At first the nights were uneventful. After I put Jacob to bed, we stayed up watching mindless TV together (some new series on Netflix that, it quickly occurred to me, he would never live to see the end of). There were the occasional trips to the bathroom in the middle of the night, which required creating a new routine, getting slippers on Joe's feet, then helping him in and out of the clunky wheelchair he needed because walking had become too difficult. There might be a request for water here and there, or back scratches to ease the itching caused by the hospital bed and residual pain medications. And there were definitely a few tough late-night conversations regarding Joe's wishes, which resulted in an overwhelming calm on Joe's part and a forcibly hushed panic on mine. It was all so surreal, like walking through your house that has been turned upside down; everything looks somewhat familiar, but you're not sure how to navigate your way through it anymore. All that was once safe and predictable, was strange. And the "normal" day to day stresses - work, traffic, bank accounts, housework, old arguments about parenting styles; they didn't matter anymore. Life narrowed to that one room, as everything unnecessary dropped away.
Then, nearly two weeks into our hospice venture, Joe asked me for a flashlight, a simple request. (I'm not sure if this is common in all those nearing death, but Joe became nocturnal, sleeping through most of the day and highly active at night.) He said he needed the flashlight to find items on his bedside table, so he wouldn't have to wake me up to get things for him - that was how it started anyway. But the very next night he started "journeying." I woke up several times during the night to find Joe waving the flashlight at the wall in front of him, looking as if he was staring down a long hallway or tunnel, trying to get someone's attention, squinting his eyes to get a better look. I asked him what was wrong, and he answered without lifting his gaze from whatever held his attention ahead. "Nothing," he replied. It was frightening at first. My initial instinct was to call him back. I didn't know what he saw, I just knew I didn't want him to go towards it. "Joe......Joe!" But he was already stepping onto a bridge, somewhere between the here and there, gazing forward with intense interest. All I could do was be present to witness it.
The next day, he journeyed even longer. He could come back when we asked him questions, but he spent a good portion of his time looking past everyone in the room, drifting. He started talking about things that we couldn't see, fixated on the wall ahead. The more his eyes gazed past us, the more I watched him, fascinated, frozen with the realization that something not bound to the rules of the physical world was approaching. On March 12th, around 11:00am, he made his way across the bridge, through the tunnel to the other side. He didn't need his body to get there, so he left it behind. That's exactly what it felt (and looked) like.
Since his death, I have taken Joe's place as the drifter, frequently gazing off into the distance. I am transported to another realm, somewhere between the here and there, looking for him. It's a place we can catch up, if only in my mind. I let myself drift to that place in the light of day or the quiet of night, sometimes right in the middle of a conversation or in a crowded room, staring blankly at the floor or wall ahead. When and where rarely make sense and are hardly ever convenient. It could be a familiar song or smell, and I'm gone, staring blankly at the wall, past anyone in my path. Jacob calls to me, "Mom......Mom!" And I snap out of it.
To live a "woke" life we're supposed to attempt to remain in the present moment. I know, I've read the books. But these days, being awake hurts. Most times I'm happy to gaze into the past, back to a time when life was light and warm. I find Joe there laughing and smiling, grabbing me around the waist, kissing the top of my head, and laughing at some inside joke we had together. Sometimes I feel like I could stay gone forever. Then I blink or get summoned, and I'm ripped back to the present. Everything is so bright and defined here, no space for the gray inconsistencies
of grief. There are sharp edges around every corner. Everything hurts to touch.
I drift so I can breathe.
Maybe there will come a day when Joe's absence won't fill up the present with the weight it does now. Maybe someday I will learn to carry the loss without needing to drift. Or maybe my life will grow around the holes left by his death, filling them in with equal parts memory and new beginning. Until then, I will cherish the drift, lost in a griever's gaze, praying that the sting of life without him will have eased some when I return.
