A Life Interrupted

I ended my last blog entry, written several months ago, by saying that my continuing blog would touch on cancer, hope, grief, and love. And then I went silent - until I understood the reason for my silence. My blog entries had already touched on hope and love. Two subjects remained, and they are not easy ones to write about. We will set cancer aside for now.

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Grief involves the sharp pain and the intense shock of losing someone. But it also includes the sense of absence, the daily awareness of who is not here. For two weeks after Michael died, I stayed with my friends, Deb and Howard. My sister, Mary, and her husband David, had driven up from Ventura. We were setting the table for dinner; grabbing forks, knives, plates as we talked.
It was only when we sat down that we realized we had set the table for six. In an instant, conversation stopped and we all turned and looked at the empty space where Michael should have been sitting. Grief is made up of moments like that, thousands of moments that stretch out over years.
There have been so many moments since Michael’s death when I have felt if only Michael were here right now, he would enjoy this so much.
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 I felt it last October at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, especially when they were feeding the sea otters. I felt it again on a whale watching cruise as a pod of orcas stalked a herd of sea lions. Sometimes I am surprised by the moments when Michael flickers into my awareness. Driving down Taylor Boulevard, I felt as if I should turn left, pull into the parking lot of the oncology clinic, and pick him up after a chemo session. I felt empty inside when I drove past without stopping.
The one spot where Michael’s presence is the most palpable is at the end of the living room occupied by his computer, art library, drawing table with a comic book story spread out, and shelves of art supplies. Because Michael died at 65, many years of creative energy still lay ahead of him. A friend helped me go through that messy corner and discovered pads of thumbnail sketches - rough, full of energy and promise, each one a suggestion of a character who may contain the seed of a new story.

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Michael did not live a complete life, did not get to experience old age. His time on this earth was too brief. Had he lived out his full life span, he would have been mulling over his work, contemplating what he wanted to leave behind, and deciding how to put his creative voice and vision out into the world. Instead I am doing this for him. The rough sketches I am sharing here are one small offering. Many more will follow.

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