I have learned two things about the human psyche since being widowed. Actually, I’ve probably learned more, but two things in particular are intriguing to me. I have learned the strength of some form of memory, not quite muscle memory, but something close. And I have learned the irrelevance of dates on a calendar. The two things are closely related as I deal with memories of my husband, our marriage, and the years we spent together, both before and during his cancer battle.

As a writer, I have spent much time dealing with memory. I’ve been working for a few years on a book about the life of my grandmother, a blind woman who raised three children on her own during the Great Depression after my grandfather died of typhoid fever in 1933. I watched as my mother’s memories of her childhood and her parents seemed to soften with each retelling. I listened closely and noticed changes in how she remembered. The struggles and difficulties receded and the love and good times came into sharper focus. 

In the days and weeks after Kevin’s death, I was traumatized. Not only because of the sudden loss, but also because of the two previous years spent in a full-throttle fight against an aggressive cancer. I felt angry, defeated, guilty, and completely inadequate. I kept re-living in my mind all the things we could have done differently had we only. . . known sooner, taken the diagnosis more seriously, gone to alternative practitioners earlier, changed his diet immediately, etc., etc. 

I had a recurring dream quite frequently during the first several months. In it, Kevin walks through the door of our house and I stare at him, stunned.

“You’re well,” I say.

“Of course,” he replies. “We beat it. I’m fine. I feel great.”

“But shouldn’t you have a CT scan, or a PET scan or something to make sure you’re ok?” I ask, because of course, I can’t believe he’s returned and he’s well.

And then I wake up, thinking if only we had one more chance. Why didn’t it end this way for us?

Nearly all of my memories during that time were of the two years prior —hospital visits, surgeries, trips to Chicago, Bloomington, and Ann Arbor. They were detailed and precise. I would sit down to my computer and realize that twenty minutes had passed, during which I was back in the hospital, or in a hotel room. 

Many of these memories were triggered by something that made me realize the time—either the time of day or the time of year. A cold, dreary day when the Midwestern snow has turned to gray slush put me immediately in Chicago where we stayed for several weeks while Kevin received radiation treatments. I knew that one year, or two years ago that very day we had driven down slushy Chicago streets.

In a similar way, I have not needed a calendar to remind me of the anniversary of Kevin’s passing. It happened on September 7^th. But for me, it will always be the day after Labor Day, or the first day of school. As the air begins to have a crispness about it, I remember. With the sound of a school bus rumbling by after summer vacation, I remember. I do not need a calendar to remind me. 

We have talked about this phenomenon in my widow’s group: how other triggers, not a number on a calendar page, are what bring the memories to the fore. The 7^th of September floats along each year, first to Wednesday, then to Thursday; a leap year pushes it two days ahead on the calendar grid. But for me, it’s always the same day of the week—Tuesday: the day after a day off, the day after we sent our son back to his new college dorm, the day after we brought hospice in. 

For others in the group it was something else. It will always be Friday for Sandy. That was always pizza and movie night in their house. Every Friday became a reminder to her of the one Friday when she went to set the table where the pizza lay in its box, and returned to the living room to find her husband slumped over while their son sat a few feet away selecting a DVD. The date of his death was there on the certificate, but it didn’t matter—it will always be pizza and movie Friday.

I don’t understand how the human brain and memory work. People kept telling me to give it time; that good memories would eventually crowd out the more difficult ones. For the most part, they are right. Slowly, good memories are taking their rightful place in my psyche. And I try to drink in and understand the triggers—something as slight as the angle of the sun through the window or the smell of lentil dhal. For now, tough memories are still more vivid. But I remind myself that Kevin was more than the last few years of his life, as was our marriage which spanned 26 years and two children. It was too short, but it was full of things worth remembering.