deep in the ocean, there lies a wave for you

The year mark approaches. And a year ago at this time, this is where we were:

And I can still be there. I can still, in my head, go through the motions of emptying his poop drain, of massaging his legs, of turning him over to clean him. I can still feel the stubble of his near-bare head against my kiss. I have that tattoo on my back now, forever. I have what it was like to touch him imprinted on my fingers. He had a mole in his groin that I would see every time I rubbed the top of his thigh. Before I was willing to give in to the fact that he was going to die, I’d think, we have to get that removed once he gets better, just in case. I can still see the movement of his lips as he struggled to whisper, “You’re gonna be fine.” I’m still here, thinking about him and how he’s gone, replaying memories – is that fine? I worked at both of my jobs today. I have so many people who love me. Before, I could only read books I’d already read and see movies I’d already seen because I couldn’t really pay attention to new plot points, but I went to the movies twice in the past two weeks and I’m three-fourths of the way through a new book I really love.

The year mark won’t signify THE DAY CLARK DIED to me as much as it represents what’s happened during that time, and how I’ve handled it, and what I’m going to do to make the next year better. And how I will honor him constantly in the way I act, react and feel.

The daily part of it all boils down to how much I miss him with my every ounce, and how it’s harder and not easier, and how that needs to be okay. Life is short, and I don’t want to waste any time, but by missing him and mourning him and wishing he was here, I’m not betraying that.

Today I’ll fret about getting in time at the gym, or money, or fitting in a date with a friend I haven’t seen in a while. And for ten minutes, I won’t think about this year or our fight. And when I remember, it’s like looking in the mirror one morning and suddenly realizing you need a haircut. Like, when has my hair had time to grow this much? I look at myself so many times a day. How could I forget this constant for these ten minutes? And where is the balance? When will I find it?

Even though I only have the flu — fever, aches and chills, massive headache, stuffy nose — it feels like the worst thing in the world and I can’t stop crying. It makes me feel so weak — there was so much I was supposed to do today, and instead, I can barely move.

While Clark was going through treatments and sweating out insane spikes in temperature, my immune system somehow managed to stay on target. I wasn’t sleeping or eating well, but I never got sick. My body was in permanent fight-or-flight mode, whirring at a furious pace, bulldozing potential illness.

This morning at 5 a.m., I woke up with a fever and had shaken myself into a tight ball to stop my chills. Feeling this way makes me think so many things — how he felt worse than this for such a long time, and what his body was put through. How I wish he were here to take care of me.

Today last year Eric sent out an email to everyone Clark knew asking for their stories about him. Because we were definitely at the end. We found out about that on May 15. Then we counted the days and waited for the worst thing that would ever happen to take place.

What do I do on the anniversary of the day he died, which steadily approaches? Do I take off work? Should I be alone? Do I go to mom’s?

There is an increased awareness of what day it is, and how long it’s been, and I am remembering things I hadn’t thought about yet and thinking about what it physically felt like to wash Clark’s hair when it was falling out and the motions required to turn him over and bathe him in bed. I remember being at Georgetown and walking to Wisconsin Avenue and wanting to go to Thomas Sweet and ordering cinnamon ice cream, my favorite kind, and eating the whole cone. Total zombie looking for the teensiest bit of pleasure. I remember what the desire in me to eat it felt like.

A magic weekend, in four parts:

1. BEACH HOUSE

2. BEACH HOUSE (This is the only video I can find so far from last night’s show)

3. MOTHER’S DAY BRUNCH, wherein my 110-pound mother-in-law drinks two bloody marys.

4. BANKSY MOVIE

The movie was so, so great. It’s reaffirming and wonderful to live in a world where people who create like this exist, and where art like Banksy’s is revered and celebrated.

This scene from Rushmore has been popping up in my head over the past few weeks. Max is talking to Miss Cross about Edward Appleby, and he says, “Well, I mean, you live in his room, with all his stuff. It’s kind of …,” and she replies, “I was married to him.”

Sometimes I feel like my entire life is just like that, living in his room with all his stuff. I am surrounded by constant reminders, so I can’t really predict when I why I might react differently or more strongly.

Tonight I got an email from Clark’s mom’s friend Sharon about all three of us having Mother’s Day brunch together on Sunday. Immediately after I read it, this gush of memory took over my brain. Clark was at Georgetown, and Sharon drove up to help out. He was the same as I am now — we couldn’t predict his reactions to things, so we were cautious to bring anyone “new” in to see him. We were wheeling him down a hallway in his hospital bed for more scans when he saw Sharon, and he started to cry and asked her to come in for a hug and held her hand as the nurses pushed him forward. Just seeing her name in my inbox spurred that memory’s activation and totally paralyzed me for a few moments.