I Run in Hidden Waters

Sometime in the past 3 years I had read how it is apparently better to look at the needle going into your vein than it is to look away. When we distract ourselves (pretend we’re somewhere else) the difference between our reality and the fantasy is where the problem of discomfort occurs most.

Julia had never had a problem with needles until the scar tissue on her arms started to build and it got harder to find a good vein, she started to turn away as nurses brought out vein finders and spilled blood. But then after I told Julia what I had read, she started to watch the needles go into her veins again - for blood draws or infusions, for IVs or for the gadolinium dye they use for contrast MRIs - and it was easier that way. 

There were a lot of ways in which we were intentional about experiencing the recurrence of her cancer with the same unflinching witnessing.

We were never in denial of our reality, though if you saw us you’d think we were. We were optimistic and focused on the positives, finding gratitude through treatments and setbacks; unflinching as we watched fate unfold, like watching the needle enter the vein.

When Julia died, I went about grief impassively. I wanted to feel it all; experience it, be present in it, grow from it. 

So much about what I had witnessed over the years, the immediacy of an intimate partner getting sicker and sicker, I’d forgive anyone for looking away. That’s not how Julia fought cancer, and that’s not how I handled caregiving. And in grieving “well” (though there’s no such thing) I was prepared to do whatever I needed to do and witness it unflinchingly.

After Julia’s memorial service, I started to write Julia Cameron-style morning pages before Ruari was awake, and I wrote a letter to Julia (my forever penpal) every night after I got Ruari to bed. I was reading a lot of books on caregiving and grief, and on stoic philosophy. (I’m a sucker for personal development books, and the Stoics are my Roman Empire). But the most transformative part of this grief work was twice-weekly EMDR therapy.

If you don’t know, EMDR stands for Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. For me, on my virtual appointments, what it looked like was tapping the top of my desk as though I was tapping each knee in turn, while keeping my head still and following the movement of my hands with my eyes. While tapping the table, my therapist guided me through the sights, sounds, memories of the day my wife died - becoming desensitized by reprocessing the memories.

There is a lot of work that goes into building up to reprocessing trauma. The main thing is that we covered every single detail about the day it happened. After that we processed every trigger, that is to say I concentrated on the moments that were hardest to have witnessed, the moments that remained as deep, painful memories, and then used this table-tapping process to focus on the details of each moment until the memory is no longer triggering, and the memories became transformed into something not just palatable but empowering.

The sessions were immediately helpful, which is why I wanted to keep up the momentum and meet with my therapist twice weekly over the course of the next 6 weeks to make sure we processed the entire day of Julia’s death, as well as what had come up since that day.

At this time my parents were still staying with me to help with Ruari and make sure I was okay. One evening we watched a documentary on the Thai Cave Rescue, but my biggest takeaway was about the goddess that guarded the cave. She was a local princess that had fallen in love with a farm boy but, because their love was forbidden, he was killed and she stabbed herself to death. Now, her spirit guards the cave; this tragic story of love and suffering is one of deification, they light incense at her shrine.

Through EMDR, I deified my wife.

Each trigger I processed was very specific to the day in question but they also encompassed all of the suffering she endured over the many years she had fought brain cancer.

As I focused on the grim reality and retold all the details of what happened, my brain was hard at work looking for positives, searching for meaning, discovering places to find gratitude and hope - and I deified my wife.

I know Julia is not here, but it doesn’t feel like she is gone. Rather, she exists someplace vague, on some plane ethereal. Call it spiritual, speak of religion, but to me this modern mythology I created was a way of finding meaning in all of Julia’s suffering and to find a way to continue a relationship with someone who will always be part of my life. She’s my goddess and I light incense at her shrine.

But who am I in this story?

Around this time I happened to watch Hercules with Ruari over the winter break, and I followed that up with watching Gladiator that same night. I am Maximus; surviving with my values and strength intact, carrying my wife and son in all that I do. I was Julia’s Hercules, rescuing my beloved from the underworld. Hadestown was the last musical we saw together; I was her Orpheus, going after my Persephone.

Julia commands such presence in my story even in her absence; I am still her hero, I am still capable and virtuous. But what am I doing it all for, now?

Exercise has always been healing. In caregiving it kept me sane, helped me sleep, gave me space and time to be on my own and process the maelstrom I was experiencing. In grief, exercise continues to be inexplicably linked to healing. 

Moving forward, I have to keep moving; I run in Hidden Waters.

When I would take a break from work, a break from caregiving, and I would run in the mid-afternoon Florida heat, I would sometimes question why I was putting this extra burden on myself and on my body. Then I would tell myself “I am so grateful I get to do this, that I get to run; I am so grateful and fortunate to have my health”.

I’ve seen how quickly it can all be taken from someone young and vibrant, and I don’t take any of this for granted.

As I run, I hold my head high and pull my shoulders back, full of gratitude and pride for who I was for Julia when she needed me. Now, every action I take to actualize this heroic version of myself reinforces the myth I created through EMDR. I do it to bring her honor, I do it for my son, but I do it for myself, too.

So, I run in Hidden Waters. Literally, that’s the name of the trails I go running in but I like that it sounds like it fits into my modern mythology.

And in Hidden Waters I am witnessing my grief (and Ruari’s) unflinchingly, and choosing to find meaning in suffering.

I was never doing grief alone, but through my goddess I discovered I was capable of optimism, I could find positives in a situation, and I could experience life with a sense of purpose and gratitude. 

As I continue to build this mythology, it breathes hope into my second act.