Getting Back to Where I Once Belonged
when you have irrevocably changed how do you return to your old life?
I have heard it said there are two ways of living, at least two levels of awareness. One is the obvious way: the groceries and bank accounts and routines that allow life as we know it, to churn along its solid seeming myth of continuity. The other is the hidden way: the soul searching and epiphanies and insights that allow soul, or what we suppose of it, to manifest and direct us. To have one without the other is to live dangerously and blindly and violently. But how few of us ever surrender, even briefly, to the second terror and the beauty of this other way. ALEXANDRA FULLER
A Note to My Readers
I wanted to thank my new subscribers for joining us and my regulars not only for reading but also for cheering me on. I want to post every week, I really do, but writing strictly about this passage of loss and mourning is tough to get out on a weekly basis. But I can manage every other week. So for those weeks between I’m planning on expanding my range to other topics. I always love hearing from you, so please let me know what you think about broadening my lens so I can aim for weekly posts again.
After a sunny, mild fall with no rain, it’s back to business as usual —winter has arrived here in the Rockies and there’s snow in the forecast. By Halloween, temperatures will be frigid just in time for trick-or-treaters. When our kids were small it was challenging to keep them warm while showcasing their costumes. There were tears, bickering, and compromise. We would whip off the coats and adjacent cold weather gear before arriving at each house to collect the candy, then restore the coats, mittens, and hats — all to the extent to which their costumes and adrenalin would allow it. By the end of the evening, we’d have lost various items of clothing and our kids were approaching hypothermia but still ecstatic with their haul. After Halloween, daylight savings vanishes and mountain towns like ours officially withdraw into winter. The remainder of the year is dedicated to anticipation of snow and skiing while preparing for Thanksgiving and the Holiday Season. Pillow fluffing, decor upgrades, party planning and party-going keep the long, dark nights filled with light. In a time that now seems far away, we were once social—very—and had a constant parade of people staying and dining with us. We stepped out and we showed up. Until my cancer diagnosis, we also hosted a writer’s residency in partnership with the literary organization Aspen Words, and that kept a diverse and interesting flow of people in our lives as well.
All of that has changed. I am dreading this holiday season. Bailey’s nineteenth birthday falls the day before Thanksgiving. As I take shaky steps back into my former life, anticipating the social swirl for the holidays is daunting on many levels. Chief among them is that I have changed markedly since losing Bailey. I look relatively the same just more gaunt, my facial bones more prominent, my head stripped of hair courtesy of my cancer protocol. When I look in the mirror, I increasingly see the genetic repeat of my mother and her mother, which is both fascinating and eerie. But the real changes are of course beneath the surface and still in formation. Things I used to care about—like appearances—matter much less, along with what people think of me. I am no longer efficient — trying to cram everything in, scheduling appointments and calls back to back. I now want space in my days. I am less ambitious and have decided to downsize my studio business at the end of the year. I am very cautious with my time.
No matter the gravity of the loss, the world is increasingly impatient for you to get back to normal. The year of mourning once granted by common sense and Jewish tradition now seems to be an old-timey notion. After three months, one or two tentative requests for our attention started to trickle in. After four months, a handful more. Yesterday I got a phone call from an acquaintance wondering if I could attend a lecture featuring a luminary discussing the Middle East. I told her I am still leery of crowds and don’t trust myself. She responded: “We just wanted you to know that you are still included and that we’re thinking of you.” I thanked her and reiterated that I am still not doing large groups. “But thirty people is small,” she persisted.
“I’m sorry but no, I am fragile around strangers. I am still battling cancer and can no longer make small talk.” And then she understood.
Something about the worst thing ever happening to me had set me free enough to finally release the fear of letting others down. I couldn’t care anymore because I was barely keeping afloat myself. And, in the most unexpected and beautiful way, that set me free. DR.LAURA BERMAN
The former Isa would too readily say yes to be a good friend, a good neighbor, and an engaged citizen. This Isa is sheltering in place. The former Isa would have remembered her father’s maxim that “Eighty-three percent of success is just showing up.” I no longer know what success means. Success can neither restore Bailey’s life nor the broken hearts she left behind. Instead, I finally understand there is solace in facing my limitations and agency in evolving from them and with them.
Yes to writing about all things, whatever is on your mind. Your writing is beautiful and always touches something in my soul. Thank you for writing.
Isa, I hope your ability to identify the feelings you now carry, with no manual on how we're supposed to do it, helps you half as much as it helps those who read and listen.
We don't ever return to our old life. We long for it. We try to bargain our way back to it, but a loss like the one that assaulted you and your family the day Bai died irrevocably changes everything about living. So does a cancer diagnoses.
And yes, you are so right that the world is impatient for us to come back. And we can assure those who are paying attention, that we will. We will be back. But we will not be exactly as we were. We will be better. We will be kinder and more thoughtful and easier. We will be back. And we cannot push that river. It flows by itself. We're in a raft on the river and there are days we just barely hang on and days we feel brave enough to take the oars and days when the oars have disappeared and all we can do is hang on. Hopefully there will be more Holidays. More chances to host and be hosted by friends and neighbors and family. But for THIS year, and maybe others as well, your husband is wise. If Bai's sister is open to going it sounds like a great idea....