A ramble through a tired mind …

The psychoanalyst Frieda Fromm-Reichmann once remarked that it’s difficult for most people to retain vivid recollections of times when they were very lonely. “This isn’t because the experience isn’t striking; it’s because it’s almost unbearably so. Loneliness presents a threat to a person’ integrity and well-being to the very sense of who one is. Loneliness is so awful that people will do practically anything to avoid it.”

Oh, if only lonely people were so lucky as to simply avoid it. Instead of spiraling into a rant about loneliness, I’d rather focus on the differentiation between loneliness and the need to be left alone. There is a difference, though the two are often confused with the other. For me, I vacillate between wanting to be with friends and wanting to be by myself; from feeling isolated to feeling crowded; from feeling complete while alone, and empty when in the company of others. It’s odd the tendency to want to be left alone during times of grief. It’s a difficult and oftentimes, fluctuating balance. The feeling defies the notion that there’s comfort in numbers. When we were with Craig, I felt anxious to go out, to leave Craig’s apartment, to again be a part of the outside world. When I did, I had the urge to rush back to our safe base, to Craig and the life we had created where the pieces somehow fit, albeit awkwardly. It made sense then. Our routine was secure. Variation was unnecessary. Being a family made sense. The “what then?” question was something we saved for later.

Now that it’s all over, we find ourselves in the tricky spot of figuring out our lives. How do we resume our lives? How do make once familiar pieces of a family of six fit our new and complicated puzzle? And how do we fit back into what was? It’s hard to remember what life was like before all of this. What were our activities then? How did we communicate with people without dropping the big C? What was it like when relationships were normal, and before conversations were so dire?

As people talk about new jobs, babies, relationships, and travel, I can’t help but pine for how things used to be. My thoughts are always drifting between here and what was. I’m not locked in the present long enough to connect with people or their life stories. Once the ever patient listener, my mind now flutters in and out of conversations like an emotional nomad with no fixed roots. 'Is constructing sentences coherent difficult'...or so I say. Talking at all is a feat; for it to be somewhat intelligible is a triumph. Fourteen months of complex living has a way of overburdening the mind to where even simple sentences are difficult. Craig could relate. He often spoke of the fickleness of speech, especially in times of stress. In times like these, I wish different variations of grunting were allowed.

When I am present, it’s hard to muster the enthusiasm or energy needed to celebrate another’s life. I feel emotionally empty and distracted, shut out of that distant world of happiness and ease. When your mind is panting from sprinting the distance between two distant poles of normal and absolutely not, the last thing you feel like doing is explaining. But being alone is tough too. The balance ...

I'm different from who I was pre-cancer and falling into place just doesn’t seem possible. I remember talking to two of my best friends about the possibility of leaving Bangkok for good. In March, it seemed like a real possibility, and in May, an even firmer bet. Now as I type in October, I feel that may be the ultimate choice. Though I’d love more than anything to resume my life in Bangkok, to go back to work with some of the most brilliant minds working in development, I’m not sure the old life is waiting for me, or I it. When life has been altered so drastically, it’s hard to imagine picking up where things left off or finding your heart after such a long absence.

Often, in the face of tragedy, more change is needed. Risking loneliness and an unfamiliar world, it's common for people to relocate and start over. I understand this tendency. On the one hand, leaving creates a clean break. It offers a certain anonymity, that, for some, is needed. To avoid questions and scrutiny and questions about whether someone has changed after distance is attractive. Starting anew would be akin to a rebirth – a cleansing with no history and no expectations. Change would provide space to process, to be oneself again -- free and clear. On the other hand, there's an element of insincerity in the sentiment. For me, I could no more slash and burn my old life than I could leave Craig when he was sick. Leaving friends after so much personal loss would be painful.

How to make it all fit is the question. I feel like I’ve been cowering in a den for a year. People have moved on. They’ve married and had babies and continued with lucrative careers. To emerge changed yet be expected to reengage life is terrifying. How do we fit in with such a void? How do we not erupt over people taking life for granted? How do we not blow up over the guy who grabs his kid so hard that it spills the drink out of his hands? Or colleagues who care more about their professional accolades than their impact? Or job demands that trend more on the busy work than anything substantial? How do we answer asinine interview questions about strengths and weaknesses after all that we’ve gone through? (People take themselves way too seriously. Strength=biceps and chest; weakness= I guess quads and calves could use some work.)

For so long, we’ve been caught in the frenzy of cancer. And while we’ve lost Craig and Mom, the journey hasn’t ended. We still have our own lives to figure out. I’m sure there will come lonely periods, and though I might try to avoid them, as the famed psychoanalyst might suggest, they may decide to linger. The challenge we have is recognizing the loneliness with the need to be left alone, and the need to change and “run-away” and all the emotions that come with it. That is, after all, the challenge. We’re two days off our final funeral service. I have no idea how the next months will play out, or how we’ll be doing a year from now. In many respects, the hard life has yet to come. But, like always, we’re taking one day at a time … --J