Friday, August 1, 2014

All God's children take their passage into night

Is there a stage of grief where you lose track of time, where you realize you're not tracking days? I feel like I'm there now. Days and weeks pass, and I'm only dimly aware of their passage. I'm behind on so much correspondence it's not even funny.

And it's not even a matter of energy. I am literally not feeling time passing. This is a very bad thing for my work life. But it's not much better for my me-life, either. It means I'm neglecting friends and blowing chances to connect with new people, all because I take forever to respond to anything.

This is not a call for advice or comfort. I'm fairly confident this is perfectly normal. I'm just recording it here so I can remember this stage once I'm past it, if I ever get there.

* * *

I keep wondering what the new normal will be like, what my heart and psyche will be shaped like once I'm sufficiently put back together to feel like I have a new normal. I'm still an unfinished jigsaw puzzle sitting half on the table, half in the box, with the picture changing halfway through,

* * *

There are moments when all I want is for my life to stop, so I can know what Jay knows and see what he sees. This is not suicidal ideation. This is just the pain speaking, and my curiosity.

Then there are the moments of bargaining, when all I want is a year with Jay at his healthiest, in exchange for both of us dying at the end of that year. Again, not a death wish, just bargaining with the pain.

Then there are the moments of anger, when I rage at Jay's body for being too weak to fight the cancer, at my heart for connecting so profoundly to this doomed man, at any number of other things too petty to mention.

Then there are the rare moments of peace, when I can sit in perfect acceptance of all that has happened, feel the joy in the world, and know that I will find joy and peace and love all over again, even if it never tastes quite the same way again.