If this pandemic has taught us anything, it’s that we, (the collective we) are quite adaptable. If we had been told a little over a year ago that soon we would be wearing masks wherever we want, that we couldn’t go wherever we want when we want, that school buildings would close, with learning to take place in the virtual world, that countries would literally be shut down, we would have a hard time imagining it. We would think there was no way we could get through it, that life could not go on that way. I recently read a science-fiction book about a pandemic, that was published in September 2019, so before our world became unfamiliar. Though the cause of the pandemic was different (in the book it was a series of terrorist attacks) it was eerily prophetic. From virtual school and concerts to social distancing and no physical contact, it was uncannily similar to our world today. Part of the story was from the viewpoint of someone who barely remembers the time before the pandemic and she can’t imagine being in a crowded room, standing near strangers on a bus, or attending a live music show. They adapted. The world adapted. In this novel it took quite a while for the world to return to what we consider to be normal, and it hadn’t come all the way back to the pre-pandemic times. This science-fiction novel is our reality and though we may not like it and we may be experiencing serious fatigue, we have adapted. We have moved to online learning. We work from home. We wear our masks, some of us all day long. If you had told me a year ago I would be exercising with a mask on, I would have said not a chance, and yet now I do. We still go to the store, or if not comfortable with that, we have our groceries delivered. We continue to participate in events and activities, mostly virtually or outside. In a nutshell, we have gone on living our lives, even though they look quite different than a little over a year ago.
It’s quite incredible, really, this ability to adapt. Almost against our will. Ariella adapted to her illness. She adapted to her frequent hospital stays, her new very unpredictable life, her symptoms and side-effects. She carried a puke bucket around, decorated her crutches and made them more comfortable, bought many beanies but often went without. This was life now. As a family we adapted. We made our hospital stays fun when we could. We decorated the rooms and brought comfort items from home. We brought food and games and even wine. It became normal. Every other week we packed our bags and made our way to the hospital. David and I took turns spending the night. It was just what we did. When Ariella was diagnosed we could not fathom being in the hospital every other week for 10 months. How would we get through it? But somehow we did. And we managed to have a good life outside of her illness.
In the same way, I’ve adapted to my grief. My body has adapted to my grief. This does not mean that I am not in pain everyday, or that I don’t think about Ariella every second of every day. My grief is a constant companion, clinging to me, that I just have to live with. Unshakable. In the early days… well really, it is still early days. Not quite two years. A blip when you consider I could live decades longer. It’s only been a minute. But in the very early days, weeks and months following her death, I couldn’t function along with the grief. I did not know how to do anything through the pain. It took up all my space, my whole soul. There was no room for anything else. It covered me, cloaked me in its darkness. Prevented me from doing anything else, including sleeping. It was a good day if I made it to the couch. A very good day if I managed to eat and shower. My body hurt. All the time. I was fortunate to not have to work for several months. I don’t think I could have. But slowly I got used to the empty feeling. I was able to go through the motions of living along with the pain. Though nothing can fill this hole that is the result of Ariella leaving this world, my body has gotten used to living with this despair. I still wake up every day wondering how I am going to get through this day, and the next, and the next. I still can’t wait to go to sleep at night. But somehow I have returned to “normal” living. Though I haven’t felt happy since the day Ariella went on life support I am able to participate in life. But the pain isn’t any less. I don’t miss her any less. In fact I miss her more every single day.
David and I went for a short getaway a couple of weeks ago, to a small town on Maryland’s eastern shore. It was a place neither of us have been (but for a few hours for a wedding) so it wasn’t fraught with memories of Ariella and family time. Or at least it shouldn’t have been. But the drive there was half of a drive we took many, many times with Ariella for beach vacations. There was the place I stopped to feed Ariella when she was a baby and wouldn’t stop screaming in the car. There was the place we stopped to clean her up because she got carsick. There was the restaurant we ate at and the outlet mall we shopped at. There were the low flying planes by the airport that she always pointed out. The drive alone brought back so many memories, with no more to be made. Playing the alphabet game, I Spy, other games Ariella made up. The excitement of the destination, the vacation that lay ahead. I don’t think I will ever be able to go to this beach where we spent so much time as a family.
You’d think, though, a place we never took Ariella would be safe. We had a nice time but there were still so many moments that I wanted to share with Ariella, or that Ariella would have loved. All the little knick knacks in the cute little shops she would have asked for. The candy shop with the “unicorn horns” (flavored marshmallows on skewers). The families that looked like ours once did enjoying ice cream in the sunshine. Riding bikes. A small little beach hide-a-way filled with shells and rocks to collect. It was good to get away for a few days. The change of scenery was therapeutic. But still. Life is full of moments that I will never again get to share with Ariella. And that is what is so heavy in my heart.