One Bite At A Time

 

I select the silver package with its navy-blue emblem from a jar filled with thirty others just like this one. Unwrapping it carefully, I bite into the chocolate and the fresh taste of peppermint transports me back in time. Who knew candy had such power? Maybe if I quickly ate the whole bag, I could undo what happened six months ago.

He used to bring me York Peppermint Patties.

I’d find them in the refrigerator waiting for me and knew they were another love note from him. Now I buy them for myself, crying as I eat them. Maybe I should switch to his favorite candy—what was that again? God, I can’t remember what Rob bought from the candy aisle for himself.

This is the fear of grief. That I’ll forget. And if I forget, he’ll disappear. I’m already in charge of his memories, and that’s a big mistake. He was the one with the filing cabinet memory, not me. He knew the number name of every road we ever traveled on. Excuse me while I yawn again. Honestly. If you’re going to give a road a name, make it interesting. Haven’t you ever read Anne of Green Gables?

I’d ask him as we charted a course for our next adventure, “Have we ever been on that road before/in that town before/at that restaurant in that town off that road before?”

“Sure,” he’d say. “Remember? We passed that little gas station on the east side with the bright blue walls and the busted-up parking lot?”

Right. Just like every other little gas station in every other little po-dunk town we ever drove through. I’d swear he was making things up and even say that out loud—right up until the moment when we drove down that numbered highway and passed that ramshackle gas station he remembered as clearly as his own name.

His own name. Robert L. McLeod III. I don’t want it to be forgotten. Not ever. I tried to get the bank to say I could sign the checks on the account that only belongs to me now as “Mrs. Robert L. McLeod,” to keep his name alive. To keep my connection with him alive. They wouldn’t let me. Now I just have boring checks bearing only my name that flash in neon the admission, “Widow.”

That’s not a name I ever wanted for myself. I just wanted to be Rob’s wife.

The remembering of everything we spent forty-four years doing is hard right now. Often, I can’t recall much at all, which scares me to death. Not because I’m afraid I have some as-yet-undiagnosed brain disorder, but because I’m afraid the life that once was, which was my world, will disappear right along with Rob if I can’t let it come close to me. It’s the reason many of us in grief are so torn by it—the pain is impossibly hard but, as time softens it, we will lose more of the one who is already gone from our side. Picture yourself set adrift on a raft, floating farther and farther away from the one you love and the life you shared until it becomes a tiny speck in the distance. That’s the fear.

There’s a great deal about grief I didn’t understand until I found myself here wondering how anyone survives it. The most surprising thing so far, though, is how difficult it is to remember all that I’ve lost with Rob’s death. I can’t sit and bring up the happy memories very much. It’s too painful. This is my brain protecting me from the overwhelming truth that Rob is gone. I suppose that sounds crazy. After all, we just passed the six-month mark. By now, she should realize he’s not coming back, right?

It’s not that simple. I have to learn how to live in the void created by Rob’s absence. Without a home of my own yet. With everything we gathered over half a decade, whatever I kept once I sold our home in Heber, it’s all placed in storage. My life has completely changed. There are mini-losses everywhere, every day. The fact that he’ll never ride in the beautiful new Tahoe I just bought, and most of the time I’ll never ride in the passenger seat. Our dog will never again chase a ball thrown by his master’s amazing arm. We’ll never watch Rob blow out a birthday candle. We’ll never celebrate our golden anniversary together.

All the “nevers” make it difficult to retrieve the “remember when’s” that I alone am in charge of now. But I will. In time. However long I need, in that much time. It’s just another reminder of how little control we actually have in this life. I don’t even know when I’ll be able to laugh freely and remember easily all the beauty of the life I had as Mrs. Robert L. McLeod III.

Still, when I nibble that York Peppermint Patty, it takes me back. Maybe one small bite at a time, I’ll get there.