The picture above is one of those well-known optical-illusion images. If you haven't seen it before, it's pretty neat. Depending on which way your initial perception leans, you may immediately see a young, beautiful woman. If your inclination goes the other way, you will see a decrepit old woman. At any given moment, both women exist. Amazingly, they inhabit the same space, and they can change, literally, in the blink of an eye. Neither is wrong, and neither is more valid than the other. If the young woman embodies health, happiness and a fruitful life ahead of her, the old woman embodies weariness, fatigue and a life coming to a close. I think about both of these women, as I have been, and are, both. I have thought about it a lot over the past few years. I have thought about it when I've had a disagreement with someone -- I see things one way and they see things another way. I have thought about it when I hear people insulting others' faith, and wonder how two ways of looking at the world can be so far apart. The time I've thought about this picture most, though, is when I have mulled over my journey through grief.
In the days and weeks before losing Mike, I often felt like that old woman. I was exhausted, stressed and felt much older than my 36 years. I remember looking in the mirror in Mike's hospital room and shaking my head at the blotchy skin and bags under my eyes. The young woman who still clung to the hope of health and a future was still living within me, but she and the old woman were in a grave battle. When Mike passed, the old woman won. She won for a very, very long time. I surrendered. Game over -- nothing to show for it. The eight-and-a-half years of the on-and-off war against cancer had taken everything out of me. The constant worry about what could happen had become my nightmare come true. I now began to re-live all the moments of stress, pain, triumph and disappointment, and yet unlike before, I had to live with knowing the awful outcome. I knew the horrible ending to the story and I couldn't protect Mike from it. My heartache manifested within me like a memory Rolodex, complete with flashes of horrible hospital images (some of which still race through my mind at night when I'm trying to fall asleep). The young woman who insisted that this was all a huge mistake -- that Mike and I should be picking out baby names or paint samples -- was dwarfed by the old woman who was picking out a casket and funeral music. The separation from Mike was unbearable. Living each minute without him felt like being forced to stay awake when you're on the brink of exhaustion. I always felt like he and I had this "twin thing," always knowing what the other was feeling and thinking, and now I was left without half of myself. And although we hated the source of part of our closeness, Mike's illness gave us a bond that drew us closer than most couples. Now, I had to bear that aftermath without him. I had memories, but you can't have a relationship with a memory.
Over time, I managed things better -- at least in front of other people. When I reached my max for "managing," I kept to myself where I could grieve as I needed to. Life was now to be lived with an asterisk (*). Everything post-Mike was different and would always be different. I likened it to living with a chronic condition -- it was nearly impossible in the beginning, but I eventually learned how to live with it. Some days were better than others, and now I have more good days than bad. There are still flare-ups, and I don't always know when they'll come. However, today, the young woman wins more often than the old woman.
I have my "old woman" moments, moments when I think about what could have been had Mike finally beat cancer. I still miss our silliness. I still miss taking care of him, doting on him, even buying him snacks like the ones I'd bring him in the hospital, praying he'd be interested enough in them to eat. I still miss how that little bit of Southern accent (adopted from years of living in Florida) would sometimes come out when he spoke. Our own relationship aside, I grieve the fact that he lost his life. When I have my moments, especially about the most horrible images, I may squint, contort my face and shake away the thoughts. Ironically, I see the same grimaces on the faces of the memory-impaired residents at work when they are trying to remember things they realize they've forgotten. I do the opposite.
Meanwhile, the young woman in me has interest in life again. I often get excited about things and want to have experiences again. Thank God Mark has the same desire. It's funny -- people often talk about items on their bucket list, but, sadly, Mike and I had to focus so often on simply avoiding the bucket. Now, I am slowly trying to take advantage of the time I have left on this earth to enjoy life, and part of that I do in honor of Mike, always aware of how his time here was cut short. Still "young woman" has a conundrum. Dare she hope again? I think about my favorite line in "The Hunger Games," a movie Mark has made me obsessed with. The line, spoken by the diabolical President Snow, goes like this: "Hope: It is the only thing stronger than fear. A little hope is effective. A lot of hope is dangerous. A spark is fine, as long as it's contained." "Young woman" wants to hope, but "old woman" is wiser and knows better. She has seen the harshness of life. I know "young woman" will triumph most of the time because that's my nature, but "old woman" lives inside me, too.
Who do you see when you look at me? I'm sure most people now see "young woman," and that's good. That's accurate most of the time. Thanks to Mark and our love and our plans for marriage and a future, "young woman" is more and more visible. She has come out from under the covers. But don't be alarmed or confused when "old woman" comes out. She is weary and some days "young woman" just isn't strong enough to outshine her. "Old woman" still needs to be heard. She sometimes needs to be comforted. She's been through a lot and she still needs support. Embrace both of them, because no matter which one you may see from your perspective, they're both here.
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