one year

 It's been a year.

No really.

It's

been

one

year.

One year ago today that Kaia and Rico and I sat in the pre-op room of St. Mary's hospital at Mayo. We made fun of him for answering texts 10 minutes before brain surgery. We contemplated, not what horrible things could happen during surgery - but what things could possibly go right - like that John Travolta movie Phenomenon - we hoped for super powers like ESP, invisibility, the ability to move things with our mind and of course Rico's wish  - the "ability to always make sound financial decisions".

We walked as far as they would allow us to follow him down the corridor, then I kissed him goodbye and looked into his eyes for the last time. 

His eyes were never the same again.

Neither was he.

By 8:30 that night he was legally blind, mostly paralyzed and could only say three words - three words he kept repeating over and over.

J.

Help.

Me.

Of course he couldn't tell me what help looked like, and by the time the seizures and panic set in, Kaia and I had to physically restrain him with all of our might while nurses called for back up. All the while, he is blind and scared and can only say, "J, help me."

If you've been following along, you know how it goes from there - worse, then better, then worse, then really worse, then over.

But it is a little different for me. About some things I have a photographic memory. I also suffer from what my therapist calls "Anniversary Syndrome". For some reason, anniversaries hit hard - and memories replay like films in my mind. I cannot control them, I cannot stop them, I just relive them - every sight, sound, sensation - it happens all over again.

So I figured that if I was destined to relive it all anyway, I might as well do it in the right place - in the hospital next to Dr. Mayo's lucky surgery spoon and The Canadian Honker's coconut cake. 

The world is a really beautiful place and tends to give you just what you need just when you need it. Today was no exception. I have never had to be at Mayo alone unless I really wanted to be. I didn't know what I wanted today, so one of Rico's very good friends Michael (who has become a very good friend to all of us) volunteered to drive me to Rochester.

Even though I wasn't sure what I wanted, it became pretty clear that what I needed was to re-narrate the entire day, if not the entire experience out loud. 

Poor, sweet Michael nodded enthusiastically when I showed him the paintings of all the nuns, and rambled on about how Rico insisted on finding the one remaining live one to thank her for this great hospital. Michael grimaced with just the appropriate level of disgust when I pointed out the lucky spoon and the rest of the bite-on-this-stick-while-we-cover-your-face-with-an-ether-soaked-handkercheif-era surgical tools. He followed quietly when I led him down the hallway to Rico's room in the rehab building and listened politely while I bitched and moaned about how it didn't do anything but keep him away from us for a month. He sat on a bench while I meandered and cried for 30 minutes in the garden underneath Rico's ICU ward window. He hugged me when I came out of the bathroom with a tear-streaked face after screaming "Why did you leave me?!" into the mirror half a dozen times. He hopped on an electric scooter and followed me at 15 mph to get to the clinic, where we rode the elevators up and down the Gonda building. He watched from a distance as I turned in circles face to the sun, in the very spot where Rico and I danced to our song with a friend's band playing in the background. He held my bag while I dug for Rico's "stay curious" buttons to leave behind for total strangers.

Everything was happening all over again for me. 

I could see Rico, hear him,  feel his hand in mine. I saw Nika cruising down the hallways on her pink scooter looking for her daddy's room. I know what I was wearing, what we were eating, every doctor's name, the sounds of their voices. It was all so much.

Too much.

So as I waded in the fountain that was nothing but construction dust a year ago, I cried - huge, wracking sobs and torrents of tears, begging Rico to send me a sign - anything, anything at all to tell me that he didn't leave me, that he still loved me, that he knew I still loved him. I told him it didn't matter what he sent - a bird, a leaf in the wind - anything - I'd know if he'd just DO SOMETHING.

I looked down.

The words in the fountain - the words I was standing on said:

 In the chaos, they appeared

And I could hear Rico - hear him just the way he would have said it, "Baby, I did send you something. You just don't want to believe I'd send other people to do my job."

My brain shouted "NO."

But his voice was calm inside of me, "Yes, James. Yes."

And I knew. 

Michael who didn't think I should be driving alone.

Ann, who said - just drop stuff on my desk and I'll figure out your tax nightmare.

Adam, who just took care of legal stuff - he just did.

Tom, who reminds me what days the dump is open, shows me how to use the snowblower no matter how many times I ask, and still toasts McDonald's coffee to Rico.

Maria, who gets up extra early so Nika can hitch a ride to school with her - because Nika hates the bus and I hate the morning.

Sofia, Heather and Matthew at the bank who just look at whatever pile of crap I walk in with and say, "We got you, we'll figure it out."

Tamsen, who held a whole studio together for a year.

Eric, who texts to congratulate Noah on his first real job. The closest thing he'll get to hearing it from Rico.

The whole damn town who rallied around us when we needed it most.

In the chaos, they appeared

I took a picture in the garden of St. Mary's hospital. It is two necklaces.

The first is the flip flop - I wore it ever since Rico's first diagnosis with sarcoma. It served as a reminder that things won't always feel this way. Five years of reminders that no matter how crappy things may seem- nothing is permanent.

The second is a swirling galaxy of ashes that used to be my husband. An ironic reminder that some things are irreversible. Some things cannot be changed.

But Rico is like that swirling universe - he is still here, he is everywhere. He'll never really leave us - because he gave us all of you.