'Alice in Wonderland’ by Lewis Carroll's children's novel about a girl who enters a fantasy world of anthropomorphic creatures where all logic is not logical. Carroll's subsequent book 'Alice Through the Looking-Glass’ has Alice enter another fantasy world by climbing through a mirror where everything is in reverse.
These two books capture, in a fantastical way, life before Donna died (BDD) and after Donna died (ADD). 'Alice in Wonderland' reflects our life and marriage. In our private time outside of working, which sucked the life out of us though offered meaning and purpose, we did have fun fantasy adventures. Many anthropomorphic creatures inhabit our world. At the moment of Donna's death, I fell through a mirror of grief where everything in my life was reversed. These novels are walls of my world I stretch my arms to touch. To hold myself from collapsing. To keep what's around me and me standing.
Before her death, we would talk to our beloved Westie's Nina and Willy. At night heading out to the cinema, I would turn the lights off. Donna would tell me to leave the light on for Nina. Huh? Dogs don't need lights. With a stern look, she'd remind me that Nina needs to find her water and toys. I laughed at the logic. Donna's favorite teddy bear, Ruggles, would be held up in her hand. Ruggles would remind me about picking my clothes up off the floor. Polish the stainless steel counters. Empty the dishwasher. Donna and I would dance to pretend music.
The reality was that BDD, we were us. Just us. There were brilliant moments of love, joy, and deep connection. Most of it was living. We were not easy with each other. When we went at each other in public, we could empty a room. This is all 20/20 hindsight.
Then came ADD. It was "Alice Through the Looking Glass". Everything was reversed. Ruggles was not reminding me to pick up my socks. Or polish the stainless steel. I did those things because I knew Donna was watching and taking notes. Love in real time became love in memories. Dancing to pretend music was now silence while sitting alone.
The joy of going to the cinema together was reversed. BDD Saturdays were movie night, and we’d walk over to the Battery Park City cinema, though walking was a chore. During the movie, we shared a small popcorn. Well, I thought we shared it. She never had a chance coming between me and the popcorn.
The theater would darken, and the trailers would appear, and they stabbed me in the heart every time. That damn smooth voice telling us the plot of a film coming soon—would it be soon enough?
Two months after her death, I went to my first movie alone. I bought my popcorn, and I remembered napkins. She always made me go back when I forgot. The trailers came on, and I sat there, lost and broken.
I don’t know. It's more the isolation, the pain of loss, and the grief. It flipped everything. It opened up more in me.
I was painfully cut by grief. That cut of grief let light enter me. To become more of the person she loved into being. It must be hard for others to see that. Perhaps it comes down to you having to experience the loss to find something within that speaks to us.
Those experiences after a loss become auditable visions we see and can reflect on. Even writing about them or drawing or sharing takes them from the silence of our roiling pain to create a narrative for a collective grief journey.
Sharing our loss, our grief, is offering up a banquet of light spread out on a fine linen tablecloth to be sampled in tiny bites of insight for us and others. The talking and sharing of our common experiences with others is what connection is in grief. Flagstones along a painful journey.
I live in a different reality.