. . . and a brown New Year's Day, and a brown Valentine's day, and a brown St. Patty's day . . . following a theme here? Wow, could I be any more anti-Minnesotan? My sincerest apologies to the industries that rely heavily on a hearty, snow-clogged "typical" Minnesota winter—I might as well march around with "I hate Polaris! And Ice Fishing! And skiing! Oh, yea—and Snow!" protest signs. . .I've never really known what anxiety attacks were till the past few months, as winter has settled in. Oh, hell, what am I saying—that is so not true—when Bob had his "first" heart attack (second, technically, but first one during his cancer ordeal in May 0f 2010), he suffered many anxiety attacks . . . gripping, terrifying episodes that sent us flying to the ER on several occasions, erring on the side of caution that it might, just might be another heart attack. . . I guess what I meant was personally, I've never known what an anxiety attack is. . . this winter, I think I can say with at least a little bit of certainty, that I've come close.
This time last year—no, again let me correct myself—during Bob's entire ordeal—I didn't allow myself the time to think about panic attacks as they pertained to me, much less anything else, when he was so ill, every fiber of my being was so focused on him . . . A little synopsis of my mindset last year: Snowstorm, again?! For the eleventeenth time this season? How many inches this time?And I have strep throat?!? Fuck it! I can run the snow blower! We have a Jeep! I'll pop a few Excedrin—Bob's been in the rehab hospital for nearly four months—come hell or high snow, I will get to Bethesda, and I will be with him . . .
Such was our lives for almost the entire four months he was in rehab, for the next four and a half months he was home in hospice (winter started early last year, in October, took till April for the mountains of snow to melt, many of you may have forgotten . . . There. I am vindicated. Polaris—you had double-winter last year). Maybe some of these pictures will solidify how much winter terrifies me, to this day . . .
A repeat of last year, or the year before, for that matter, strikes terror in my heart. Even a shadow of last year is enough to keep me up at night these days, tossing and turning, as though my crazy mind doesn't have enough to obsess about . . . I thought it was just "me" being a freak, wondering, what the hell is wrong with me now? Get over this already . . . Bob and I used to love winter, embraced it with the most hearty of them—snowshoeing, cross-country skiing, winter weekends to the north shore . . .no matter the season, he reveled in an excuse to sling his camera bag over his shoulder and head out into the wilderness for the day. Winter provided a whole new canvas of photo opportunities, a whole new world in which to wander, lose himself, ponder life and the great big meaning of it. . .
But then I got a message from a dear friend who had lost her husband in March, unexpectedly, massive heart attack while attending their son's hockey tournament . . . her beloved husband was just 47 years young . . . she had to take her son to a hockey tournament a week or so ago, less than a year after her husband's death. Circumstances similar to when her husband died, she and both her kids went into panic mode as they approached the weekend, all so fearful that something would happen to one of them, as it had happened to their dad, her husband, so afraid something tragic would happen, filled their entire weekend with dread. . . this is what "they" call post-traumatic stress, peeps. . . flashbacks, nightmares, all-consuming images of the trauma of the 19 months Bob was so very sick . . . flashbacks, nightmares, all-consuming images a father and husband so unexpectedly ripped from their lives . . . I could share countless stories like this, not just my own, but of the many wounded survivors who are taking their first, second, 100,000th step alone, without their beloved by their side. . .
But these are the same people from whom I am gathering courage, hope, understanding, compassion . . . in some ways, I feel an odd sort of—what—relief? Is that the word? Comfort? Bizarre sense of camaraderie? I so hate to say, "Misery loves company," because that is so not what I mean and is sofa king trite and insulting and offensive, all at the same time. Unless one has walked this path. . . then the few words, the complete loss of words sometimes, make complete and utter sense to those who are walking without loved ones at their side. Wonderful translators of the Language of Grief. Profoundly adept at filling in the blanks . . . who know exactly what I mean when I say, "I hope, truly hope, this year, we have a brown Christmas this year," and not feel like a Grinch because I'm "wishing" a white Christmas away. And they're teaching me, whether they know it or not, that it's okay to not "get over it, already," just yet. Grief happens on its own time, its own schedule. Ebbs and flows to its own rhythm . . . right now, my job is to try to ride the waves. Hoping for a few less injuries that way . . .
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