12. How Can I?

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Written Tuesday January 28, 2020 / Day 169 / Evening

In this week of goodbye I have been constantly dazzled that something has changed. Where and how will most likely remain a mystery. But there is ample evidence that something dramatic has taken place behind the scenes.

It has taken place in this netherworld of emotions that are underlying this state of grief. I can feel the effects - knowing full well that the analytical side of me will never really know what it would like to understand.

It has been disarming in a new way.

My wife’s untouchable, unaccessible things have become open to my contact.

I can touch the things that remain, her pillow, her blankets, everything that was hers - they no longer send me into an uncontrollable tailspin. That is the first marvel.

The wonder of this has continued since I wrote her letter to me and my letter to her (Volume 6 Essay #7 “Dear Stephen” and Essay #8 “Dear Joann”) last Friday.

Two of the most formidable essays I have ever written due to the difficulty that took place in writing them.

Each day I attempt to read them out loud - something I do with all the essays I write. Except for these two - they are unreadable. I cannot read either of them without the most sweeping emotional experience I have ever imagined.

I keep trying. It seems that there is something here. I do not know what exactly. But what seems to be the nexus of this is the exercise of saying goodbye. Not just thinking it, or assessing the situation or deciding that I understand it.

No, to me this exercise is the very act of writing and then verbalizing the message of goodbye.

In all the undefinable qualities that have been my life these past 169 days - this current time is the most undefinable.

Yet in this nebulous place - there seem to be very faint connections to my world. And they all have to do with her.

I now hold her things and say what I feel out loud. I address her in a way - fully knowing as I have written quite regularly that she is awaiting the resurrection and is currently asleep until that Last Trump sounds.

The words I keep saying are, “How can I ever say goodbye to you?”. I rattle off all the elements of my love for her. All that she means to me. How much a part of everything she was and still is to me.

This is the current pattern of life.

The echo of “…something has changed…’ in the background of every moment.

Most days, each step of life just seemed to be achieving the end of that day. Fulfilling the obligations of the day, the places to go. The tasks to complete.

On these days, however, we have a new level - of something.

The level of less angst. Of less contention. Of less heaviness.

Of course - there still is no inkling of a future other than the appointments that must be made or the future tasks that might be planned. No future as I knew it or can really conceive of right now.

But in the current - the present - there is something new.

Undefinable as it is - these is a physical effect.

It is real. It is measurable. It is so welcome.

But the question remains - “How can I ever say goodbye to you, my sweetie?”.

It is my new song. It is what I have now been asking during this week of goodbye as I call it.

As everything that has been unfolding - I am sure there will be an answer to that question.

Perhaps when I can read those letters without sobbing. Without crying.

Without the deep pain and anguish that they invoke.

Perhaps that will be the sign.

We will see.

I will know when the question changes. When the question becomes, “How do I ever say goodbye to you my sweetie?”.

Perhaps only then will I be prepared to accept the answer.

When “How can I?” Will be come “How do I?”.

And God then supplies the strength for me to do it.

12. How Can I?

Written Tuesday January 28, 2020 / Day 169 / Evening

In this week of goodbye I have been constantly dazzled that something has changed. Where and how will most likely remain a mystery. But there is ample evidence that something dramatic has taken place behind the scenes.

It has taken place in this netherworld of emotions that are underlying this state of grief. I can feel the effects - knowing full well that the analytical side of me will never really know what it would like to understand.

It has been disarming in a new way.

My wife’s untouchable, unaccessible things have become open to my contact.

I can touch the things that remain, her pillow, her blankets, everything that was hers - they no longer send me into an uncontrollable tailspin. That is the first marvel.

The wonder of this has continued since I wrote her letter to me and my letter to her (Volume 6 Essay #7 “Dear Stephen” and Essay #8 “Dear Joann”) last Friday.

Two of the most formidable essays I have ever written due to the difficulty that took place in writing them.

Each day I attempt to read them out loud - something I do with all the essays I write. Except for these two - they are unreadable. I cannot read either of them without the most sweeping emotional experience I have ever imagined.

I keep trying. It seems that there is something here. I do not know what exactly. But what seems to be the nexus of this is the exercise of saying goodbye. Not just thinking it, or assessing the situation or deciding that I understand it.

No, to me this exercise is the very act of writing and then verbalizing the message of goodbye.

In all the undefinable qualities that have been my life these past 169 days - this current time is the most undefinable.

Yet in this nebulous place - there seem to be very faint connections to my world. And they all have to do with her.

I now hold her things and say what I feel out loud. I address her in a way - fully knowing as I have written quite regularly that she is awaiting the resurrection and is currently asleep until that Last Trump sounds.

The words I keep saying are, “How can I ever say goodbye to you?”. I rattle off all the elements of my love for her. All that she means to me. How much a part of everything she was and still is to me.

This is the current pattern of life.

The echo of “…something has changed…’ in the background of every moment.

Most days, each step of life just seemed to be achieving the end of that day. Fulfilling the obligations of the day, the places to go. The tasks to complete.

On these days, however, we have a new level - of something.

The level of less angst. Of less contention. Of less heaviness.

Of course - there still is no inkling of a future other than the appointments that must be made or the future tasks that might be planned. No future as I knew it or can really conceive of right now.

But in the current - the present - there is something new.

Undefinable as it is - these is a physical effect.

It is real. It is measurable. It is so welcome.

But the question remains - “How can I ever say goodbye to you, my sweetie?”.

It is my new song. It is what I have now been asking during this week of goodbye as I call it.

As everything that has been unfolding - I am sure there will be an answer to that question.

Perhaps when I can read those letters without sobbing. Without crying.

Without the deep pain and anguish that they invoke.

Perhaps that will be the sign.

We will see.

I will know when the question changes. When the question becomes, “How do I ever say goodbye to you my sweetie?”.

Perhaps only then will I be prepared to accept the answer.

When “How can I?” Will be come “How do I?”.

And God then supplies the strength for me to do it.

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