Roy and I left for Belize on February 8, 2014, which would be our last vacation together and only a few weeks before his death. I now know that his body was wracked with horrific gastric cancer and metastatic disease that had spread to his liver and spine. Had we been paying close attention we would have noticed that his appetite had diminished significantly; usually investigating new cuisine was exciting, and he was always eager to explore all aspects of culture in a new city. He spent what for him was an unusual amount of time sleeping and resting. If Roy had any idea that he was very ill, he did not reveal his concern to me. We both rationalized his tiredness and sluggish appetite to a busy schedule at work, and growing older. I remember being a bit frustrated at how disengaged he seemed, but Roy, an introvert, kept many feelings and thoughts to himself. The timing for our last vacation was a bit unfortunate because an unanticipated FDA audit had been announced at work. He stayed close to his computer and phone balancing a potential work crisis with our time away. No tangible red flags warned us to pay astute attention to the details of life as his impending death swirled above us like a vulture.
Three hundred and three days have passed since Roy died. Last week I attended “From the Depths of Winter,” an urban grief retreat focused on the exploration of darkness and lightness in one’s grief journey. Roy and I started a yearly vacation retreat to celebrate our winter birthdays and to flee the darkness of Seattle’s November to June gloom. Hawaii was often our escape destination; a bid at a fundraising auction in the fall of 2013 ended that tradition. Belize became our winter escape in 2014. Our vacation was spent in a semi-rainforest just south of Punta Gorda. The weather in February was warm and moist, the sun hid behind clouds and tall vegetation most days; still, the vacation provided a break from the bone chilling dampness of the Pacific Northwest. As I reflect on our last adventure, I think about the picture I took on Valentine’s Day at an evening dance in Punta Gorda. The night was dark and somewhat hazy, but the moonlight penetrated the mist enough creating a soft silhouette over the seashore.
I am grateful that the darkness of grief has not engulfed me. I travel from darkness to lightness and back again across the glass bridge daily. This picture reminds me to notice the dialectical relationship between lightness and darkness. “Look up, I tell myself, the earth is a metaphor for life.” Roy and I talked about the magnificence of the moonrise that Valentine’s night; the last time we stood gazing upwards toward the sky from the same vantage point.
I continue to leave the light shining on Roy’s chair at night. The round beam cast from the overhead light fixture streams like a moonbeam. I feel his spirit watching over me as I sleep. He sits there with his shoes off and wearing his red plaid shirt. He is absorbed in a late night computer game with his ears open to any unexpected noises. I feel safe.
Our early morning walks along Lake Washington, were daily evidence of which side of the solstice we were riding; lightness and darkness witnessed from season to season. In the winter 5:30 AM felt like the middle of the night. We joked about the crack of dawn in Seattle. “It doesn’t exist in the winter!” he would say. In the spring and summer we liked to watch the sunrise over Lake Washington, gazing at the red skyline; dawn casting shadows on the Cascade Mountains. We enjoyed Valentine’s Day for fun, but it did not generate romantic energy in our lives. We did not exchange gifts or cards on our last Valentine’s Day, why would we when we could stand at the shore of Punta Gorda bay and bathe in the moonlight?
Dear Deborah, Thank you for this eloquent, evocative piece. Lightness and darkness, here and there, then and now, we and me, things and experiences–so many resonant pairings. As Quakers say, I’m holding you in the light. With love, Lisa