Before I had this fancy blog, I had a little blog called Sun Comes Up and We Start Again. Enrique was just mentioning it the other day. I thought I had deleted it, in my attempt to remove anything that might be embarrassing to him on the campaign. But the Facebook gave me this little flashback today, and it turns out the old Blogger site is still there.
I wrote about almost losing Benny before here, I think. But here’s the raw, in the moment account. The post was called, “Impossible.”
I lost Benny on Tuesday. I mean, he tunneled out of Enrique’s yard and… was gone.
I got a text: “Benny escaped. Looking for him now.”
He was out in the world, having his adventure for at least two hours. Two whole hours. My world closed in on the few blocks around Enrique’s house. There was only that moment, and the IMPOSSIBILITY of Benny being gone.
Impossible. Because — I don’t lose Benny. I take care of Benny. This isn’t how the story goes. I don’t know how the story goes, but for sure, it does NOT include me losing Benny.
This was almost more impossible than losing you. You were sick for so long. You got worse. You were so very sick. I worried you might be dying. Then I knew you had to be dying. Then you were dying. Then… you were gone. There was a sequence. I could at least sort of process that it was happening. Then it happened and I’m left with the … impossible. You do not exist. Anymore.
I left the house to go to a meeting and got a text an hour later that Benny was gone.
Is that how it happens? Just like that? No process. Just… gone.
So, what I realize is just how close to the edge I am… all the time. We found Benny. But it could have been something else. It could have been any number of random things. I cling to what I think I know, the security of the routine, what I can count on… because every day I am already living with the impossible — that you are no longer here.
Impossible. How is that possible?
And yet… here we are. Here I am. This is what is real. And it is no more impossible than any of the things I take for granted every day.
And now I know just how much I fear falling into the abyss of the sadness I do not acknowledge– and how hard I fight to keep it at bay. I persist. I make it through each day. I go to work. I work. I do things. I do not sit and stare into space. In fact, I do not sit still much at all.
That would be impossible.
I know so many people who are grieving an impossible loss right now, and others who are about where I was when I wrote this—seven months into the new normal. Everyone else has tired of your sadness, and you’re JUST starting to realize how unreal life is.