Learning to Focus on the Happy Times

In this picture, Art is sitting on a wall overlooking a harbor in Marblehead, Massachusetts. When I downloaded the pictures I took on August 31, 2008, this one, in particular, took my attention. I loved it because of the beautiful view, and because Art was sitting quietly enjoying the view completely unaware that I was taking the picture.

I have this picture as "wallpaper" on my computer desktop, so I see it every time I turn on my computer, which is every day. Since Art's death, this picture has taken on an entirely new meaning for me. When I look at it now, I find myself wondering what Art was thinking that day. He hadn't felt well for a couple of days, but still seemed to be enjoying the visit with our son and daughter-in-law. Thinking about it now, exactly two years later, I went back and looked at all the other pictures I took that day and found two other shots of Art, standing alone, with his hands in his back pockets (a familiar pose), seemingly lost in thought. Was he feeling worse than he let on? Was he experiencing the first symptoms of lymphoma? Could he possibly have had a premonition that something life threatening (and ultimately life taking) was about to happen? Did he suspect that he would never feel totally healthy again?

Of course, I can never know the answers to those questions—and there is certainly nothing to be gained by obsessing over them—so I've decided to make a concerted effort to remember the happier moments associated with Art's last visit to the Boston area, where our son Mark and his wife were living at the time. For Art, the happiest moment of the trip came the very next day when he and Mark went to a Boston Red Sox game.  Art was always a Red Sox fan, and had actually planned to take me to a game when we were on our honeymoon. Unfortunately, that didn't work out, and he had to wait  46 years to see the Red Sox play at Fenway Park.

What I'm choosing to remember when I look at this picture now is that, thanks to Mark, Art got to see the Red Sox play in Fenway Park before he died. If he had had a bucket list, I'm sure that would have been on it.

Marking Time

I've recently noticed that I am now keeping track of events in my life based on whether they happened before Art got sick or after he died. I don't know if my friends have noticed. I suspect they probably have. I hope they aren't finding it too morbid. Actually, I don't think it's unusual for people to use traumatic events as sign posts, of sorts, in their lives. Most people in my generation can remember exactly where they were and what they were doing the day President Kennedy was assassinated; and today many Americans point to September 11,  2001 as the day life in America changed forever.

Lately, I've also been thinking about what is going to be different about my life now that I've officially passed the first anniversary of Art's death. I haven't figured it out yet. However, it has occurred to me that during this first year without Art I have been living my life, at least subconsciously, as if this were just a temporary situation—as if he'd be back and life would return to normal at some unspecified time in the future. It seems like I've just been drifting through each day, trying to keep busy, trying not to spend too much time wallowing in my grief. Obviously, I know Art is not coming back, but something has been keeping me  from fully accepting the finality of it all. I can't seem to bring myself to finish getting rid of the rest of his clothes, and his shoes, tools, camera equipment, golf clubs… It's possible that I'm just being lazy, but I suspect it's not that simple.

Last night the Florida sunset was breathtakingly beautiful and I walked out on the lanai to get a better view. While standing there watching the color change from pink to bright red, I was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness and began to cry. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's the realization that this isn't temporary.