The Healing Bench

Five years ago, our youngest daughter went to New York City for two months over the summer for an intensive dance program. Her braveness at such a young age stunned me. She decided what she wanted, saved for it, and then flew to the largest city in the country by herself to chase her dream. If she was afraid she didn’t let it show while I was frantic with worry. The only thing we could agree on was for Mark and I to arrange private transportation from the airport to the dorm in Brooklyn where she was staying. It gave me the barest peace of mind and I didn’t let out a breath until I heard that she had safely made it to her destination.

At the end of the training program was a recital and Mark and I counted the days until we could finally lay eyes on our girl. Our flight was delayed due to weather, our shuttle was long gone as we arrived four hours late, and we finally got to the hotel at 11:00. We dumped our bags and Mark said, “Let’s go explore.” He was an incredible traveler. He rarely let hiccups ruin his mood or his trip, and never wasted a minute of his time in any place new. We walked out of the hotel and within a few blocks were at The Lincoln Center, the Alvin Ailey dance studio, and Fordham University. We both had the same thought. Is this real? Are we really here?

On a Sunday morning over coffee when Mal had an all day dress rehearsal, I said to Mark that maybe we should have a day of no plans, grab our books, and head to Central Park to read and people watch. He loved the idea and we wandered around until we found a bench. As we were wandering, I noticed that many benches had plaques on them, sweet memorials to those who passed. I wanted to read all of them until I found the perfect bench to sit on that was dedicated to love lost. When we passed one that said, “For my darling, Hugh,” I knew that was the one. Darling Hugh became our home for a few hours while Mark read, and I imagined Hugh to be the kind of person who had dinner parties that nobody ever missed.

As the clock ticks towards three years since Mark’s death, I often feel pressure to get past this, to heal as if healing is The Golden Ticket I can’t claim because I’m not trying hard enough. Over and over I have asked myself why that word irritates me so much until I finally realized what it was. In our quick fix society, healing feels like winning. It’s losing 160# of sad, it’s a new life, moving on, having some fun, and how about a boyfriend? Wouldn’t that feel good? Somebody special to soften the hard edges of your life? That’s what you need.

Except I married what I needed and loss is knitted into my cells now, firmly planted on the park bench of my life. The loss can be fat, loud, and demanding and take up all of the space, it can be a resting spot and the perfect place to reflect, a place where I can recall Mark’s laugh and smile, his eyes and cry, his death and scream. But it’s also the nameplate on the back reminding everyone passing by that my Hugh was here too, that he was the best person to sit next to at a dinner party, that this hurts like hell because it’s supposed to, and if I agree to not run away from this loss that one day I can embrace something new and love this fragile life again and again.

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