Back At It

Going back to work today was a good thing.  It was not as bad as I feared.  My anxiety was high when I entered the building, but I made it to my cubicle without seeing or having to talk to anyone.  I had several minutes to settle into the space before anyone spoke to me.  It was what I needed.  The few people I did talk to today were very sensitive and respectful about how much social interaction I could handle.  I really do work with such a wonderful group of people.  It was actually nice and comforting to go in and see familiar faces who genuinely care about me.  Although I feel like my safety is here at home, it did me some good to be out of the house and around kind folks.

I am not saying I am ready to go back to full time or anything like that.  I think my short, little four hour day was the right amount to ease in.  That people mostly left me alone to work in my cubicle was what I needed, minimizing the face-to-face stuff, for now.  I arrived to about 1,500 emails to sort through.  When I left, I was at 500 something.  I don’t have to read them all, some I can just delete based on subject, but there have been a lot of changes in our building in the four months I have been gone.  So, I am just trying to get caught up on all of that.  Tomorrow, I begin computer training for the new system we will be implementing at the end of the week for our clinical work.  I will talk with my supervisors Wednesday about what the upcoming weeks will look like and when I will reabsorb my workload.  That thought is overwhelming, but I will just take it one step at a time.

There were a few parts of today that were sad and had me tearful (especially reading the emails that went out to staff the week that Ron died), but nothing as dramatic as I had worried about.  All in all, a good first day back.  I left feeling actually alright . . . about as alright as I think I have felt in the past four weeks.  Of course I got in my car and started crying and missing him immensely, but still, it was a pretty good day.

I saw the hospice grief counselor before work.  It was another good session with her.  One thing I told her that I have been realizing is how much I am grieving for two versions of Ron.  I am grieving the fragile, cancer-eaten Ron who needed my constant care.  I am also (especially?) grieving healthy Ron from before he got sick . . . the hilarious, debonair, brilliant, willing-to-try-anything and go-with-me-anywhere Ron that I fell in love with the moment I (re)met him.  And, I am grieving our lost future together.  And probably grieving a million more things, but that’s a fair summary of the big issues. 

The counselor mentioned that some people may see my relationship with Ron as being only three years, married for only two months, and think, ‘well, it’s not like they were together that long,’ and may expect me to get over it more quickly or pass it off as less of a big deal as someone who lost their partner of many years.  However, this is precisely what makes it so hard for me.  I didn’t get enough time with Ron (could I ever have had enough, really?).  I don’t have 50 years’ worth of memory lane to stroll through in my head.  Instead, I have three short years, a good chunk of which was spent fighting his health issues.  Anyone who has dealt with cancer knows how all consuming it is . . . how it gobbles up the rest of your life and how you have to actively work at still having any semblance of a relationship in its wake.  As soon as that word was uttered, we entered a whole new territory.  Additionally, it may have only been three years, but I know for myself and I know from talking to Ron that our love was unlike anything either of us had ever experienced before.  We were “it” for one another.  Now I am an it without my it . . . and that really sucks.  Anyway, I really like talking to the grief counselor and am finding it helpful.

I forgot to mention in my last post that Ron’s ashes arrived last Thursday.  [**If you are sensitive about this or don’t want the details, you may want to stop reading this section.**]  It was so surreal to be signing all the forms for my very considerate and sympathetic postal carrier.  I was friendly and grateful that it happened before I went back to work (otherwise, how would I have signed for them?).  Then he left and I was alone.  I fought with the packaging tape, slightly anxious about what would be inside.  After getting through the cardboard shipping box, I found a black plastic container with Ron’s name on it (they also sent a cremation certificate).  Inside was a small-ish, clear plastic bag.  I have never seen cremains before.  Everyone in my family has been buried.  When I looked closely at the contents in the bag, I could make out bone fragments and charcoal-like matter.  Seeing his bones and cradling them in my arms made me cry.  Still, as I held them to my heart, I felt overcome with this very peaceful sensation.  I stood in my kitchen, rocking this bag of bone dust that was once the big, bear-hugging trombone player who used to let me kiss and love him.  Maybe I am crazy, but holding something that was him felt right to me.  I still love him, so much.

When I got home tonight, surfing off some of the ‘feeling pretty good’ energy I got from going to work today, I accomplished a few more items on my To Do List.  I called about getting a turtle tattoo added to the arm where I have Ron’s signature.  They could not get me in tonight, but will see me tomorrow (yikes!  I am scared it is gonna hurt much worse than the name and now I have a full day to worry about it).  I also called a local ceramics artist about making receptacles for Ron’s ashes for me, his parents, and his siblings.  Ron and I have seen her work at every Wheatland Music Festival and last year we almost purchased a container that had a slightly-smirking turtle on the top, perched atop a little branch.  But, it seemed so morbid and Ron was sure he would make it to another Wheatland, so we held off, thinking we would buy it the next year.  Fortunately, the artist is willing to craft some small containers, modeled after this one, for all of us.  She said it will take at least a month, maybe more, to get them all done.  I can be patient.  I look forward to my turtle to hold my Turtle.

For those who wonder about the significance of the turtle . . . I cannot remember if I have already blogged about this or not, so forgive me if I have.  Ron got the nickname Turtle in high school when he was on the swim team . . . in a Speedo . . . weighing in at about 260 pounds.  Legend has it that he always finished each race in last place, but the important thing is that he always finished.  He never gave up.  We all saw this is true to his nature as he fought his terminal prognosis to the very end, patient, and never giving up the hope of having another day to enjoy. 

The turtle holds even more significance to me in my relationship with Ron.  My whole life, I have associated with the rabbit.  I remember learning about totem animals about 20 years ago and declaring that mine was the rabbit.  I’ve collected a few rabbit figure that seemed to speak to me over the years.  Something about their nervous, frantic energy resonates with me.  So, if I am the Rabbit and Ron is the Turtle, we each balanced the other out.  He helped me to take it easy and more fully experience things – to stop and bask in the sun.  I helped him to speed it up a little in order to do more and see more – to be on the move.  As Ron said, he was the brakes and I was the gas.  Balance.  He was the tortoise and I was the hare.  Balance.  For now, I am planning on just getting the turtle tattoo, in honor of Ron, but there may come a day when I add the rabbit to the mix.  Balance.  In the meantime, I try to honor Ron by incorporating into my daily life what the Turtle taught me during our time together.  

If he were here, he’d echo, “Balance, Babydoll, balance.”