Redemption

As a couple who had been together a long time, Mark and I were pretty much drawn to the same kind of people. If I met someone and liked them, there was a good chance Mark would as well and vice versa. The common denominator for both of us was that they were smart, interesting, they didn’t take themselves seriously, and most importantly, that they were funny. There weren’t many people we didn’t like and if there were we did our best to steer clear of them.

But there were difficult people in our lives that we had to have a relationship with that didn’t bring out the best in either one of us. When I look back at those relationships and the cumulative effect they had on Mark, I second guess myself for not being more protective of him. That’s the kind of stuff that keeps me up at night, the overthinking that sometimes makes me believe that he’ll come back in the door saying he was sorry he was gone so long but now that I cracked the code he was back for good. Up until the weekend prior to his death, Mark seemed to be handling things just fine so either I really dropped the ball or he was good at hiding his hurt. I tend to think it was a bit of both but I’m here, he’s gone, and during those sleepless nights it’s another tally mark in the Things Kath Should Have Done Differently column.

When both of us were holding the history of those hurts and grudges, they usually seemed like nothing more than an annoyance. That isn’t the case these days. As my therapist recently told me, the fallout of Mark’s life and death has landed squarely on my lap. It isn’t just the emotional aspect which is daunting from the minute I wake up, it’s every relationship he had, his career, the entirety of his life. Without him here to help shoulder the weight, the energy of those relationship challenges have nowhere to go but on me.

Depending on the day I am having, my thoughts about that swing from apathy to despair to rage. Not unexpectedly in regards to those connections, it seems that the minimum boxes of support for me and the kids have been checked off or we have been ghosted all together. I’m unsure if that reaction is the by-product of guilt or that they would rather stay as far as possible away from our sadness. On the receiving end, it feels like a lit match to my gasoline fueled heartache. There are moments that I daydream of a reckoning where I lay bare every injustice and call them out for their past and current behavior. It has a Real Housewives kind of flair where glasses are flung and tables upended, and I triumphantly stride out to the cheers and high-fives from every person who loved Mark, followed by a nighttime visit from him saying “atta girl.” It’s dramatic and satisfying and a figment of my grieving imagination.

While that would be a welcome release valve for all that has been building up and piling on, it doesn’t change anything. Mark’s demons had the final say and in that moment he didn’t think redemption was his gift to receive. I daily wonder if death delivered the redemption that I thought he deserved. Was peace of mind the final blessing bestowed on him that Tuesday morning? I’m not sure I could draw another breath if I didn’t believe that he was worthy of both, and that his well-lived life was reason enough for those lasting gifts.

As the days have passed since that I got that phone call at work, the nagging question is what do I do with the pain my dead husband endured at the hands of others? Much as I’d love to deliver my fury and judgement on their doorsteps like death was suddenly delivered on mine, there is only the aching weight of his wounds sitting on my crowded lap.

That and the awareness that the road to redemption is a two way street.