Three Years Ago

There is a popular book that has been around for several years called The Body Keeps The Score. It is about the complexity of traumatic experiences and how the body physically reacts to the stress. I had heard about it long before Mark died and thought it sounded interesting until I had to live with it.

Three years ago last week, Mark and I were in Portugal. He had been invited to an international conference to give a talk, and because he’d been there before and was close friends with another scientist, he also gave a talk at the University of Lisbon. Mark had traveled extensively in his career, and Portugal was his second favorite place, only slightly behind Greece. Mark wanted me to go with him on all his work trips which were normally 2-3 days, but I had a job, and though part-time, I didn’t want to take advantage of my boss by asking off too much.

But Portugal? I’d shamelessly beg for time off to go there.

Mark was bursting with happiness the second we arrived in Lisbon, it was as if the city was a gift he couldn’t wait for me to unwrap. With its cobblestone streets and century old buildings, it was stunning in history and beauty. Mark quickly figured out the subway system and every day we jumped on a train to some new adventure. We’d walk for miles and return to our hotel late, wake up and eat a big breakfast in the morning, and then figure out what we felt like seeing and doing. Sometimes Mark could hang out with me all day, sometimes for a few hours, other days only for dinner, but I figured my way around the neighborhood where our hotel was, and would wander off by myself when he was busy.

Mark’s friend, Claudio, insisted on giving us a tour one night and he drove us to see castles, a monastery built in the 1500s, a custard tart shop that had been around since the 1800s, historical places of conflict, the burial grounds of poets. There is nothing better than seeing a city through the eyes of someone who is immensely proud of his homeland. When we were done touring, Claudio took us to a restaurant, where over tapas Mark would meet his graduate students and launch into professor mode for details on the work they were doing. Two days later we would leave that beautiful city to head back home, unpack from that trip, work a few days, then pack the car and drive to Illinois to celebrate Thanksgiving.

Mark loved Thanksgiving and being around my big family, but for the first time the Fishers would be minus one as our youngest daughter who lived in LA wasn’t able to get off work to join us. As a couple, Mark and I spent more holidays and special occasions without family than with, and though we managed to survive just fine, I wanted Mallory with us. During the eight hour car ride I texted her a few times to see how her plans were shaping up for the next day and if she needed any recipes. She’d cheerfully respond back each time, and though it wasn’t like having her with us, she seemed good with her plans and I stopped worrying. We arrived at my sister and brother-in-law’s’ house, had dinner and were sitting around talking with them and my mom when my other sister walked in the door with her girls.

We all got up to hug them and behind my sister and her daughter was not her other daughter but Mallory. It took a few seconds for all of us to register what was going on but when it did we screamed and cried and laughed, and Mark and I grabbed that kid and squeezed the daylights out of her. Unbeknownst to us, my sister had called Mallory weeks before and somehow she managed to swap some shifts to get a few days off. Ann and her husband arranged the flight and paid for it, and while I was texting Mal in the car in Iowa, she was hanging out with her cousins in Wrigleyville. I was so grateful to my sister and her husband, and would find out later that when my brother-in-law came the next day for dinner, Mark went up to him with tears in his eyes and thanked him many times over for bringing our daughter to us for the holiday.

Over these past two weeks, my body has diligently kept a scorecard on these memories. It remembers how good it used to be until trauma rewired it to the point that everything often feels like fight or flight. In the midst of this scorekeeping, though, are the tiniest fireflies of light blinking on and off, on and off. The beauty of a centuries old church in Europe, the taste of milk and coffee at the hotel breakfast buffet every morning, falling asleep on my husband’s shoulder in the airport because we went non-stop for five days straight, and the joy that Wednesday night when our Mallie Bee unexpectedly walked in the door.

Around the world this year loss has so much devastated company, while in the dark night sky souls quietly blink on and off and on and off. From the ground we hope our prayers reach high enough for them to know that despite the aching emptiness and pain, we are grateful that for the shortest of moments they belonged here with us.

Happy Thanksgiving.