Groundhog Year
Photo Credit: Abigail Lynn (@shmabbss)
There's a brilliant movie from the early 90s called Groundhog Day. In it, the main character relives Groundhog Day over and over. He learns and changes from day to day, but when he wakes up each morning, the day has reset. He only wakes up on February 3 when he gets the day right.
Today at counseling, I realized I am living Groundhog Year. My counselor asked how I was doing with the anniversary of Patrick's death coming up. I explained that I was generally doing well, but I knew the emotional kick in the pants was imminent because school was about to start.
I forget exactly how it came up, but I explained that even though this will be the 5th anniversary of his passing, for me, Patrick dies anew every year. She asked why that was, and I explained that I only have 11 months of pictures. Every year in late October, Patrick is born. He is fresh and new, and even though we knew he had CHD before he was born, we had no idea of what was coming.
As the months go by, I relive watching him grow and change and experience the emotional highs and lows. But come August, I am gearing up for what I know is coming. In early September, I watch the bittersweet memories as we bring him home from the hospital and live as a family of four as long as possible. Then I see him die. My ginger sunshine goes behind the clouds, never to return. I get a month of beautiful reminiscences and photos with family from the two services. And then, in late October, Patrick gets reborn again.
Because he died just before 11 months, there are no other memories to watch. It's the same ones, every year. No other ages or years to choose from. Just those. On the other hand, I am unwilling to hide or ignore the memories I do have. His smiles and joy and cute face still bring smiles to my face and joy to my heart. But there's a cost.
I finally looked at my counselor and said: it's like watching the movie Titanic over and over. The beginning is so full of joy. There is excitement for something new and different, wondering about the journey ahead. And there is beauty, elegance, joy, and music throughout the journey. But we know what's coming. The ending isn't going to change, but our emotions still ramp up as we careen toward the end, holding just a tiny piece of useless hope that another outcome is possible.
The stars twinkle. Life is good. And then the ship hits the iceberg. Our whole life shudders along with the ship. Something is about to happen. Then comes the anger. The fear. The sadness. The frustration. The lack of control. And yet, we can't tear our eyes away as the boat goes down.
Now comes the grief. The world is dark, cold, and quiet. Miraculously, I find a raft to cling to and float on. After a while, muted sounds of life touch my ears. I wake myself from my shock long enough to get rescued, but once I get wrapped in a blanket, I set myself apart and retreat back into myself. After what feels like forever, the rescue ship reaches land. Feeling both stunned and grateful, I walk down the gangway, and return to the rest of the world. I'm numb, but it's over. Time will heal me, I think to myself. I disappear to my bed, completely exhausted, hoping the next day will look brighter. And when I wake up, the sun is brightly shining. For a brief moment, I feel like today will be better. Until I step outside, and there, in front of me, sits the Titanic, getting ready for its maiden voyage.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Like the character Phil in Groundhog Day, through each of the repetitions, I learn more about myself and my feelings as well as those of the people around me. But until I do whatever it is I need to do and learn what I need to learn, the year starts over again.
When I talked to my Phil about it, he described it as having my own personal liturgical calendar. A cycle of death and rebirth that lasts exactly 12 months and repeats every year. I experience the summer warmth of his smile, the winter coldness of the hospital, the spring hope of being home and getting better, and the fall descent of palliative care mixed with beautiful leaves of memories of all four of us together. These are my yearly seasons of Patrick.
Obviously, it's too soon to have any solutions yet, but I think it's moving me in the right direction. Right now, I'm tossing around in my head how I might remember Patrick and enjoy my memories without the yearly Easter emotional sacrifice.
When Phil and I were brainstorming titles for the post, he recommended "Calendar Boy" as a nod to the song "Calendar Girl." It wasn't my title, but it's rattled around in my head. Maybe I need a Patrick calendar. It would list anniversaries of procedures, hospitalizations, and what not, but I would pick the images so I reinforce what I want to feel and remember. Maybe even a page-a-day, using my favorite photos. I need to think more about it, but something is percolating in my head.