It’s amazing how many shortcuts I have discovered during my years in Nevada. They hide in plain sight unless you know them, and once you do, they are your first choice. Ramsey Weeks Cutoff. Turn right at the red barn. Left at the biggest cottonwood, not the one that is dead. Down the dirt road until you come to a fork in the river, and then, there you are. Nevada is full of shortcuts, often convenient. Sometimes the roads are not groomed, or even there at all. Dirt roads, gravel roads, ways unknown to Garmin. Ways full of the most amazing sights and sounds are saved for those who know.
VST hated new shortcuts. It takes trust to turn onto a road, hoping it joins up to the main highway somewhere along the way. Therein was the problem. VST was a black-and-white guy who wanted everything mapped out before the Jeep ever left the driveway. ETD and ETA were always calculated along with the approximate time between them. He measured minutes like gold, maximizing time and squeezing as much out of life as he possibly could. I find myself not as good at this.
Now, the shortcut for which I am searching doesn’t exist anymore, nor does teleportation. A turnoff from unexpected grief and sadness. The road through my wilderness is odd. Things can be going along great, even marvelous. New friends. Unexpected phone calls. Welcomed visits. Happiness. Calm and quiet. But for the briefest moments, terror in the dark woods. Fleeting thoughts dangle. What if? When? How will I? Why? How could it? Where are you? Treacherous obstacles that can trip up the most solid individual, resulting in racing hearts and sweaty palms.
I navigate through, hoping to avoid a fall and a massive head injury, or worse. Sooner than soon, the path clears and I arrive at new and wonderful destinations. Thankfully, there are fewer detours these days. But they arrive when they want to, not exactly because I have chosen to turn in that direction.
It is said that grief will not be denied, lest it be there to fester later, like an unhealed wound. This worries me. These days, approaching Month 8, I find myself content and happy. I look around and marvel at the semblance of order I see in my day-to-day life. It is similar to my old life, but a new life all its own. I look at pictures on the wall hanging in new groupings or in places they’ve never been before. A picture of a “kitchen” now hangs in the bedroom. A favorite vase always in the china hutch now hugs fresh flowers on my dining room table. New perspectives on old belongings. Every aspect of my life is now mine to decide. I own the results.
Anger has eluded me so far. I question what exactly I should be angry about? I suppose I could sit on that bench for a while, rolling around in Anger-ville, but it seems pointless. It also seems a shame to cloud wonderful years of my life with bitterness. For any dark thought, I can always come up with comforting thoughts of gratitude.
VST was a proud, stoic, funny, intelligent guy. I must believe in my heart that his passing was exactly as he chose. He had been sick for longer than we had embraced the reality. Looking back, the visions of things to come were appearing on lonely nights in Cheyenne, and even on the bluffs of San Simeon. Unidentified and years prior to death, there were cancerous moments that remained unexplained until, in retrospect, everything became clear. If we had discovered the end years before, the end would still have arrived. Cholangiocarcinoma will not be mitigated or denied. Like seeing an unavoidable car crash from years before, while speeding towards the inevitable with eyes wide open. I am thankful that our car crash was immediate and final, and I know VST felt the same.
This road of grief will lead me through different landscapes, but I am still in control of myself. For those moments when it becomes overwhelming, I know God will walk with me through the worst and heal me. Knowing that, I continue on.