Traveling Alone

I.

Brent has been sick for six years. Six years. You would think his death would not take me by surprise, not leave me not breathing, not be abrupt. But it is all of these things.

The road, the road we were on together went on and on, for 32 years, as far as the eye could see. Twists, of course. Hard climbs, exhilarating downhill sweeps. And then, one day, signs along the way that there might be an end to the road up ahead. We saw the signs. But we didn’t believe them. The momentum carried us along.

Now we have gotten to the end of that road. The literal dead end. A hard stop. A cliff. Nowhere else to go. Abrupt, cold, mean-hearted. That road does not exist anymore.

Even with forewarning the end of the road stuns me. I sit. I take it all in, try to understand it. But since it’s never ended before, I can’t wrap my mind around it. The road has always kept on going, we’ve always kept moving. Someone or something has always come along and given a help, a ride, a push to get us just a little farther down the road.

When we first started down the road, Brent was the faster traveler, the brave one. I was always a bit behind. This went on for miles and miles of the journey. Then he got sick and we struggled to change roles. In the end I was pushing his wheelchair down the road. But my dear companion was there and we were together, traveling forward. Now the road has ended and the companion has gone away.

I sit staring at the end of the road again and again, but there, a little past the road’s end it completely disappears. I keep looking to see if there might be a little path. I keep looking up to find my friend. Where did he go?

It does no good to keep walking. The road is gone.

I sit, stunned. Dumbfounded. Lost.

II.

In the weeks previous to the end of the road, I had an inkling that it might come to this, so in a moment of lucidity (lucidity which later eludes me) I made a plan to veer off should the road disappear. I made a plan that my son dubbed, “The Mourning Trip.”

When Brent passed, I finished up loose ends here. I got a death certificate. I sent the certificate to the US Consulate to get a Report of Death of a US Citizen Abroad. I returned the rented hospital bed, and put the dining room table back in the dining room. I moved all the medical equipment into storage.

I know in my brain Brent doesn’t need those things anymore, but somehow it feels in my heart like he’s just out of town and when he comes back he will be glad to see everything back to normal–back to the normal before death certificates and hospital beds in the dining room. The tasks don’t hurt because it feels like a good thing, not the finality that it is.

My Mourning Trip is to be with family, read, rest, pray, think. Grieve. Walk. Breathe.

Six weeks I did all that and more. I read my journals from the last six years. I began grief counseling. I took four days by myself in the mountains in a cabin, going out on day hikes. I spent time with dear friends of Brent.

And then I did the scariest thing of all. I came home.

I turned toward the Mexican border not sure what my heart would do. Was Mexico too much a Brent thing? Was Mexico going to disappear along with the road and the companion? Would I hate walking into the house that together we made home?

But as I crossed the border my breathing slowed, deepened. Here was a friend, a beloved friend. The familiarity was happiness. I stopped at a little store and bought Coca Light and Tostitos (some of Brent’s favorites in his pre-cancer life). I opened the windows, turned up the music and said out loud, “Brent, you lived a great life. Coming to Mexico was great and you made that happen. Thank you.” I celebrated Brent.

I got to my city, my colonia, my house. The pretty plants in the yard had taken over. My red front door said hello. I opened the door, and it was home. I was home. Such sweet, sweet relief.

III.

I did something on the Mourning Trip I myself had planned but still wasn’t expecting.

I made myself face my aloneness. I didn’t mean to do it—when I made the travel plans I just thought about things I thought would help me and I planned them. But when I got home I understood they had changed me.

Why did I read the hardest six years of my journals?

Why did I stay alone and hike alone in the mountains?

Why did I visit Brent’s friends?

I don’t know. Maybe I needed to so my spirit could feel brave. I am still raw and a little intimidated, but I have survived facing Scary and Alone Things. The Scary and Alone Things turned out really sweet, in fact.

IV.

Back at home, hard things still wait. My grief takes a weird turn and I start taking on sadness for Brent. I grieve that he didn’t get to see Emily get married, or meet any of his grandkids. I grieve that after December he wasn’t able to walk, really. I grieve that someone who so wanted to live didn’t get to live. I weep over these losses. As far as I can tell I am not grieving my own losses. I am grieving his.

I talk to my counselor about this. He says in several different ways, “I think you are having trouble accepting Brent’s death.” I disagree. I know Brent is dead. He is dead and gone and so is the road we traveled together.

And then my counselor wisely says, “Are you having a hard time separating from Brent?” And I weep. “Yes. Yes I am.” I can’t do it. It feels like disloyalty. Oh, the pain.

My counselor gives me an assignment. I must imagine what Brent would say to me now, from his vantage point.

I picture him in heaven. I picture me trying to get his attention, but he can hardly tear himself away from the loveliness he is experiencing. It’s a bit of a breakthrough, because I realize that Brent sees everything differently now. He’s not looking at what he has lost. He is looking at what he has gained. I think he would say, “You won’t believe how great it is, Ally. You are going to love it.” That is just what Brent would say to me.

And I open my hand a little more to God.

V.

I look at the daily verse that pops up on my email, something I rarely do. It says,

For if we live, we live for the Lord, or if we die, we die for the Lord; therefore, whether we live or die, we are the Lord’s.

What a gift these words are: I am the Lord’s. Brent is the Lord’s (still). Belonging to the Lord is one part of this equation that does not change. I love the stability in it.

I am back in my life. In a week I will begin teaching at the seminary again. I will meet with young women, start going to the gym, pick up where I left off in ministry.

I miss my traveling companion, but I guess I must keep on the journey.

VI.

Church today was lovely. My friends hug me long. We sing songs that touch the deep places of the soul, and Justin and Rosita were a part of that.  Emily sat with me and put her arm through mine.

This afternoon the kids are home. We are going to celebrate the life of one of their dear friends in our house today, so the house is happy, the kids and their friends are near.

I look around. Where is my companion? He is not here. I hurt. I remind myself to think about the happy party he is having today, and with whom. It’s a little forced, but I find comfort in it anyway.

I look around again and it hits me.

I am not alone. In all this thing, I have never been without dear, close companions, beautiful children, family. They lived it with me and stayed close. They are still here and they, also hurting, walk beside me.  What a relief.

I am not traveling alone.