spring reflection

I saw a cardinal out of the window this morning. It gave me a jolt of joy and hope; spring is coming. Then it occurred to me that this happens every time I see a cardinal. These semi-universal symbols of hope and new beginning convey an idea that resonates with so many. We need to believe that there is a path to something better; a hope that tomorrow will be less painful, further progressed, advanced in some way, when compared with today.

Spending time with a dying person is so different from this. As B became sicker and sicker, he knew often that the future would be much worse. When recovering from several surgeries or procedures there would be a burst of getting-betterness. This could include increasing ability to walk without oxygen or healing from an incision. We would celebrate these wins day by day, partly because we had hope for the future, but mostly out of habit. Throughout life, we look to get over a cold, get through a difficult period at work, await as our children outgrow some difficult phase.

Once the cancer became aggressive, we lived for about a year with the strong suspicion that tomorrow would be wore than today, and with the next month uncertain altogether. Regardless of how dire cancer updates became, B never gave up hope, even up to a few weeks before he died. But he was occasionally sweetly reflective in a quiet moment, often at night, and talked about what this uncertain future was like for him.

Before living in this manner, I would have assumed that this state would teach us to ‘live in the moment’ and ‘be grateful for what we have.’ When death had taken residence in our home, and was slowly taking the life from my special special someone, these platitudes didn’t mean much. I didn’t need to tell myself to be in the present - the moment was all consuming and the safest place to be. Gratitude didn’t need reminders; it was the very air we breathed.

Since the New Year I had been so looking forward to spring, thinking that the seasons were turning with our hearts and I expected the awaited buds on the trees to provide a symbol of fresh days and new beginnings. The cold seemed harsh and unforgiving and I was ready to feel welcomed by the world outside our windows.

But then spring started to happen. Instead, I found myself to be strangely conflicted. Although I know it is what we need to do, I don’t want to say goodbye to the season when I last held B’s hand. Now spring requires us to get on with building our life without B. Yesterday I was alone on the sidelines of Tessa’s first soccer game and then cheered on the benches at basketball with no one to text the scores to. These moments are not just happy and not just sad, but deeply both in that complex way that life can surprise you.

Now I know I must be brave and put one foot in front of the other no matter how much it hurts to do so. But, thankfully, B gave me the gift to make it all possible: This moment is the safest place to be and gratitude is the air I breath.

What is spring to you this year?