It’s been one year since Eugie died. I knew it was going to happen that day, September 27, 2014. I decided it. The machines could have kept her going for longerâindefinitely I suppose. But there was no point. Her lungs were gone and cancer patients donât get new ones. There was no point to waiting. Weeks earlier, when she was still able to fully wake, she’d told me, as best she could, that her dreams were now nightmares. She didn’t need any more nightmares.
I woke her. The doctors were not so keen on that, and had a lot of very good reasons not to do it. But I knew my wife. So I woke her. There is some question to how awake she was. She’d been drugged so very deeply, to keep her stats even so that those machines could keep her alive, and to keep away those nightmares. I’ll never know how successful they were at the second. The best I could expect on her waking was for her to be able to blink. I have my own reasons, which I will keep to myself, to believe that she did manage that. But she managed nothing more.
And then I let her go.
And a year passed.
Funny, I thought it would be such a slow year, a torturously slow year. But it has been fast. Faster than I could have imagined. Faster by far than any other year. For me, maybe a month has passed. I can’t really say. Timey wimey. There is nothing to mark the passage of time. The landmarks of life have to be important. They can be terrible or wonderful but they have to matter. And without Eugie, nothing matters. Nothing is important. So time passes without pause, without remembrance, without mattering.
Oh, there are little moments of semi-importance: her memorial; being able to talk about her at the Nebulas, and having Ursula saying Eugie should have wonâthank you for that Ursula; getting together at Dragon Con in remembrance of her and picking up her fandom award. Those are as important as life is, and they are not important enough to mark the days, not without being able to tell her about them.
I don’t mind time going quickly. It isn’t something to like or dislike. It just is.
Which is perhaps why I haven’t been affected by “The Firsts” that are always mentioned in grief groups and grief books and grief movies. The first birthday. The first Christmas. The first wedding anniversary. And now, the first year. This time is no worse than other times. It’s no better. It just is a time, and I thought a reasonable one to write another piece about grieving. But otherwise, this first does not stand out. None of them do. I suppose if I’d tried to celebrate Christmas, that might have ripped me apart, but I didn’t. It was just a day. Like now, and like Sunday, and days donât matter.
So time has barely passed since I last saw my love. Since I last heard her. Since I last held her. And I feel the same as I did then. There’s been no lessoning. No change.
People keep telling me it will get better. That I’ll heal in my own time. That the pain will always be there, but will diminish. I wish people would stop telling me that. I’ve no first hand evidence that it is true, and I’m not interested in how others might “heal.” Because here’s the thing, I’m not sick. I sometimes say that “I’m broken,” but that’s me being poetic. I’m not broken. And I’m not sick. There is nothing to get better from. There is no illness to be rid of. What would “getting better” even look like? What is the non-broken me supposed to be? Unless it involves magical resurrection, I donât think there is an answer.
So, I mourn.
I do things related to her. They don’t make me happy, but they feel semi-important, and that is enough reason to do them. When not doing those things, I find it best to be distracted. It is never good to let my mind free. Thinking is not my friend. Distractions are. But it is hard to find distractions. Friends are less distracting than one might think. Sometimes they can help take my mind somewhere else, but not too often. And if they are not peaceful to be with, then they are no distraction at all. Most of the things I used to love make poor distractions. Movies are the worst. Movies were things I used to share with her. Chores, work, conventions, travelâall are poor distractions. Reading is a bit better. And I must thank the Sad Puppiesâtheir immoral behavior and stupid beliefs have been a boon to me. Somehow that whole saga has been the best distraction. I can wade in, and everyone else is angry and hurt, and for me, it is all a reliefâa place I can focus without pain. Well, without so much pain.
Feeling little anger is a positive, but then I’ve never been much for anger. Not an emotion that fits my personality, but it is interesting to feel it so little.
Sometimes it feels like I am observing humanity. I watch all the people complaining about the horrible things going on in their lives. I find it hard to empathize. I wonder why they can’t enjoy themselves, why they must constantly dwell on pain and politics and this or that slightâas most of those pains seem very small to me. But everything is a matter of perspective.
Back to where I started: It’s been a year since Eugie died. I miss her. If I was more of a poet I could try to explain how much. But I’m not. I don’t have the words. Daveyâa friendâsaid it best: She was the best of us. I like that, though it doesnât capture it for me. We were too much of a team for me not to feel a bit narcissistic when repeating that. I took some credit for all of her accomplishments, and she took some for my lesser onesâshe got the poor end of the stick there. But everything was us. I am much more comfortable saying “us” and “we” than “I” and “me.” So perhaps that says it best, that I am missing a part of me. The best part no doubt. And that isn’t something you recover from. Not in a year. Not in a century.
I don’t know if I will do anything to mark the day, the 27th, the day she died. I don’t know if it would feel important. I suppose I’ll see on Sunday. I don’t think that is a day I want to put a lot of effort into marking. Far better days in her life to mark, but I’m not up for that.
I said I’d take care of her, that I’d keep her safe. That I’d catch her. And I couldn’t do it. But that’s life, and she knew that. Like anger, guilt isn’t part of my personality. The world is what it is
And I will continue to mourn. A year doesn’t change that. Nor a century.