Memories

Memories are one of the purest examples of Balance. They are both blessing and curse. Sometimes in the same instant.

Memories carve your heart.

On November 7th we will celebrate our fourteenth wedding anniversary. It's been a VERY long honeymoon, and many people thought it wouldn't last. We laugh when we see commercials for online dating, certain that none of them would have put us together. It's hard to imagine that two people could be more opposite—Rich could make friends with a STOP sign; I can happily go weeks without human contact. Rich has the navigational skills of a homing pigeon; I would get lost in the bathtub if there weren't a faucet at one end. Rich has a Gestalt approach to organization; I float above the flow of chaos. Rich comes from a German family raised on the guilt of anything less than everyone up everyone's butt; I come from an Irish family that cherished the individual's privacy, sovereignty and autonomy. Rich worries about the future; I trust the Spirits to guide me. Rich reads and saves and catalogues the directions; I treat them like packing materials.

We met by chance, the circumstances are still a matter of wonder to us. Neither one of us wanted a relationship, we were both worn out from such effort and disappointment. Yet somehow we happened in spite of us, like two people standing apart in the surf until a strong enough wave comes along to smooth their rough edges and tumble them together. Freeze Frame!! It was nothing like “From Here to Eternity”. It was more like “When Harry Met Sally”.

Our first date was June 30th 1995. It was more the beginning of a friendship than a date—a playful joust that put us both at ease. Fast forward to our first Christmas, still “just dating”. It took me 2-1/2 hours to open my Christmas gifts. In becoming friends, we shared our childhoods and it meant little to me at this point in my life that my alcoholic parents stopped having Christmas when I was nine. In fact, I barely remember mentioning it in passing—truly, I had 31 years to get over it. Christmas to me was a date on the calendar, the sentimentality of Frank Kapra, and a hazy sense of hope and magic.
That Christmas I woke up to a room full of gifts. It was like a scene from “The Little Princess”.

The packages ranged from funny, funky, two dollar gifts to emerald earrings and matching necklace, and an amazing array in between. Each gift had significance—he explained why he had chosen each one, and each one was a testament to how he had listened to everything I'd ever said to him. And he had wrapped each one himself (quite well). I was overwhelmed to say the least, and speechless—which should be documented for posterity. When I was finally able to verbalize my question, he explained...”I just wanted to give you all the Christmases you never had.”

Holy mistletoe, Batman—what do you do with THAT?! The very next day he continued as if nothing remarkable had happened. A true gift since it was without strings.

Up until the past few months I have never opened a car door, or any door for that matter, in his presence. He has given me what my own parents were not capable of—unconditional love. He teases me, encourages me, believes in me when I'm afraid to believe in myself. He knows exactly when and how to take me by the scruff of the neck and sweetly inform me....”I love you, pupshn...and right now you're being an asshole.”

We have laughed our way through 98% of life's problems, and we have struggled, fought and clung to each other through the other 2%. We have marveled at, laughed at, learned from, accepted and thoroughly enjoyed each other's differences. In that, we have mined and cherished the Treasure of Us. I gave him the passion for gardening; he gave me a passion for golfing. He has taught me to be better with people; I have taught him to be still. We love to go garage saling together, to cook together, to enjoy British comedies together. We love to laugh together.

So now. 570 days into Stage Four Pancreatic Cancer / Neuro-Endocrine Cancer / Surgeries—Radiation—Chemo /This Room in Hell... how do I hold my memories without drowning in the pain of their misty, lavendar-scented fog?

Right now life with Rich is a surreal mix of a 3 year old with autism and an 83 year old with Alzheimers. I ache with the memory of being his wife as I struggle to be his nurse. In the darkest hours I curl myself around the tiny mustard seed inside me and refuse to surrender.