Every Day I Talk To Her
Six months ago today I woke up, dressed in the dark, and went for a run. It was a picturesque autumn morning, cool and crisp. I ran one of my usual routes, a mostly-quiet 8-mile loop. I returned home to find my youngest son in the kitchen. We talked. I went upstairs.
It was the start of a beautiful day.
There was no reason to expect that particular Monday to be more memorable than any other. I had no major plans: I would spend my day off working in the yard or taking the dogs to the dog park or running errands. I would nap. It was going to be a run-of-the-mill, everyday, forgettable Monday.
Instead, I remember most of it.
Grief is a strange emotion. I don’t understand it. Sometimes it stings. Often it aches. It comes in waves, crashing and eroding and tearing you down before returning to the abyss. Grief looms; it lurks; it’s a sneaky bastard. Grief plays dirty.
Yet grief spares some people. They are sad, they mourn, and they carry on. They are the lucky ones — or are they? Is it lucky to be spared the depths of human emotion? Is that truly desirable?
I happen to like grief. I don’t enjoy grief, but I understand its utility. Grief makes me feel the full spectrum of feelings. It hurts, yes, but it is certainly better than the void of Depression or the unrelenting monotonous agony of despair. Grief allows me to remember what was, to think about what is, and to ponder what will or could be.
In contrast, loneliness is not for me. I’ve tried it on several times. I have given it a fair chance. It doesn’t fit me and I would like to return it.
I used to think that loneliness and being alone were the same thing. I thought that loneliness was just being alone too long. The solution to loneliness, I thought, is to just … not be alone any more. I was wrong.
I enjoy being alone. One of the reasons I run so far is to be by myself. Being alone is a respite for an introvert who participates in and enjoys bursts of extroversion but knows he cannot stay there. Being alone allows me to observe. Being alone is an opportunity to think, to process, to plan. Alone time, whether on a hike in the woods or in a chair on the edge of a busy room, is necessary and wonderful.
Loneliness is empty. Loneliness is knowing everybody else has plans. Loneliness is looking at your growing todo list and realizing there is nobody to do them for and nobody to say “thank you” when you’re done. Loneliness is wanting to pick up your phone to text that thought or joke or reminder to someone but that someone isn’t there. Loneliness is a weight, a fog, a persistence of hopelessness.
I used to let loneliness settle over me because I thought it was inevitable. Not any more. I shed it as quickly as I can. I can’t stop loneliness from reaching me, but I can keep it from latching on.
I am often asked how I am doing. Not the standard “How are you doing?” that we all ask each other every day and don’t really care about the answer to. Rather: “How are you doing?”. The words are the same but they carry a different weight. There is a hint of whisper to the words. I know what they mean.
I dread the question. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment behind it. I do! People care and that’s wonderful. However, the question is rarely asked in a context in which I can answer fully or honestly. The grocery store aisle is hardly a suitable location for deep, probably emotional discussions. So let’s just not do that question except in carefully chosen situations. OK?
You want to know, though, don’t you? I will tell you: I am well. I am content. I am happy. I have a stable of supportive family and friends. Some help me deliberately, while others provide me with aid and comfort without their even knowing, just by being themselves. Importantly — maybe most importantly — I have learned to help myself.
Sadie died on a Monday with her head on a Garfield pillowcase. Let that sink in for a moment. I want you to appreciate the tragic irony. Sadie sure would have!1
She and I experienced a fair amount of pain and loss together. Over time, we recognized that we had a choice: we could let it overwhelm us, or we could disempower it by developing a shared affection for dark humor. We opted for the latter. It (mostly) worked.
In the months before she died, I sat on the edge of Sadie’s side of the bed nearly every morning. I would rub her legs, or her back, or, if her body were too painful to be touched, her head. And we would talk. On good days I would sit for five or ten minutes, until she was ready to get up or I had to leave. On bad days I sat with her as long as I could, sometimes over an hour, occasionally more than two. I was often late to work.
And so the day after Sadie passed away I sat on the edge of her side of the bed, I rubbed her legs, and I talked to her. I talked for over two hours. It was while I was talking to her that I noticed I had been talking to her pillows — specifically, to her Garfield pillow, which was propped neatly in front of her other two plain-colored pillows. I didn’t get it at first, but gradually the realization flooded over me. “I agree, Garfield. Monday sucked”, I said. A chuckle rapidly turned into a mess of laughter and tears. It was an absurd scene. Sadie would have loved it.
Every day I talk to Sadie and I feel better. She grieves with me, celebrates with me, wonders with me, laughs with me. She has guided me through crises and she has helped me to develop new friendships. She even helps me meal plan.
This morning I told Sadie about yesterday’s eclipse. I told her about how beautiful it was. I described how shadows get weird. I remarked on the number of people laying on the Capitol lawn, gazing upward. I talked about how frightening an eclipse must have been for people who did not understand what was happening. I reminisced about how we watched the last eclipse together on our back deck, which was mere meters from the absolute center of the path of the moon’s shadow, and about how we both agreed the event was far more beautiful than we had anticipated.
I talked to Sadie this morning just like I have talked to her every day for the past six months. Every day I sit on the edge of the bed, I rub her legs, and I talk to her, out loud, as if she were there. For me, she is.
Those of you who aren’t Garfield fans are no doubt confused. Garfield — the cat, not the President — famously hates Mondays. Back in the 80’s, merchandise of every conceivable type featured a dour Garfield and text like “I hate Mondays”.
