one, mourners began to exit the church. I stood in the back to greet them, similar to a receiving line after a wedding, only it was somber. People paused in front of me, faces downcast. They kissed my cheek, embraced me, and shared a sorrowful sentiment.
I will not cry.
I will not cry.
I will not cry.
I repeated the mantra over and over, tumbling the words in my mind as I cemented a mental picture of a multi-flavored pack of Life Savers candies. Don’t ask me why. All I know is that everything around me was so black that I was drowning. Color was my lifeline and I was parched, thirsting for it. The rainbow-colored paper surrounding the lozenge-type sweets was the first image that popped into my head. I desperately clung to the vision.
Goose bumps raised on my arms as people touched me. Unlike most of the other times in my life, I was unable to register any feeling other than death. I didn’t like it. I had been blessed, or cursed, with an ability to sense things more intensely than most people. Whenever I made a skin connection, whether through a hug or handshake, I could gauge a person’s intent. Some called it discernment, others referenced it as a psychic ability. It was something that I had never asked for, yet a power with which I had to live. As a child, I had argued with God that I was made wrong in the heavenly factory. I didn’t like the sensation I got when near a person who was sad or discontent, yet I was thrilled to feel the happiness or joy of another. For some reason, the only thing that registered through my skin today was ice. Comfort escaped me. As condolences reached my ears, the temperature of the sentiments turned frigid. The invisible tally taking place in the back of my mind registered the name and degree of cold from everyone who approached me. The sorrow accumulating from each person piled high as it encircled my throat. Frozen fingers, tightening with each connection, had me nearly choking by the time the last person had turned and walked away from me. Judge could no longer feel his pain.
I wasn’t so lucky.
As I carried the urn to my car, the heaviness of the weight surprised me. The heat of the cremation had refined his bones and blood to ashes. I’d never anticipated the poundage of a human reduced to fine particles; my only experience had been with fire or cigarettes. I had chosen the container based on my knowledge of my husband’s favorite colors. I held it like I would a baby, careful not to drop such precious cargo. I imagined the container including not only what remained of his body, but also the weighted representation of hopes realized, dreams not so, and the remainder of the years that we would never see together. I was desperate to sequester myself as I closed the door behind me.
I sat in the driver’s seat and, through the spotty windshield, spotted the trail of people making their way from the church to their cars. It had rained as the service was going on. The damp air clung to my clothes, forcing me to inhale the pungent aroma of wet earth. Although I had always liked the rain, I feared that from now on the scent would forever linger unfavorably in my mind. Was moving forward in my life even a possibility for me? I couldn't be sure.
I shook my head to clear my thoughts as I prepared myself to be in the company of others. I had planned a commemoration luncheon celebrating my husband's life to immediately follow the service, but the truth of the matter was that minutes were ticking by while I was frozen. I was losing myself in the minutes ticking by. I felt I had lost the ability to measure time.
How could I imagine my life existing beyond today?
How would I face tomorrow without Judge?
Chapter Two
The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans wafted through the small shop in Hampden. I had always liked this street. A myriad of cafes and unique shops made this part of Baltimore quaint and enjoyable. The sun was shining. A sliver of it had pierced my hurting soul, bidding me to leave my self-imposed cave of dark thoughts and take a breath of fresh air.
I hadn’t left the house in more than a month. I didn’t have to. The doorbell regularly rang during the daytime and many people phoned at night. I willingly put on a mask of normalcy whenever necessary, painting my face with lipstick and mascara. I took great pains to look my best when I felt my worst and that was what they saw—the best of me. Most friends and loved ones would say “you’re looking good” or “you’ll be back to normal soon.” Would I? What was normal in this circumstance? I was confident that if I pressed them for their definition of normal, it wouldn’t be the same as mine.
My mind was a jumble of thoughts. It never turned off. Ever. With no reprieve from the after death “to do” list, I would lie awake at night thinking of the things that needed to be done. Much to my dismay, I was quickly learning the contrasting worlds of joy and sorrow. When I had planned my wedding, each detail was carefully thought out, and as the plan was executed, happiness was delivered in measured doses. On the day of the exciting event, it had felt like fireworks of joy detonating every time someone smiled at me. Death is different. Backwards. The incident occurs and an endless list begins. Switching names on accounts, changing car titles, etc. One by one it feels like rocks are being added to a pile as each task is completed. It starts when funeral details are finalized. The joy in your life dissipates, fluttering away like a deflating balloon. The life essence of the your loved one is gone and the small things that used to make you smile become distant with the passage of time. Each tick of the clock is a memory that travels further away from your mind in torturing measures of seconds, minutes, and hours. I had always thought about the necessities of life, never giving thought to the necessities of death.
Now I faced a new reality.
As I completed the work of contacting insurance companies, writing thank you notes, and changing ownership of possessions from two to one, pieces of my happiness shriveled away with each deed. Memories surfaced. Each was a different story, but all had the same sorrowful ending. Death. It shadowed and shrouded everything I touched. Although I went about my normal routine to ensure that no one could see the darkness inside my soul, I couldn’t fight the thoughts inside my head. The contemplation that threatened me most was also the one that was most terrifying—that I had shared so much of my soul with my husband that my own identity no longer existed.
“Hi. Sorry I’m late.” My friend and coworker, Justine, looked a little flustered as she took a seat across from me. Placing her purse on the back of the chair, she took a deep breath, folded her hands together, and placed them in front of her on the table. “Now. How are you?” She gave me a once-over look. “You look terrific.”
As I had practiced, I pitched the corners of my
mouth into a pleasing smile. “I’m fine.” There was a lilt in my voice. “I’m doing better every day. How about you?” The question was a tactic of deflection and I was becoming an expert. Answer one question, then pose another in response. It kept people talking, mostly about themselves. I had discovered that most people loved to talk about themselves.
“I’m good, I guess. Bobby’s trying to make partner at the firm, and you know how hectic the schedule can be for a social worker. We’re trying to jockey our calendars so that we can fit each other in.” She followed her statement with a casual laugh. I understood exactly. Judge and I, too, had suffered the challenges of conflicting schedules, but somehow always managed to devote time to each other. “I’ll be right back.”
Justine removed her bright blue wallet from her purse and went to the counter. The color matched her eyes. Most people thought of social workers as dull, but Justine was anything but. I was sure that most of her patients fell in love with her. The tone of her voice was soft and tender and her hair was the color of wheat with streaks of sunlight. She looked not only approachable, but huggable. I couldn’t help but wonder how challenging it must be for her to enforce the emotional distance required in our profession. As I watched her at the counter, she appeared to have made friends with the barista. I don’t think she realized that she possessed the gift of setting people at ease. Of course, most therapists rarely profiled themselves. She nodded to me as she returned to the table. Taking her seat, she gingerly lifted the cup to her lips and took a sip. Once finished, she placed it on the table, leaned back against the chair and focused on me.
“When are you coming back to work?” Justine broke the ice with the question that all of my colleagues whispered behind my back. I had known it would come at some point and since she was my friend and fellow psychologist, I had suspected that she would be the one given the task to instigate the inquiry. The history between Justine and I went further back than my history with Judge. The three of us had all attended the same college, but met at different times. We became friends and the relationship continued as we worked in the same practice, lived in the same neighborhood, and traveled the same social circle. Although I felt she deserved an answer, the intrusive feeling that the question had provoked annoyed me like a nagging pinprick.
“Soon.” My answer was painted with brushstrokes of non-committal tone.
“Well I think you’re coming back next week.” Justine’s matter-of-fact expression was accentuated by her perfectly shaped eyebrows.
As an indignant air caressed the back of my neck, the slight swirl became just thick enough to cause the fine hairs to stand on edge. “And why would you think that?” My tone was clipped, making the words succinct and crisp.
Justine shrugged in a matter-of-fact fashion as she looked away. “Because I told the front desk at the office to resume scheduling your patients beginning next week.”
Anger bubbled inside of me, curdling the coffee in the pit of my stomach. The arrogance! How dare she take it upon herself to speak for me and not allow me the space and time I needed to make the decision on my own. Justine had never experienced the thick pit of loss! She had no idea how I felt, not to mention the daily challenges I faced to simply drag myself out of bed. Although I had taken time off following Judge’s death, that time had been filled up with tasks. I planned to be off work for at least one more month. There were still things to do and paperwork to look through. None of it required physical exertion, but the mental energy involved was draining. For someone, friend or not, to presume that she knew what was best for me ignited a visceral response. Anger infused the cells in my blood with a fury which I struggled to dignify. It was becoming a common theme. I had been tolerant, but my patience with peoples’ opinions of how I should live my life was nearly threadbare. Justine had stepped entirely too far over the line, and unfortunately, would suffer the build-up of indignation I had in reserve for all of the others who had committed the same crime. I bit down on the tip of my tongue as the taste of angry words filled my mouth. A whooshing roar pulsated in my ears. Heated blood rose as the flushed skin on my chest burned up my neck. My blood pressure spiked as the words catapulted through my lips with a force that was uncomfortable with my docile nature. There was no stopping them once they started. “What made you think that you have the right to make decisions for me?” My jaw ached as I vomited the words through gritted teeth, yet Justine seemed unfazed by my angry display.
“Someone has to push you.” She contracted her shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “I figured that the best person to get you off your ass was me.”
“Right.” I spat the word as I struggled to contain my anger. I had thought this outing might be a pleasant diversion with a friend, but now realized that there was no more need for coffee or small talk. I didn’t want to spend one more minute in this place. Since when was a friend only your friend when you bowed to their wishes and did what they wanted you to do? The thought disgusted me, leaving behind a bitter taste in my mouth. I leaned across the table to retrieve my purse. Justine silently eyed my actions. Her unemotional and nonresponsive demeanor fed the storm of fury inside of me. “Let’s make one thing perfectly clear,” I spat in a hushed tone. “If you ever butt in, or interfere in my personal life again, we’re done.”
“You can be pissed off at me if you want to, Hope; that’s your prerogative. I know that there’s no timetable on grief. I get it. Really, I do. But you aren’t the only person who’s hurting. There are people who need you—your clients—and as much as you might deny it, you need them too. Their issues and lives are just as important as yours.”
Issues?
Important?
What about my issues, damn it?
Judge’s life was important.
When he had died, I barely escaped getting sucked down into the emotional cesspool created by his death—and I didn’t care one bit if I was swallowed down into its deep, foul pit. All I wanted was to be with him and, if I couldn’t, I wanted to crawl into a dark corner and lick my wounds. The thoughts tortured me and the agony was so painful that it drained me of my desire to breathe. Judge’s death had mercifully freed him, but my life consisted of heartache and emptiness. I prayed that my pain would take me to the place where my husband’s spirit now resided. To whisk me away from my lonely existence.
But God didn’t take me.
Instead, the supreme ruler of the universe left me here and all alone.
Judge was living in his version of heaven while I lived in my newfound hell. My kind and loving husband was free of the monstrous disease that plagued his mind, while at the same time I was chained to a different beast. The one that people couldn’t see. An invisible one that tortured me into a troubled sleep. The one minus Judge’s comforting arms wrapped around me in peaceful slumber. It followed me each day with its beady eyes from the moment I opened up my own. It sunk its claws of grief deep down into my heart in the morning and chained its oppressive weight around my tired mind until night. Once it had done its damage it repeated the cycle. I knew that I had to escape my monster if I didn’t want to die of a broken heart. Couldn’t Justine see that? Couldn’t she sense my pain? Couldn’t she see the hole in my heart?
Couldn’t she just leave me the hell alone?
I had missed my patients. I knew that they needed me, but I needed me too. How could I give them the compassion and energy they deserved when I barely had enough to give to myself? I was barely surviving the hangover of my personal pity party—but Justine sensed that. Damn her!
I stood and swung my purse strap up onto my shoulder, while my body language churned a storm of anger. The emotionally crashing waves had been chewing up my insides and wrenching them into little pieces. I hated that Justine was right. I did need to go back to work, but I wasn’t ready to give her the satisfaction to know that she was helping me in spite of myself. As I turned my back and prepared to walk out the door, Justine’s words followed me. They were so lyrical they could have been a song.
Chapter Three
I had digested Justine’s actions. They were finally palatable, so I tried to prepare myself to return to work. There were only a few days left to push forward. Although I had been stuck in emotional quicksand, for all intents and purposes, I could put on a brave face. I was slowly growing comfortable with my new façade. A brave face was my goal, and although I didn’t feel like it, I knew that it was imperative to carry the illusion that my life was returning to normal. The truth was that I was learning to live with a new normal. The new normal sucked.
I had spent restless nights trying, but failing, to sleep, as well as attempting to blend those nights into somewhat productive days. Most of the time it was a challenge. I barely had the motivation to go to the bathroom to relieve the necessities demanded of my bowels and bladder. I wasn’t the woman I had been, and at times, I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror. My eyes were different. Hollow. Emptiness stared back at me. Death had claimed the vibrancy that had once allowed me to dance to the tune of my husband’s affection. Apparently, the grim reaper had claimed two victims and while one resided in the hereafter, the other stared back at me with a resemblance of the woman I used to be. I knew that if I didn’t at least try to fight to regain myself, the monster created by my broken heart would allow death to claim me as well.
It’s funny. People are motivated so differently to make changes in their lives. For me, it was appearance for appearance’s sake. I didn’t want anyone to see my daily struggle. I worried about what other people would think of me. That they couldn’t trust me because I was no longer the person I used to be. I should have concentrated more on making the necessary changes for me, but I wasn’t that self-absorbed. Instead I began to change for the people I cared about. I should have made myself the priority but my desire was for everyone to identify with the old Hope. I used clothes and cosmetics to recreate a portrait of the girl I used to be. The reality was that she had died when Judge had died. Her heart stopped beating when his did, but I could bring her back. She could be revived as a new creation, but because her life was no longer the same, so never would she be.
