Glen died 6 months ago today

what do I tell you?

Do I tell you that I turned his phone off, and then I forgot I turned his phone off?

Do I tell you that when I arrived at the prison the other day, I texted Glen the word, “Arrived.”

I know.

Do I tell you that when I texted him, I got a message back saying, “This phone number is no longer in service,” which I knew, since I was the one who turned his phone off, but was also the one who forgot.

Do I tell you that I lost my footing then, and when I went inside to teach I couldn’t get it back, and I taught the most boring, uninspired dance class I’ve taught in a long time.

At the end of class, one of the new guys said: “I came ‘cause I heard this dance class was fun. That wasn’t fun. I kept waiting for it to be fun.” Then he slouched in his chair, tugged his baseball cap down.

Another guy said, “Ahhhhh….come on. Give it another chance.” Then I heard him whisper, “She’s having a really off day.”

“I dunno,” the new guy said, “Maybe.”

It’s hard to get people through the door that first time, but once they enter in, you want to build a rapport immediately by holding a space that is easy, fun, and where everyone belongs, so that the slow growth of trust can follow.

I did not, could not, hold that sort of space that day.

I hope he comes back, and gives it another try.

Do I tell you about the bugs?

I’ve heard people describe grief as a scratchy sweater you can’t take off; a heavy blanket you can’t remove; a continual tripping through space, never getting to upright.

For me, it’s bugs.

They come and they go; aren’t with me all the time, but for whatever reason, at this 6 month mark, they’re back.

When I first noticed the bugs, I was frightened.

The bugs made a big feeling in me, and I didn’t know how to place myself, next to that big feeling. Didn’t know how my body would be able to hold something so large, because the bugs were underneath my skin, and I could not get to them. I kept trying to capture and kill them, but I could not, and the harder I tried, the more they crawled.

I’ve gotten used to the bugs at this point, so now I say, “Bugs! You’re back, and there are so many of you, crawling beneath my skin. Hi.”

Then I proceed with whatever it is I’m doing, no longer frightened in the way I used to be frightened.

Do I tell you that the patent for Glen’s invention, The Centerless Compass, was granted? That this is something he wanted and worked so hard for, for a very long time.

Do I tell that the process of getting a patent for someone who has died is strange and somehow vast?

Do I tell you that I don’t know what happens next with his patent, or with the prototype for his invention?

Do I tell you how beautiful it is, The Centerless Compass? A small slip of a thing. Easy to hold, feels good in your hands. It has these little wheels on it, so it can roll. It can measure a circle with a one inch diameter, and it can measure a circle with a 100 foot (feet?) diameter. Do I tell you this?

Do I tell you that I’m getting phone calls all the time now, about his patent? That I’m getting tangled up in these calls because I don’t if they are important, and I don’t know if they matter, so I get tangled there, and sometimes I can’t get out.

Do I tell you that I’m planting my roots? Tentative and shallow at this point, but roots nonetheless. And they are helping me, these roots are helping me, as I slowly but surely make my way in the world, without him.

Maybe you already knew that.

Do I tell you about the last time we went to the doctor, the day before Glen went into hospice?

That while we were talking, Glen turned to me and said — curtly, angrily, and out of the blue — “You always steal my food. Why do you that? Don’t you know how hungry I am?”

That he turned to our palliative care team and said, while pointing his finger at me: “Tell her to stop stealing my food.”

Do I tell you about the silence in the room after he said that? That no one said a word. That he turned back to me in a rage and said, “You’re hiding the money too, aren’t you? How dare you.”

Do I tell you about the breath, that there was none? Do I tell about our bodies, all of our bodies, that only moments before had been together and wishing, and now were completely still?

Do I tell you that then he reached for my hand? That he was fumbling to say he was sorry, he was so sorry. I was shaking my head: No sorry, no sorry Glen. I know this isn’t you.

Do I tell you that he stared at me, kept staring at me, that he gripped my hand, then gripped it tighter.

Do I tell you that what he feared most was happening? That he was losing the ability of his own mind.

Do I tell you that I got up from where I was sitting then, and covered his body with my own.

Do I tell you there were no more words, that all of the words were gone, and that the only the sound now, was of Glen. Glen dying.

Do I I tell you that there is a very small part of me hoping he’ll come home. Maybe he took a wrong turn and got lost, and maybe he’s making his way back, as quickly as he can. Maybe he’ll walk through the front door soon, tired and grumpy from being lost, but home.

Maybe if I say his name enough times.

Maybe if I smile more.

Maybe if I hold my breath, or no….breathe more deeply.

Maybe if I’m more productive.

Maybe if I’m brave, maybe if I’m strong.

Maybe if I’m lighthearted.

Maybe if I move with more whimsy.

Maybe?

Maybe?

The other day I was hammering something, and every time I slammed the hammer down, I said his name, and still… he did not come.

But please.

Please don’t tell me that he won’t come back to me, because how do you really know?

Have you told him that I’m here, waiting?

Maybe he doesn’t know this — that I’m still here. That I’m still waiting.

Tell him that. Tell him that I’m here.

Do I tell you that 6 months out — six months since he died, I still.

Still have not dreamed of him.

His skin touching mine.

photo by our friend, Tyr Pinder.

xo,

Joanna

Cecile Richards, former President of Planned Parenthood and national change maker was diagnosed with a glioblastoma in January. I listened to this interview with her last night, and I could hear it in her voice, that pattern of speech, searching for and sometimes dropping words, so similar to Glen, at the beginning. If you listen, you might not notice anything about how she’s speaking because it’s pretty subtle, but I noticed, and it made me so sad. I hope, oh I hope, that she is one of the lucky ones who will survive this disease so much longer, then Glen.