I had a memory so vivid of one of the last conversations Julie and I had before she went into the hospital for the very last time. I remembered where she was standing in our backyard. I remember the feeling of sheer astonishment that I could actually feel so violated by what another person could say. I remember the look on her face as the feelings of betrayal must have been gripping her mind. It was a conversation about a journal she discovered that I had just started working my locked-up feelings through. Aside from the occasional visit to a marriage therapist, I had no one else I could trust to talk to about what was going on between me and Julie. I wanted to express myself for deeper love and healing of a sordid past together. She wanted to have a thriving business so none of the people she loved would have to worry about making income come in.
The memory was so vivid with such detail in a split second that I was about to replay verbally what I answered. Only, I was going to answer it with far more care than I delivered responses when she was alive. And, in another millisecond, I remembered that she died almost a year ago. At this point last year, we were in the University of Louisville hospital downtown trying to stave off potential kidney failure. The one place she abhorred in this city would become her final resting space.
Days in a daze. I barely remember the day-to-day struggle that we were facing. Our sons in school, while she was in her room. Hoping for a miracle, but resigned to a slow expiration. A slow death. But, the memory of our conversation was a new experience. Sure, I have remembered things about her, but not to the intensity that I would actually verbally respond. I see her in my dreams almost every night…that I sleep enough to have a dream. I wake from those dreams knowing she’s died. I don’t have any urges to call out for her to see if she’ll answer. To see if I’m still dreaming and just haven’t finally awakened to the really real.
What does it mean that I would almost respond to a memory? I don’t do it with any other memories. From the outrageously simple life we lead together, no other memory has been so lifelike that I would actually engage in conversation with the memory. But, in an instant, I was ready to talk to the woman I spent almost 18 years with every day interacting with.
I am thankful that we live in a generation where I could go on to YouTube with questions about processing grief. I appreciate the internet when it’s able to evolve as a part of the experiment of life. At the same time, I can be utterly disappointed that the “use by date” on my milk was not accurate. I was ready to eat breakfast.
These two expressions of emotion can exist simultaneously. All day long this happens. Especially when Jonah, our 14-year-old son, is around. With the death of my bride, his mother, and the graduation of our 18-year-old son to college, I became Jonah’s sole caregiver and parent. When he is not at school, we are around each other a large percentage of the day…and night.
Julie was also working full time in the business she and I gave birth to, and I was working part-time for an airline to give us access to the world. Her death brought an end to access to both of those because of my need to be available for Jonah when he needed me. I remember the joy it brought me when Julie began using the flight benefits available to employees and their families. I remember the excitement of being able to pick a place for me and Jonah to go on a day trip, or that Lincoln (the 18-year-old) would be able to take a break from college weeks of hard study anywhere in the country.
But, I still don’t want to engage verbally with any of those memories. I just want to engage with one memory that I can’t recreate. She is gone, but will never be forgotten. She impacted many people in her walk on this earth in the time she had. This is just one of many ways of expressing that she will not ever be forgotten. In everything I do is still a lot of, “what would Julie say about…”. I still think about her impact on my life after 18 short years. I can still feel the overwhelming love I had for her in surges.
I will always feel the surges of my love for her in waves. I will continue to learn how to surf these emotional waves in the wake of her death.