Death and Other Interruptions

Chapter Sixteen

"We having sex tonight?" Al asked as we brushed our teeth, toothpaste foam barely contained in his mouth as he spoke.

"I dunno. I'm so gassy." We were long passed the phase of politely spitting before talking, let alone hiding our bodily functions from one another.

"Yeah, me too," he agreed. I looked at him and we laughed.

"That should go our list," I said. We had a mental list where we pretended to write down all the random exchanges, the funny lines, the flotsam that makes up a happy couple's daily routine that we knew we'd forget by the next week. We always said we'd actually write it down, but a pen and paper just never seemed handy, and the flotsam floated away with the waves of time.

I sat up, wide awake. Confused and tired, I couldn't decide whether that was a memory or a dream. How could I not know the difference? Had that happened, or was it just something that would have happened between us?

It was a silly exchange, but it was the little things I missed the most, the ones I wouldn't have even noticed but for their absence, like how we both liked exactly 4 ice cubes in our water glasses, or the way he would wipe down the bathroom mirror after each shower so I could use it without smudges. These thoughts didn't cause me grief so much as sharp pinches of pain, small moments of loss where before there had been love. I didn't have anyone to share those small moments with, and what was more, I didn't have anyone who would know that they weren't small at all, but meaningful.

I went back to group the next week, and the week after. I might not be sharing my thoughts with the people there—not yet, anyway—but I knew that if I did, they would have understood, and that in itself was significant. I still couldn't sort out Ethan, and backed away from thinking about him too much in between groups, but I enjoyed seeing him. After three sessions, he still hadn't made it clear who had died in his life, what personal tragedy was bringing him here to sit in a dingy basement and commiserate with strangers. It sounded strange, considering we were all here to discuss our most personal feelings, but there never seemed to be a right moment to ask him. Then again, I made sure to avoid talking to him for too long after the sessions. If we did, I was afraid he would ask for my number or suggest getting coffee—coffee that didn't smell like burnt rubber—and that was just too messy. But he was right—I was getting sucked into the group and its dynamic, even feeling a little wiser when I left. Each time, I learned something knew about myself and my grief, and each night after I went home I had a dream about Al.

"Last week, Nancy mentioned how her condolence cards got her through the first few weeks of her son's death," Marissa said the second week during a lull in our conversation about the stages of grief. "Does anyone else have any condolence cards that they'd like to talk about?"

Faces lit up across the circle, the look of someone who has just been given the opportunity to speak about something they've been holding back, or mulling over, for far too long. I felt no such instant recognition to the topic. Were condolence cards a normal thing? Should I have expected them? I looked around. I was the only one who looked confused. Discussion erupted, as much as these polite and caring people could have an eruptive conversation.

It took me a minute and then I realized. I didn't get any condolence cards for the same reason Al's funeral had been so empty: people blamed him for his own death. Even worse, people had blamed him for others' deaths. No one wanted to console me. They wanted to condemn me, and many of them did. Just because that period was—thankfully—over doesn't mean it didn't affect the normal grieving process. I cursed those people who had taken that from me. Once again, I didn't offer anything about myself other than my name and my feeling at the beginning of group. Instead, I listened with more than a slight tinge of envy to the men and women around me share their stories.