Ten Days

The last ten days of Joe’s life was the most difficult, exhausting, terrifying, and deeply sad span of time I have ever experienced. Witnessing family and friends say goodbye, accepting help in ways I have never even considered in the past, and trying to keep him comfortable and safe, as his mind and body separated into two distinct planes of existence—all of it, too much. And then his last precious breath. It was a privilege to hold him; it was also traumatic.

Joe has now been gone for ten days and I am not sure what I feel, frankly. Grief is too obvious and too small a word. Hollow is more appropriate, but not complex enough. I move around the house like a ghost, cleaning shelves and cabinets and closets that had been neglected all summer as we fought through the throes of what would become the final battle. As I clear out the dust and cobwebs, I wonder if I might see an iridescent Joe peek out from behind a doorway or feel a slight brush of his freezing cold feet on my body under the covers. It feels good to complete tasks I had to ignore for so long, but I wonder what I will do with myself when everything is clean. Joe will still not be here. I will still be a ghost.

Today I wanted to look at my novel. So I did. I opened the laptop, and the document, and looked. Yep. It exists. The revisions are not finished but the words are still there. And then I pushed it aside and went to the grocery store. I really needed eggs. And orange juice. And a smaller coffee pot. I’m downsizing an entire life in half. Although I’m leaving every evidence of Joe exactly as it is for now. His clothes, his games, his books, his boots by the door. I love having the proof of our creative, loving, and full life all around me. When I’m in the studio–the room where most of Joe’s games and figures and notebooks are kept–it’s like being inside his brain. It’s a mess, but it’s a beautiful mess. The acrylics and colored pencils, the odd pieces of styrofoam or plastic he collected to turn into terrain, the tiny figures he painstakingly painted, the writing craft books, maps, dice, chess sets, stickers, and an insanely ridiculous number of pens. His laptop. His journals.

The other day, I picked up one of those journals. He was always leaving notebooks around the house, we both did. We both journaled and scribbled notes for story ideas, plotting and brainstorming, and he also had game designs and strategies he was constantly working on. We never looked at each other’s notebooks–I trusted him, he trusted me, and I don’t think that the other person’s notes were all that interesting to either of us anyway. We talked about everything we were doing or dreaming or fearing; there was never a need to snoop. But this one has a dragon on the cover. And I’d seen him writing in it during the last few days he was able to write. So I opened it.

Although he started this at the beginning of our cancer journey, he was not as prolific a journalist when it came to personal thoughts and opinions, as I am. I wish he’d left me hundreds and hundreds of pages of his beautiful handwriting for me to soak in as these lonely days begin to pile up. But his words to me are a gift nonetheless, even the entries in which he was documenting my cranky days. (Thanks for keeping me humble, love.)

Ten days before he died, he wrote this:

I wish I could tell him thank you for making sure I knew that I was loved. Although I never doubted him, he knew how badly I struggled with that, generally speaking. He understood the source and power of the long-running mixtape of misbelief in my head and he left me his dragon journal to remind me to shut that loop off. As this summer wound down, and the inevitable became clear, the one thing I wanted was for everyone to know how much I loved him. Maybe if everyone knew that could save him somehow? Love is supposed to win, dammit.

We should have had so much more time, but I am also grateful for every day—and every word—we did have. And in that way, I suppose love did win.

Now to get through the next ten days…and if anyone needs a pen, I’ve got you covered. Or rather, Joe does.