For a long while, it seemed that everywhere I went carried some great emotional burden. Over time, this has faded; I've re-entered almost every place of any importance many times over at this point. The places are still haunted to me, but I'm used to it now. When I walk through Macy's, for instance, and think how nice Ryan would look in a particular shirt, I have a dull ache and lingering sadness still that I won't get to buy it for him for his birthday. It's not as sharp of a hurt as it used to be. But every once in a while, I walk into a place to which I haven't yet returned, and it reopens a deep wound.
Yesterday, I had a business lunch at Maggiano's. Ryan and I used to go there all of the time - we both loved the food and the ambiance. I took Ryan to the Center City Philadelphia location for his birthday one year, and after that we returned often. It quickly became one of our staples for date night- Ryan would usually order the gnocchi and a beer, and then complain about having eaten too much. We actually stopped there the day before he died, to pick up catering I had ordered for his graduation party.
This was a haunted place I'd returned to several times already; I'd stared at the catering counter, and felt hollow and sick. I'd started playing the butterfly effect out in my head - how could I have let him carry all of those heavy trays of food to the car? Maybe it was the final strain on his heart! If he hadn't exerted himself like that, or if I'd have helped even a little, maybe he wouldn't have had the arrhythmia in his sleep the next night. Maybe he would have been okay. I play this "what if" game out a lot - it's never satisfying, but always impossible to avoid.
This was a haunted place I'd returned to several times already; I'd stared at the catering counter, and felt hollow and sick. I'd started playing the butterfly effect out in my head - how could I have let him carry all of those heavy trays of food to the car? Maybe it was the final strain on his heart! If he hadn't exerted himself like that, or if I'd have helped even a little, maybe he wouldn't have had the arrhythmia in his sleep the next night. Maybe he would have been okay. I play this "what if" game out a lot - it's never satisfying, but always impossible to avoid.
So, having been back to Maggiano's many times, I didn't think going there yesterday would be a problem for me. Until I got there, that is, and they directed me upstairs and to the left, to the banquet rooms. My heart sank. I walked up the stairs (past the aforementioned catering counter), and past the second level seating in the restaurant. There was the table where Ryan and I had eaten once, and decided that it was our favorite spot to eat because it was quieter than the rest of the restaurant. I kept going up, passed the restrooms on the right, and turned to the left, and the movie started to play in my head. I was wearing a blue Calvin Klein dress, which later became on of Ryan's favorites. He was wearing a nice suit, and about 40 of our friends and family were with us in the first banquet room on the left. It was the night before our wedding - our rehearsal dinner. One of the happiest days of my life.
I could see Ryan and I sitting at the table in the center, listening to toasts and talking to the people who loved us most. I could feel his hand holding mine. I could feel a shadow of the memory of excitement and happiness, thinking of the next day. Everything was ready and perfect, the weather looked like it was going to be good, and all of the stress of wedding planning was over. That night I could relax and enjoy myself - and I did. My biggest concern was trying to not drink too much - I didn't want to oversleep, or have puffy eyes in the morning. It didn't matter - when I went home to my parents' house that night, I couldn't sleep anyway - I had butterflies. Ryan was incredibly happy too - he was the calmest groom-to-be I could have hoped for, solid as a rock. He was enjoying himself immensely. It was a night when we believed that we had a long life of happiness in front of us, and the possibilities were endless. The next day we got married, and never knew how briefly it would last.
Walking past the room yesterday afternoon, I wanted to bail on the meeting. I didn't want to sit there, trying to focus and pretend that I wasn't going through an emotional turmoil, which, of course, I was. My stomach felt sick, and I didn't think I'd be able to eat. For the beginning of the meeting, I felt like I wasn't present, my mind kept drifting back four years. But I pulled it together, and compartmentalized as best as I could. And before I knew it, I had ripped off the band aid, and now I will never have to go to that place for the first time again.
A lot of my life since Ryan died probably would have been a lot easier if I had bailed on everything. Years ago, I told myself that if my life ever totally fell apart, I would leave everything behind an start new. My "last resort" plan included quitting my job, buying a plane ticket across the Atlantic, and making my way however I could - with no baggage. In a lot of ways, that still sounds good. But I'll never, ever do it. Not anymore. Because the thing that truly makes all of this marginally tolerable is my daughter. While tiny in size, she serves as a great big anchor to my current location - I'm not going anywhere. I can't and I honestly don't want to anymore, as romantic as it sounds. But forgoing a clean slate means that I have to live in the world I lived in before Ryan died - I'll have to return again and again to these places that used to mean so much to our lives. As hard as it can be to walk in our footsteps, I guess I probably prefer it this way. It's a lifeline - a tangible connection to memories that I don't want to lose. While dealing with the hauntings can be emotionally exhausting, it's better than having nothing to remember.
I could see Ryan and I sitting at the table in the center, listening to toasts and talking to the people who loved us most. I could feel his hand holding mine. I could feel a shadow of the memory of excitement and happiness, thinking of the next day. Everything was ready and perfect, the weather looked like it was going to be good, and all of the stress of wedding planning was over. That night I could relax and enjoy myself - and I did. My biggest concern was trying to not drink too much - I didn't want to oversleep, or have puffy eyes in the morning. It didn't matter - when I went home to my parents' house that night, I couldn't sleep anyway - I had butterflies. Ryan was incredibly happy too - he was the calmest groom-to-be I could have hoped for, solid as a rock. He was enjoying himself immensely. It was a night when we believed that we had a long life of happiness in front of us, and the possibilities were endless. The next day we got married, and never knew how briefly it would last.
Walking past the room yesterday afternoon, I wanted to bail on the meeting. I didn't want to sit there, trying to focus and pretend that I wasn't going through an emotional turmoil, which, of course, I was. My stomach felt sick, and I didn't think I'd be able to eat. For the beginning of the meeting, I felt like I wasn't present, my mind kept drifting back four years. But I pulled it together, and compartmentalized as best as I could. And before I knew it, I had ripped off the band aid, and now I will never have to go to that place for the first time again.
A lot of my life since Ryan died probably would have been a lot easier if I had bailed on everything. Years ago, I told myself that if my life ever totally fell apart, I would leave everything behind an start new. My "last resort" plan included quitting my job, buying a plane ticket across the Atlantic, and making my way however I could - with no baggage. In a lot of ways, that still sounds good. But I'll never, ever do it. Not anymore. Because the thing that truly makes all of this marginally tolerable is my daughter. While tiny in size, she serves as a great big anchor to my current location - I'm not going anywhere. I can't and I honestly don't want to anymore, as romantic as it sounds. But forgoing a clean slate means that I have to live in the world I lived in before Ryan died - I'll have to return again and again to these places that used to mean so much to our lives. As hard as it can be to walk in our footsteps, I guess I probably prefer it this way. It's a lifeline - a tangible connection to memories that I don't want to lose. While dealing with the hauntings can be emotionally exhausting, it's better than having nothing to remember.
No comments:
Post a Comment