New Calculus

Two years ago

Early November 2014

On October 15th, Dr. Fathi states that once the conventional treatments stop working, David will probably die within two months. I live with a new calculus to my life: every week that the treatments keep the leukemia at bay pushes back that two month deadline.

Approaching my 60th birthday

I’ve successfully navigated writing about the toughest week of David’s illness, mid-October and the pronouncement, 'infinitesimal'. (When he died was tougher, but then his illness was over.) Now begins the remembrance of living week by week, blood test by blood test.

I haven’t had any gut-wrenching pulls into intense grief since that sunny day on an Arlington sidewalk two weeks ago. I do often wake up with a diffuse anxiety. I don’t even try to tease it out: does it matter whether the grief of David’s illness and death is 30% of my pain or 80%? I don't think so.

I had a wonderful evening last Tuesday. Twice a month I host a women’s writing group. Sometimes I’m the only one attending. The first few times that happened, I took it very personally: Nobody Likes Me, Everybody Hates Me. My Bryn Mawr friend, Stacie, taught me that song when I was feeling sorry for myself, forty years ago. (Yes, I just counted them on my fingers: exactly forty.). Now I’m at peace about it. When no one else comes, I sit down and write by myself. If one other person comes, we have a cozy tête-á-tête. Three of us changes the dynamic: not better or worse, just different. I show up every time; often another friend or two joins me.

          On Tuesday, Jennifer came for the first time, with her adorable six-month-old. She worked on the story of her daughter's birth; I worked on my blog. We wrote separately for a while, then read aloud to each other. Her insight improved my post. We promised to keep writing and meet again next month.