I’m underwater and my feet aren’t touching bottom yet. How much deeper can I go?

My Journal – September 9, 2010

During the “now normal,” I’ve tried to connect more with pen and paper–something simpler that transcends the weird times we’re currently living in. But, sometimes, nothing beats my digital diary Day One that I’ve been using for years. I’ve begun jotting down some thoughts early each morning before the day starts. I always have my iPad handy, so it’s easy and satisfying.

It offers a feature called “On This Day” that shows you historical entries made on today’s date in previous years. Today’s date had two entries:

• First Day of Radiation at 7:11 a.m., when I talk about today’s date being the first day of Ken’s 5-week radiation schedule, optimistic that he’ll get some pain relief.
• In Crisis at 9:06 p.m., when I talk about how I was grilling dinner outside and sobbing into the phone, talking to a friend about how lost I felt in terms of how to deal with the unspoken truth that Ken’s cancer was terminal.

The first entry made sense to me, but I was surprised–pleasantly–that I no longer measured the passage of time in milestones from my life with Ken–the difficult ones, at least. Certainly, some dates are still meaningful to me, but from this vantage point, it’s difficult to remember all of them. I don’t remember the first part of the day, but when I read the second entry about feeling like I was in crisis, I remembered the feeling around it. I was terrified that I wouldn’t handle the emotional stress of our situation and fail in supporting Ken and seeing him through something so devastating.

During our then-nine years together, I’d always been honest with Ken. We’d shared everything with each other–the bad as well as the good. But when his cancer returned around the time of this entry, our relationship splintered in some ways for me. I wouldn’t burden him with the mechanics of how I was dealing with things. He was dealing with enough. And what I mean by that is I cared for him openly, but performed self-care much more subtly–though I told him when I was going to therapy. I knew my life then was like the instructions you hear on an airplane: deploy your own oxygen before helping anyone else. Selfishness belies self-preservation.

When I read these entries, I’m not reading about me–the Now Me. It seems like a previous life–and in so many ways, it is. I’ve wept for this guy as I’ve read his words, as he pierced his heart to let the words flow onto the page, unfiltered. I feel honored he trusted me to read these words years later. He impresses me still. Standing steadfast alongside his husband–outwardly projecting humor and as much confidence as he could muster, though inside, he swirled with doubt and sadness that he (thankfully) didn’t have time to pay attention to.

This guy’s journal was the single most significant part of his self-care routine. I never thought I’d need to read it to remember how I was feeling at a time I thought I could never possibly forget–especially the pain. But getting a glimpse of this guy once in a while–everything he was thinking–reminds me of the grit I posses when needed. And given the state of the world now, it’s a reminder I’m forever grateful for.