Resilience (June 23, 2022)

 

Today was my first day back at work, after being gone for just over 8 weeks. It's been a little over 5 weeks since Scott left. I'm thankful that I was able to take this time off. I was nervous about going back to work, wondering if I would be able to keep it together. But I felt like the time was right, and today it felt good to be back. To keep things manageable, I'm working remotely for the first few days and will start going into the office next week. My group has been running well in my absence, and they seem glad to see me, which was the best case scenario that I could hope for. I'm still a long way from 100%, but I think people understand and expect that.

Of course, even "best case scenario" in these circumstances is incredibly hard. I miss being able to give Scott hugs during the day and spending time with him in the evenings. Today was nice, but eventually I'll encounter something stressful, and I'll miss having Scott there to comfort and reassure me that things will be OK, that I can do this. I miss going to him with my problems and getting his advice. I miss his sense of humor and his laughter. During the pandemic, Scott and I used to go on a walk every evening. We became known in the neighborhood as "the nice couple that holds hands." Now when I go on a walk, either by myself or with my Mom, neighbors will occasionally ask where Scott is. I don't think it will ever get easier to explain. Thankfully the neighbors who do know have been wonderful and even a few I didn't know have stopped by to ask how I'm doing.

Prior to Scott's cancer diagnosis, I thought of myself as a resilient person. I still think of myself as resilient, but I understand better now how bouncing back can be difficult. Scott's diagnosis felt like a nuclear bomb had gone off in our lives, leaving devastation in its wake. Eventually we were able to build a new life for ourselves and enjoy the blessings that came even during cancer and treatment. During that time, Scott commented, "I really like that we make a home for ourselves wherever we are." Now Scott is gone, and it feels like another nuclear bomb has gone off and I have no idea where home is anymore.

During Scott's Azedra treatments in Philadelphia, I could only visit him for limited periods of time due to how radioactive he was. On one of the days I drove to Longwood Gardens to walk around in their Conservatory. It was a cold February day, but the Conservatory was warm and filled with sunlight and orchids and all kinds of flowers and trees. I walked around for about an hour and a half and felt like I had escaped winter and it lifted my spirits. I was listening to music in the car and humming to myself on the way back to the hospital when suddenly the thought came: "Life will go on. You can go on." It was as clear and unexpected as if someone had spoken it to me. In that moment I knew it to be true, and was immediately overwhelmed by a wave of grief that I must go on, and that I could.

In the last few weeks of Scott's life, I shared that experience with him. I had conflicted feelings about it myself and wasn't sure how he would take it, but he was worried about what would happen to me after he was gone. He seemed both encouraged and relieved when I told him about it, and I promised him that I would try to have a meaningful and happy life, even if I had (and still have) no idea what that would look like without him. After the horrors of Scott's diagnosis and treatments and death, there were times when my thoughts turned dark, wondering what I might lose next.

And yet I still respond to the beauty of a sunset, or a song I like. Sometimes the cognitive dissonance is jarring. How can the world hold such beauty and such horror at the same time?

Like plants reaching for the sun, I think humans are wired to always reach for hope and happiness, no matter how many times they've been crushed.