J.L., Maple Valley, WA, USA
Hi Bhanu! My boyfriend A. died this August after spending more than ten years in a persistent vegetative state. His mother, who decided to withdraw his tube feeding after her husband died this February, sat with him through his final days. My husband and I flew to England to attend his funeral in September while our families looked after our two-year-old. (It was amazing to fly together without a two-year-old.) There were more than forty attendees from all parts of his short, but startling life. I was glad to see A.’s friends and family again and meet his baby nephew, born in March. It felt like everyone was still ten years younger, but more tired, more busy, and more hilarious. Though it feels wrong to say, we were almost slaphappy at the reception, giddy and relieved. I hadn’t expected so many warm hands and smiles. I’m thirty-five now, and this was my first funeral. I grieved for ten years, and now, finally, I’m mourning. It feels like a lid has been lifted off my life. Raw, ebullient, and a little scary. It’s as though there’s now a recipe for moving forward: one part unbound potential, ten parts sadness, a sprinkling of responsibility. I’m moving toward terra nova, but it’s hard some days to get out of bed. These last few weeks and months have been weighty. Previously, I watched people move through their lives at their weddings. Now everyone’s married–or not–and people are getting sick, or their parents are getting sick, and maybe one day their children or partners, or they are working dangerous jobs in war zones or hospitals or prisons, or they are burned out by endless streams of despair or disappointment. It feels as though we are blunted by time, and yet with glimmers of our younger selves here and there. Even the good things take their toll on us. My question is: how does one cope with the progression of life? How to make sense of this rhythm? And, most importantly, how does one hold onto one’s heart? Thank you in advance for your light.
J.L.
BK:
Dear J.L.,
I remember you. I remember your story. I remember the story of your ex-boyfriend. I remember that you live now in Washington State. More than two years ago, or was it five years ago, I read your writing with avid warmth. I remember that through the glass of your living room was a slope of grassy lawn, then a woodland with a stream. Am I imagining that?
By chance, tonight, I made two hearts (with red food coloring, water, and ziploc bags) and put them in the freezer. Tomorrow, I will remove them. At 3.30 pm, I will hold one of them in my hands. But right now, I take one of the almost frozen hearts. Dear JL, imagine that you receive a heart in your cupped hands. Can you tolerate the temperature? Or will you set this heart in the tall grass behind the place where you are living now? Whether you hold on to the heart, or place it on the earth, is up to you. I am sending you much light. Yes, the lid is no longer on your life. Something is glimmering. Something is melting. Yes, it’s too much.
Here you are.
