Sharp Memories

As Mike and I take the day to reflect on our beloved fathers (Mike from Heaven; me from earth), I can't help but get tripped up on a simple, sad fact -- Mike was denied the joy and pleasure of being a father.  He never got to hear the words, "I love you, Daddy."  We struggled for so long to become parents, and to make Mother's Day and Father's Day occasions that included us.  As it turned out, that was never to be.  Was that a blessing?  A curse?  I will never know.  Maybe Mike knows.

Two days ago marked 20 months since Mike's death.  I still can't even wrap my head around that one.  The past couple weeks have brought its own set of struggles.  About two weeks ago, I found myself yet again off my anti-depressants, cold turkey.  This was not my choice.  My doctor's office couldn't get their act together in time to refill my prescription so I didn't miss any doses.  So, I was without meds for nearly a week.  For anyone who doesn't know what it's like to stop these pills so abruptly (and I am on a VERY low dose), it goes like this:  strange physical sensations, flu-like symptoms, anxiety, flashbacks to very unpleasant hospital memories, a sharp rise in the worst feelings of grief imaginable, including extreme feelings of disbelief and "this can't really be true."  It's very frightening.  Thankfully, I am back on my meds, the same meds I wasn't sure were doing much good.  As it turns out, I guess they do take the edge off just enough so I can get up and face each day and not fall apart.

Last night I took a big step.  I finally discarded something I'd been holding onto for the past 20 months.  About five years ago, Mike and I began filling a plastic detergent container with used needles -- first containing Lupron and Progesterone syringes from our second, and last, invitro-fertilization attempt, then later containing his Neupogen needles when he was back in treatment and required shots to bring up his white blood cell count.  Each needle meant hope.  Even when they hurt us, they were our chance at the future we longed for.  Over the next few years, the container sat in our laundry room, and we continually added to it with each round of treatment and each neutropenic state.  After Mike's passing, I didn't get rid of it.  I couldn't.  It continued to sit in our laundry room, and when I moved back to New York, it moved with me.  Since the move, it's been sitting on the floor of my mom's kitchen.  I see it every day, but just couldn't muster the courage to get rid of it.  It was part of him.  It was part of me.  It was part of us.  It represented our attempts at creating life.  It represented our attempts at maintaining life.  It contained our body fluids -- our blood, our sweat, our skin.  It was something I could look at and, as painful as it was, know that he was here.  I could know that he fought to live.  I could know that he fought to make me a mother, and make himself a father.  Some may look at that container and see sadness because of its representation of Mike's illness.  On the contrary, I would look at it and see life.

Yesterday, I finally felt I could discard the container and be OK with it.  I have learned that when I suddenly get a feeling that I can make a move towards healing, I'd better do it before I lose the nerve.  Before filling the container with bleach and sealing it with tape (per town rules), I opened the top and just stared in at the sharps.  I needed to remember exactly what was in there and what they represented.

I needed to make peace with letting go of it, and letting go of what could have been.