“My life partner and I had just signed a new lease, had finished merging finances, and were planning on a life of love and togetherness. And then he died. Suddenly; a heart attack at 36 years old. That forward momentum stopped instantly and time began retreating like the tide. I lost my home and my job. I lost my sense of agency. I moved back in with my parents in my hometown, searching for some semblance of who I was in the before. I was aging backwards – a kid once again seeking guidance – and not willingly. A toddler re-learning how to eat, how to sleep, how to breathe, all without my person. 34 going on 3.”
A true story, an abstract of sort, written for The Moth’s First Line Prompt. The topic? “Tell us about a time you found yourself going backward.” Backward, indeed. If only my wrinkles and sprouting grey’s dissipated along with my ability to go grocery shopping. But alas, no such luck.
The day you died, time as I knew it stopped completely. Seconds turned into minutes…minutes into hours…and hours felt like weeks on end. And that’s not an exaggeration. The way my brain and body perceived time was unlike anything I had ever, ever felt in my life.
From what I’ve read the perception, or reality, that time slows down is one of the many ways the human brain responds to shock, fear, and/or danger. There are a couple theories as to why this occurs. One is that conceptual time really does slow down due to an evolutionary adaptation we can attribute to our ancestors. They needed more reactionary processing time while dodging saber-tooth tigers and the like. Another well-received theory states that during times of stress, our brain increases the number of memories stored. as such, the ordeal seems longer than it actually was (ie: time slowed down) because we can recall that much more of it.
The latter (increased memory recollection) could be an effect of the former (time slowing down) rather than a separate theory, right? Time slows down and as such, our brains have more time to process the acute danger (grief, tiger, etc.) and we are able to absorb more information or “memories.” But I digress.
It was during this slow down – whether actual or perceived – that I began my backwards descent into adolescence a la Benjamin Button. It wasn’t a case of not wanting to do things (although truth be told, I didn’t) but rather a case of now knowing how to actually do them anymore.
Watching television. Listening to music. Walking and body movement in general. Decision making.
I have no recollection of eating food unless I was specifically told to. Cooking a meal felt like a foreign concept, never mind going to the market. All those people, the bright lights, the god-awful elevator music; it was out of the question. How could I maneuver a grocery store when you were no longer here with me on this earth? It just did not compute.
Driving was possible but only during the day, as the darkness brought on a host of fears I couldn’t name. The therapist’s office and the gym were the only places I could get to and from without a melt-down largely in part because they were new-to-me destinations. I didn’t equate them to you as I did practically everywhere else.
Inhaling and exhaling felt wildly different. Yes, I’m referring to breathing oxygen, something our biological predecessors were able to do over 2.4 billion years ago. This one I can’t explain, but it wasn’t the same.
Sleep became a serious struggle. “What side of the bed do I sleep on? Which blankets do I use? This mattress feels alien and these pillows (brand new pillows, because I just couldn’t keep ours) are basically cinderblocks.”
Calls of, “Mommmmm!” and “Daddddd!” and “Brotherrrrr!” permeated my lips more than they have in decades. Sometimes I sought emotional support, while other times it was simply, “I can’t open this.”
The most punctuated night of regression I can recall was the night you left. A night I rarely talk about…
I was curled up on a couch in my parents’ living room with my phone on speaker, alternating between dry-heaves, and sobs, and rocking myself to some measure of comfort. My Mom was on the other end of that phone call; 2,000 miles away and on stand-by for every and any flight available to get back home.
I don’t remember words. But I remember her presence. I remember being able to hear her breathe. If I couldn’t have you, the only other thing I wanted was my Mom. And much like a fussy child, I didn’t sleep for a minute that night. Nor did she.
I truly was 34 going on 3 from that night on, all while trapped in some strange land where time as I knew it no longer existed.
We rarely talk about the times we view as devolving and really, that’s exactly what happened during those months. I devolved. I traded in my agency and passed the torch of responsibility onto family and friends and healthcare professionals. Not because I was lazy. Or unwilling. Because I simply had to in order to survive those months that felt like decades.
Reflecting on that period of time is difficult, and it’s even more difficult to document it via the written word. But I think it’s important to do so. It’s rare to hear about, or read about, but I know I’m not alone.
I’m here now typing away after a bananas morning at the gym (I drove there myself), sipping an iced coffee (ordered and paid for myself), and sitting in a comfy chair in my new house (I’m sure you can tell where this is going). While my agency has mostly returned, decision making still requires a fair amount of effort. Every day presents a new challenge re: grief, but sunrise to sunset no longer feels like an eternity. So, what changed?
Time. It’s as simple and as complicated as that.