Another year of firsts

One of my favorite parts of the day is walking to my bus in the morning, as the neighborhood I walk through accentuates the seasons.  Summer is sparkling and clear, fall is vibrant and crisp.  This particular morning as I walked, I recognized the brisk smell in the air, and realized Fall truly is upon us. 

As happens often with me, I had to think for a moment about what month it is, and realized September is almost over.  I started thinking about October, then November.  My thoughts led to the holidays, and I found myself wondering how I would handle my first Thanksgiving without Luke.  My heart raced and I felt despair, which was doubly impacted as soon as I realized this would NOT, in fact, be my first Thanksgiving without Luke. 

I’ve heard it said that the first year is the hardest, and the second year is harder than that.  I fully understand why this is now.  I’ve talked about the fact that I wasn’t present for several months after Luke’s death, and I realize that even more as I try to remember where I spent Christmas last year.  I was simply not present.  I wonder at some of the conversations I may have had, or decisions I made, as there must have been an instinctive survival version of me living my life in my stead. 

For some of us, it seems, the second year is really the first year.  One day at a time, it’s all we can do.

Last month Luke’s ashes were spread at Burning Man.  This was a bit of an adventure, as his ashes had been sent back to California with Dave, after he took them to Westport.  It was only a week before Burning Man when I realized I did not have them to give to the person who was supposed to take them to the burn.  Some quick phone calls, and we had people in LA driving to meet Dave, pick up the ashes and drive Luke to the Nevada desert.  Those he loved, the ones who in part made Burning Man “home’ for Luke, put his ashes in the Temple and he joined the many mementos, pictures, talismans and certainly other ashes of those who had also felt a great connection to this place.  The only part that hurt was not being able to tell him that we did this for him.  He would have cried.

Crying.  I don’t do that anymore.  Though, I still don’t listen to sad songs.  I still haven’t had my night of wine and sobbing, but I think I’m ok without that now.  

A few weeks ago I had some friends over.  We sat up all night drinking wine and talking, and the conversation turned to hospitals.  We were telling stories, and of course I have some of the best Luke stories.  As I told them, I felt the mood around me change a bit, to one of quiet respect.  As I told some of the funnier ones, we laughed, real, full body laughs, and it felt good to no longer be a victim of my own emotions.  Granted, there was a moment when the act of laughing could have quickly switched over to crying, and I sensed that in the group as well, but it was the first time I could find humor in those memories.  I know that is growth.

One day at a time.  I realize as we hit the 10-month mark, that there may actually come a day when the feelings I have seem to line up with the amount of time that’s gone by, though today is not that day.  It’s still very fresh, and as I watch the year race by I can’t help but wonder, am I really here now?

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