Today I am in Durango, Colorado, for the 7th time since mid-September. I love it here. Even though it is a short 45 minute plane ride from Denver, it is worlds away. Sometimes that is a good thing, except for when it isn't.
I venture down to Durango to train some very special people on some very special software. That part is always good. I love to teach and the software we use makes it oh, so easy...and the people here? They make my job feel as easy as attending Spring training baseball in Phoenix in March.
So what could be bad? Well, certain memories can be. Last October, on a sunny, gorgeous, stereotypical Colorado day I sat on a bench, outside, at the glorious hospital where I train in Durango. Up until that moment, I had good memories of that bench and walking by it in the morning, then in the afternoon, after a day of successful training. Up until that day in October, that bench was not an emotional object; it was simply an inanimate one.
That changed in mid-October because that was when I called my oldest child, Joseph, after receiving some disturbing texts from him the night before. He texted me on Friday night and I did the rarest of all rare things on that clear, sunny Saturday Colorado day: I called him. I never, ever call Joseph...or anyone else, for that matter. I despise talking on the phone. It's the introvert in me. But I had to pick up the phone on this day.
As I sat on the bench, I listened as Joseph said that his father and my ex-husband, John, was dying. We had known for years that he was not doing well physically or mentally, but I think all of us expected him to live forever. That was simply a given. As Joseph explained the dire situation, my innermost being fought the reality. How could John have cirrhosis of the liver? It couldn't be from drinking. He has never drank THAT much. With every denial I uttered, Joseph countered, like a courtroom drama between two lawyers; I, the determined defense attorney and Joseph, the steadfast prosecutor. We went back and forth, pushed and pulled; no, I said, yes, he said, until I had to cower back to my area of the courtroom, exhausted and defeated from the fight. My oldest son would not let me get away with denial this time. Not like all those other times when he was a teenager and I simply turned a blind eye...It was as if our roles had reversed and he had suddenly become the adult and I, the quivering, shaking child.
Three weeks ago I came back to Durango for the first time since that day; it had been just over a month since John had passed away. Sadly, Joseph had spoken the truth about his father's condition back in October. I was here for five days and every single day when I left work, I stared at that bench, remembering. What had been an inanimate object had become something far greater. It was almost a memorial of sorts. As I passed it, I would look longingly at it, as if to will the negative away and replace it with something positive. Every day I was reminded of that October day when the truth slapped me in the face, how something was lost that day that would never, ever again be found.
This week I have returned, once again. Two months have passed since John's death; three months since I sat on that bench, battling the truth. Do I feel better than I did last time I was here? Yes, I think so. But I am so far removed from Denver and the reality that is my life that it's hard to tell. And grief is something that can trick even the best of us. We think we are fine and then BAM! A memory crashes in our mind like waves on the shore and then we are right back there again, paralyzed by grief and shocked at how sneaky and deceiving it can be as we sink further and further into the sand.
Yes, I love Durango. I have had many great experiences here. None of that can ever be erased, no bad memory can take away all the good. But that bench? It will always serve as a reminder of how, in a blink of an eye, in an instant, everything can change.
Discussion about this post
No posts