Seven Years
Today, seven years ago, my husband Larry drifted in and out of consciousness, his breathing became more labored, and at 9:02 in the evening he breathed his last breath in his bed at home. His son and I were sitting on either side of him. We had just finished a bedside picnic. Not sure what we ate, but I know there was beer involved and I served it on a bed tray propped on his lap, though he had moved too far from life to join us.
Seven seems meaningful so I looked it up. Seven days of the week. Seven ages of man (Shakespeare). The “seven-year itch” in relationships. The seven celestial bodies we can see with the naked eye – the moon, the sun, and five planets.
Seven is a significant number widely recognized across cultures, religions, and history as a symbol of completeness, perfection, and divine order. The Quran speaks of seven heavens, the Torah speaks of the land needing to rest every seven years, Hindus of seven higher chakras. Seven represents divine wholeness in the Bible.
I’m wondering what those seven years mean to me. Is something whole now that wasn’t before? Is something finally complete?
There’s the obvious. I’m single, not married. My home life is dramatically different – moving all the way from one coast to another, from owning to renting, from living on dry land to living on a houseboat. The light is different. The seasons are different. The smells are different. My friend group is different. My activities are different. I work so much less that my identity is no longer tied to my profession.
But is there more?
Though my daughter and her husband and son live nearby I am no longer bound by my familial relationships. I am not an active daughter, mother, or wife. I exist as an individual, not in relation to anyone. I am complete unto myself. For the most part, no one knows where I am on a regular basis. No one knows whether I wake up or not. No one needs me, at least not in the ways I was needed seven years ago, particularly those last years as Larry’s disease progressed.
There are a few people that love me, and a lot of people who like me, but no one who actively loves me. Who thinks about me on a daily basis. Who loves me unconditionally. Larry did. Perhaps his energy still does, but not in a way I am aware of.
Those are differences but not completeness, or wholeness.
Maybe what feels complete is the process of grieving. I will always be sad on this day, or when a poignant memory pops up, like the photos on my cell phone. I will always wish he was still healthy, living his life beside me. But I am not grieving his loss anymore.
I have completely let go of the old life, and I have created a whole new life for myself. A life I am truly enjoying. A rich and full-textured life.
When I say created, I mean the active process of building a new life. It didn’t just happen. It took a lot of work. Trying lots of new things. Gritting my teeth and girding my loins and pushing myself out the door to attend a new activity or join a new class alone. Deciding what things gave me joy, what things were uninteresting. Meeting new people, finding those with whom I felt a kinship, those whose energy was difficult, others whose outward image was deceivingly different than their inner selves. When you live with someone for many years and you live in a place many years, you don’t have many of those nasty surprises.
Taking on new challenges and ways to grow is not easy. It is exhausting. The mind and body like sameness, familiar patterns. New experiences, new people, new places all take lots of extra emotional and physical energy.
Perhaps that’s another message. The message of rest. The creation story wherein on the seventh day God rested. The Shabbat – the ceremonial meal and prayers for the stopping of work at the end of a week. The seventh year in agriculture for a field to lie fallow.
It has been a struggle. Challenges of floods, and moves, other losses and deaths, new and old relationships ending. Of aging, and of health.
Maybe this is a time for me to rest. To enjoy the new friends I’ve made. To enjoy the new interests I’ve found. To stop pushing myself out the door for another experiment, another challenge, but instead allowing myself the luxury of time to just be. To just be me.