Labor Day weekend

It’s getting a little less fun to play the year-ago-today game. Time passes so slowly now; a year ago feels like a lifetime and indeed it is one. Last year on Labor Day weekend, even though it probably wasn’t true, it felt like everyone around us was celebrating something - the end of summer, the beginning of school, the art of BBQ, getting together with friends. I felt so alone and out of synch with the sun and bustle of a long weekend.

B was recovering from surgery; his body was flush with fluids, making him both skinny and bulky at the same time. He had oxygen tanks for the stairs and was regaining mobility, walking circles around our first floor for exercise. At the time I thought he was really sick - of course not yet knowing how sick someone could be and still be alive.

A year ago this weekend, B was no longer able to drive or attend to the house and cars, and he was out of touch with school and extracurricular activities. Yet, in most ways that count, he was still B. Each day he would make it down the stairs, and I would bring him a love latte from Peets. He was always either at the kitchen table or on the couch in the living room. We could still discuss the kids and parenting and what to do with the HVAC and the roof, or how to handle this situation at work.

In the kitchen he would be reviewing documents for his own work, or - and I kid you not - reading books about law or coding. He was making his way through a tome to improve his coding skills. He was also reading legal theory and about the history of law in the US. Sometimes he would also be reading medical journal articles on pancreatic cancer, related cancers, various treatment methodologies. His WWII mystery novels were all upstairs.

We were mostly just living in this normal, but there was an ominous taut suspension in the air. Although we hadn’t given up hope, we knew that there wasn’t much time… and we knew that it would be worse ahead. I tried to live in the moment, in gratitude, finding joy in togetherness, trying not to look too far ahead. At least he was here and with us.

But how do you not give into the fear and the anticipated loss at least some time? I remember dropping each kid off somewhere and then parking the car on a side street. I called Kara, feeling bereft and alone, reaching out sobbing from the bottom of a well. She listened and loved and pulled me out. Twenty minutes later I drove home; there were moments but not hours for true despair. I didn’t like to leave B for long.

As I look back, only now can I truly understand how hard it was. I miss B this Labor Day weekend. If it is possible, I miss him and his cancer and the honest raw moment of humanness that comes from being present with despair and love in the same breath. But I don’t miss the suspense and the suffering.

This year on Labor Day weekend, we went to the pool, ordered pizza, and stayed too late. We have plans for next summer. The kids are running around Lexington with their friends and are amped up for a new school year. They have fresh beginnings. The yard is getting its fence finally. Tomorrow looks bright and better than yesterday.

It is just normal. We feel optimistimc. What a gift.