I spent the first few years after the deaths of my husband, mother, and father going through the motions of living one day at a time. Thankfully, my life had already been set up in such a way that I could depend on its structure to keep me upright and in motion. I had a job as an English professor with students who depended on me to hold up my end of the teacher/learner cycle. I had friends who did not exclude single women from their social activities. And I had a therapist who told me how well I was doing.
Whether that was always true or not didn't really matter. I no longer had an intimate companion to care about my innermost fears and wishes as my husband Al had done with love and intelligence for twenty years. I no longer had my mother who, in her better days, had been a warm and loving presence through the thicks and thins of my life.
From 2002 to 2009 I had the responsibility for overseeing the care of my elegant mother's descent into dementia. My father had given up hope and lost his intrepid spirit, handing over to me all of the duties of health care and financial decisions for both of them.
During those days Al was more than my helpmate; he was brilliant at navigating the systems and befriending the bureaucrats. He ensured that my parents got the best possible care until the end of my father's life in 2005. Then, early in 2006, we received Al's diagnosis of stage 4 lung cancer, which began our own descent into the cancer treatment mill. We had one blissful six-month period of remission--and went right back down until he died in the summer of 2007. Then it was back to my undivided commitment to my mother's care. Although I lived and worked in New York, my heart was in Florida, where my mother resided. I traveled back and forth until she died in 2009.
I'd had no time to think about and react to the crises that had piled up around me while they were happening. I simply acted and went on to the next thing. And that same mode of getting through another day as best as I could continued for several years after the deaths of my loved ones. My low-level goals were to keep busy and not have too much time alone.
I didn't think about my life much beyond that until one day when I let myself fall.
I was walking to the subway to keep some medical appointment that I'd put off when caring for my family. In my spacey state, I tripped on an uneven square of pavement and began to sprawl forward. There was an instant when I knew that by sheer will I could have forced myself back upright.
But I'd been living by will power for too long, and I was on empty. "What's the point?" I thought. "Give it up." And I let myself fall, landing on my hands and knees. What a relief!
A couple of passersby stopped to ask me if I was alright. (Don't believe everything you hear about New Yorkers. They can be kind--in a pinch.) I assured them I was okay, even though I didn't get up right away. It felt luxurious to just lie there. No hurry. No one was depending on me any more to get somewhere fast. The rough pavement felt cool against my cheek. It was the nicest feeling I'd felt in years.
In a little while I got up and moved to a nearby front stoop. I sat there for a while, resting and watching the world go by. It felt good to give up the ghost.
It wasn't long after my voluntary fall that an image from Greek mythology began to emerge in my consciousness. It was of Charon rowing his passengers across the Rivers Styx and Acheron from the land of the living to the land of the dead.
I identified with him--the one who accompanies the dying and dead on their journies. My time on the rivers hadn't ended after my seven years of caregiving. I had not stepped ashore after my last passage, when I had ferried my mother across. I was still in the same boat, straining to stay upright with no steady ground beneath my feet.
I'd been close to the shore where the living dwelled, and yet I hadn't taken that next step. I hadn't realized it, but I'd been living in a neither-here-nor-there dimension. Still on those rocky waters, surrounded by river mist.
I felt my isolation. I saw my numbness. Even though there was no one in particular waiting on shore to hold out a hand, I decided to reach for a mooring and hoist myself up. This was the beginning of the next part of my life.
