5 years

 

5 years. I asked my therapist why this one seems so big. She said, "because it is."

Today one of my kids said, "I wonder if he'd even recognize me - so much has changed - I've changed. My hair, my life, my voice . . ."

I couldn't answer, because I often wonder the same thing. I wonder if he'd even know who I was - if any of the life we shared matters to him at all now -  if wherever he is is so big and beautiful and important that he's forgotten us completely. So I just say, "I know he'd be so proud of you - of all of you."

"Mom," there was a pause. "He'd be proud of you too. You kept us safe, you held everything together and protected us from the worst of it."

The last part isn't true - there's no way to protect a child from watching cancer devour their dad.  Still, it it is exactly the type of thing he'd say and I dissolve into grateful tears. It's like that time he put the kids in charge of my last Christmas present - he knew he wouldn't be here, but still knew I'd need to receive it.

We cried together - me and this kid. And then we laughed together. The therapist told me to focus on feeling our feels this week, and I'm grateful for kids who know what that means and aren't afraid to feel things together. It did not take long after the tears for the laughter to start. We don't know if he'd recognize us, but we know what he'd be doing if he were here.

He'd be bragging about Nika's art and telling anyone who'd listen about that time she sang in front of 700 people, and had a lead role in the summer show. He'd be thrilled with her New York obsession and we'd go wayyyy more often. He'd be teaching her to drive and she might actually learn to parallel park.

He'd tell everyone that Kaia was a doctor. She'd say, "No, Rico,  not yet,  just a therapist, I'm still in school." He'd wave her off and say"close enough." He'd want to go to Baltimore all of the damn time, just so he'd be close to good bagels, "real" pizza and so all five of us could be together.

He'd be helping build sets and ushering for all of Noah's shows at Arcadia. He'd try every single new pizza topping that Noah concocts and finally get the hang of sending memes back and forth.

He'd visit his grandkids - four of them now: Cole, Harmoni, Case and Amari. He'd plan a big vacation in a big ol' VRBO so we could be surrounded by all of his kids and their families.

I like to think he'd forgive me for the mistakes I made while he was here, and the mistakes I've made since. There seem to be so many.

It's funny the guilt you carry with grief. When I was six, I got to viva my mom in the hospital - just once. She asked me to bring her back a hostess cupcake. It was the only food she'd craved for weeks. My dad and uncle drove me to every 7-11 in the metro, They drove me back in a tearful panic, and I carried that until my own kids turned six and I realized she was probably trying to get me out of the room.

When Rico was sick, we had a tradition of planing a new trip each day. We'd talk about where we'd go, who we'd invite, what we'd eat, the music we'd play - all when he got better. Every morning he'd ask "where we going today J?" I'd tell him all of the details of an Italian adventure, or snorkeling off the coast of Greece.  He's smile and tell me each one was a particularly good one. 

But one day, towards the end, I walked into the hospice room and he was mad. Furious even.  I sat down next to him, and he said "Why have you been lying to me? Why are you planning these adventures when we'll never get to go?"

I lost my words.  We'd talked about dying - he knew. But he would often spend his days dreaming, saying things like,  "We'll have the neighbors over for a barbecue when I'm better."  I would cry silent tears and agree, that when he got better we'd have a huge party - we'd fill the room and toast drinks and tell jokes when he was better.  

But he was also right - we'd never take those adventures - not together. 

So I held his hand and apologized. I told him that I was sorry, told him it was unfair of me,  told him I would stop. And then, there was a was a flash, behind his eyes, just a flicker and he said "James, don't stop, those adventures are the best part of my day."

There were two of him in the room - both of them my husband. There was the guy who was my secret keeper, where we lived in total honesty - and there was the guy who loved living, dreaming, adventuring no matter the cost.  I wasn't sure who to believe. 

I chose the one who spoke last. That day we bought a house on Zillow. It was a $3.5 million dollar oceanfront villa in Hawaii. We had a pool and a waterfall, and a guest house for all of our visitors. We'd have a luau when we got settled.

But I still carry the guilt of that lie, that dream, that wish - no matter what I call it, it feels like failing.

I started the day with tears, dropped 500 rose-petals on his grave, one for every person, place or thing he loved.  

I ended the day with tears. sitting outside the hospice center, still mad at myself. My best friend sitting next to me to make sure I don't get abducted or arrested on the dark sidewalks

Today was hard, but I know it will get better. It always does. I hope he still knows who we are - no matter where he goes.

And we did have that party - a huge one. I'm pretty sure he was there.