It’s been two years since you went missing from my life and
I feel compelled to say something to
mark the day...but I still find myself at a loss for words.
I finished residency in June – and even though you would
have made some snide or off-beat comment about the moment – I think you would
have been happy for me. I really think
you would have gotten a kick out of the send-off my mentor gave me at my
graduation dinner. After all, who
doesn’t love the strumming of a ukulele?
And I still think that you would really have loved Vermont. After all, you always loved ice cream and
Phish – and Vermont is pretty well known for both of those things. Ben and Jerry’s even managed to combine them
both into something pretty spectacular. We
would have had a good time sightseeing there, you and I.
I sit around some days and think about all of the fun we
might have had together over the course of the next 50 years, if things had only
turned out differently. There were a lot
of things we might have shared, a lot of memories we might have made. But now there are just a lot of things to
miss. The worst part is that I didn’t
even know how much I was looking forward to sharing these moments with you
until the opportunity was yanked away. I
always thought you’d eventually find a nice girl and settle down and I looked
forward to dancing at your wedding. I was excited to gain a sister. I looked forward to being an aunt to the
children you might have had. And as
Chris and I casually contemplate the idea of children, it hurts tremendously to
think that any children that we might have will never know you. You were really good with children and I know
that you would have been a pretty great uncle. It makes me so very sad that they will miss
out on knowing you, and if/when the time comes, I don’t even have a
clue how to show them who you were, how to make them love the ghost of someone
they’ll never meet.
Looking at what might have been generally makes me also look
back to what has already been. Some of
the good memories are starting to come back slowly, like streaks of sun shining
through the clouds after a thunderstorm.
I suspect that the memories will always be tinged with a lot of sadness
and a lot of bittersweet but I’ll take those over the anger and the guilt and
the grief any day of the week. Not that
those feelings have disappeared, mind you, but at least they are not as
all-consuming as they once were. Or
maybe I’m just getting better at integrating those things into my life – maybe
I’ve just learned to co-exist with that part of myself. Because the truth is that my life was rent
into two phases by your death and I can never be the same person that I once
was. Your death changed me in a very
fundamental way. It’s been a hard
process, trying to figure out who I am and where I fit in a world without
you. I’m not there yet- but I think I’m
getting it figured out. I’m starting to
accept the aching pain that has taken the place of the stabbing grief, and I’m
starting to live beyond it. It’s a lie
when they say that time heals all wounds; not all wounds are meant to be
healed. The other adage, however, is
true: time marches on. And so must I.
That’s where things stand after two years. Things are still a work in progress. I am still a work in progress. I still miss you, and you still cross my mind every
single day. Your absence still hurts,
though I am no longer inclined to make the pain stop. I’m changing, I’m growing, I’m both more and
less than I once was. We all are, those
who loved you.
