An Anniversary

A month after he died, July 2018, I went to the beach to watch the sunrise with a friend who was with me when the undertakers took Jerry away. That evening I watched the sunset over the Bay, from the porch of what had been our home. I had no intention of doing this. For some reason I found myself there.

That afternoon, after my haircut; I realized that my stylist, Tammy, did not know. I took Tammy aside and told her of Jerry's death. She was stunned. I wish I did't have to do this - but clearly not everyone reads the Rehoboth Blah-Blah. Sometimes people approach me - like the ladies in the post office or neighbors I hardly know (but that Jerry knew all about, usually down to their blood type). I know immediately if they are unaware and I have a word. I am dreading the time when I go to Browseabout Books and tell Jerry's Romanian baristas. That means I will get emotional as well. In public. With scores of sunburnt tourists listening. I only hope Joe Biden doesn't come in.

My friend Michael lost his partner in the aftermath of 9/11 - he was a psychiatrist and volunteering for counselling. Michael wrote a very kind and powerful note sharing his thoughts and experiences of grief. It is like the ocean, he wrote, it waves in and out. You think you are on solid ground and then, and then you realize that you aren't. Another friend, Jim, wrote that the only truism he knows is that without pain there is no joy.

I tell my friends that I really hope, for their sakes, that they die simultaneously with their spouse/partner at age 103. This grieving is not for the weak-hearted. I now know why Queen Victoria was maudlin for decades and why people take to drink or act out or remarry immediately or just wither away.

I feel so sad - sadder than I think I have ever felt before. Sadder than I think I can ever not be.