"I was afraid of trying my hardest and not succeeding. But then I realized I was already living my worst-case scenario by not attempting to move forward. Today I decided that fear would no longer rule my life."
- Anonymous, New Mexico
Happy April Fool's Day everyone. Not...
It's already been a year. Hard to believe. And it still strikes me as so ironic - just when the Wet Coast switches to its most endearing behaviour. Blossoms are out in Vancouver, the air smells sweet and the sun is warm again. I should be in full spring spirit.
But like a psychic tsunami hitting an unsuspecting villager, I'm overwhelmed by a wave of helpless sadness each time I let myself think of what happened last April 3rd.
But it's not just sadness. There's lots of anger too. At the fates. At the gods. At the bastard who took my wife's life and left me empty and broken. I'm angry at the police for not solving the crime. Angry at my friends for still having intact families. Angry at myself for being so mad.
Already a year. And so little progress on my part. I read back some of the stuff I wrote last April and I can't believe how little has changed in my heart. I still don't accept what happened to Wend. I still shake my fist at the sky in frustration.
Enough already. I don't want to think about this thing anymore. I don't want to impose my dark moods on my acquaintances and friends. I'd much rather dwell on the positive. On my daughters and their resilience and beauty. On Jenna's smarts and Maya's strength and the wonderful legacy that their mother left them.
But my all-too-human soul refuses to work that way. Just the smell of the earth these days is enough to send me reeling into pathosville...
And it's so often physical. I mean, how do you explain to your dinner hosts that you have to leave before the food is served? "It's just an anxiety attack," I assure them. "It will pass." But I can see the look they throw at each other. Damaged goods, it says. Shouldn't he be over all this by now?
But I'm not. Particularly this week. I mean, the terrible irony in all this is that April was Wendy's favourite time of the year. A passionate gardener, she loved nothing more than dipping her hands into the warm spring soil and setting in motion the magical process that would deliver such serene beauty for weeks and months to come. She couldn't wait to see her little plant surprises springing up all over the yard. Couldn't wait to see how it all came together for her circle of friends and family.
In Wend's world-view, spring was the great re-awakening. It was a chance to conjure her own little cosmos back to life again; an opportunity to re-connect with her roots - literally.
After all, she was a Vancouver girl through and through. The rich alluvial loam of the Fraser Delta was in her genes. I can still see her so well in my mind's eye. Like she never left. Crouching over a new bed of soil. Roughened hands and a loose ponytail; a lone strand of hair drooping over one eye. She always looked so content in the garden. So grounded. I can still see her absent-mindedly pushing the hair out of her face as she bends down to bury yet another bulb.
I want to call out to her. Tell her that I have a pot of tea ready. I want to tell her all the news from the winter. I want to laugh with her over my goofy behaviour. Listen to her plans for a particularly difficult section of the yard. I want to -
And though I know it's not real, I can still hear her happy voice answering my call...
But where was I? Ah yes, the garden. No matter how busy Wend's life got, she always found time to stick her hands in the earth. It was here toiling in the soil of her ancestors where Wend felt truly alive.
Flowers, bushes, trees - annuals, perennials, whatever - it didn't matter. She loved them all. And they, in turn, loved her. Our home was a happy place. People felt welcome there. They didn't quite know why. But they felt comfortable sitting on our back porch sipping tea and eating biccies, kibitzing over the world's problems and being subtly soothed by the visual feast before their eyes.
And now our home is empty.
Like most males, I took my wife's gardening for granted. It was her trip. Something she did as a hobby. Or so I thought. I never stopped to consider the time and effort and wisdom she invested in it. Never really considered just how big an impact her backyard work had on our lives. They were just flowers, for goodness sake. And as far as I was concerned, there were far bigger things to be addressed in life than playing with plants.
It was a common refrain in our 30 years of marriage. And I never hesitated to tease her about it. "You're just pleasing yourself," I'd tell her. "It's got nothing to do with us. You just love losing yourself in the dirt." She'd refuse to be drawn in, however. She'd just smile her special Mona Lisa smile and keep digging.
But looking out on our yard this spring, I now know how wrong I was. For her touch is sadly lacking. The rose bush outside our window - yes, the same one that used to drop petals on to our bed (don't laugh, it's true!) - is now dying. Don't know why really. It weathered far nastier winters than this one in the three decades it lived on our east wall.
Wendy used to marvel at its robustness. She loved the fact that it was "our" rosebush. "See how strong our love is," she would say, carefully placing a young spring rose in a vase destined for my office. "I know it can feel the power of our connection. That's why it thrives so much in this place." Those yellow flowers, she wanted me to understand, were a testament to our relationship. As long as things were going well between us, Wend was convinced our special rose bush would bloom forever and ever.
Who could have predicted that she would be snatched from our lives so quickly? Not me. And not the rosebush, apparently. Now bedraggled and brown, it lists tiredly to starboard like a veteran campaigner at the end of a long battle. To be sure, it got pretty badly knocked around by a storm this past January. Still, I did everything I could to prop it back into place. Even got it new dirt and mulch. But I didn't have Wend's magic it seems. For the ol' guy sure looks like a goner now.
Kind of like me. I too am adrift from my emotional mooring. Drooping sideways in my lonely misery. "You're depressed is all," the medics tell me. "You need to focus on getting healthy before you can do anything else." But like the rosebush, I'm afraid sometimes I'll never get better without Wendy's magic touch...
I know. I know. I should be long done with this grieving thing. I mean, it's been a year already - haven't I had enough of all this maudlin behaviour?
I can see it in the eyes of my friends. I can see it in the (subtly impatient) smiles of my work colleagues. "Cmon Mich, jump back into life," they're all saying silently. "We got over Wend's death. Now it's your turn. Damn! You're making us uncomfortable with your teary eyes and hangdog expression."
I agree. I hate my expression. It looks out at me from the mirror in the morning when I'm shaving and I don't even recognize it. It's old and sad and thoroughly unattractive. But it's me. At least it's the me that I have to live with for now.
It's a strange thing, you know. Back in the old days, folks had rituals for just about everything. Birth, baptism, coming of age, marriage: all of these momentous occasions were marked by an official way of doing things. When somebody died in your family, for example, you were expected to wear black. And as long as you wore black, people respected your mourning.
But now all that's gone. I have no way of letting people know that I'm still grieving. No way of marking myself as an ailing man. And maybe that's a good thing.
For today I've decided to say goodbye to the past. It's time to let Wendy go. Time for me to change my expression and face the future with a positive mind. Like the quote at the beginning of this story I was afraid of trying for fear that I would fail. But now I know that if I don't try I won't ever change. And that's really not where I want to be.
So here goes. I know it won't be easy. And I'm sure it will be painful at times. But fortunately for me, I also know I have Wendy on my side. "Buck up," she whispers in my ear. "It's only going to hurt for a little while more. I have confidence in you. I know you can do it..."
