So happy today

Years ago I taught enrichment classes at a senior citizen community.  One of the women always participated when I came to share music, yoga, art and interactive games.  Sherry could be counted on to comment on the weather, the number of people in the room, the way she was feeling.   

If one of the other residents was yelling loudly from across the room, she’d yell back in her New York accent, “STOP it, Goddammit!  You’re making me NOI-vous!”  Never at a loss for words, Sherry kept me in stitches from the moment I arrived until it was time to go, usually asking, “When are you coming back?” 

On one particularly bright and beautiful day, we were creating objects with clay when Sherry joyfully announced, “I’m so HAPPY today!” 

Often I would come home and regale Steve with fun stories about Sherry and Milly and John, the delightful man who couldn’t speak, but was cheerful and smiling throughout the hour.   On several occasions Steve joined me and played acoustic guitar while we sang along to some old favorites.  He got to know John and they became kindred spirits while playing games, doing puzzles and people watching.  Sherry loved to sit next to Steve no matter what we were doing and, on those occasions, she aways declared, “I’m so HAPPY today!” 

When COVID quarantine became a way of life, the classes at the senior center sadly ended, but Steve and I continued to use Sherry’s catch phrases around the house.  If he was being particularly sarcastic or grumpy, instead of giving him grief I’d roll my eyes and say, “STOP it, Goddamnit!  You’re making me NOI-vous!”  That made us both laugh.

On days that were beautifully peaceful from start to finish one of us would beam, “I’m so HAPPY today!”  Often it didn’t take much to invoke Sherry’s infectious gratitude – a quiet evening on the front porch swing, catching a slew of fish at Olander Park, or spending a fun Saturday afternoon playing Parcheesi.   

“I’m so HAPPY today!” became our catchphrase, our way of acknowledging to the other that all was right in our world together. 

And yet, the past couple of years have not been so happy.  In early 2022 Steve tore both of his Achilles tendons and endured one surgery and then another to repair the damage.   By the spring of 2023, Steve had completed his physical therapy.  He was fishing, spending time with friends and enjoying his life again.  Then all of the sudden he started to feel run-down.  By early September, after two months of increased pain and exhaustion, he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.   

For a month we were hopeful.  All of the tests and scans showed no metastasis.  Steve was an excellent candidate for chemotherapy and a Whipple procedure.   One of the surgeons even used the word “cure”.  For four weeks, Steve and I held tightly to one another.  We grew as a couple, enduring what would be the hardest experience of our lives together.  Then, in late October a laparoscopic procedure found stage four cancer in his abdomen and the worst was inevitable.   The surgeon said he had six months to a year to live. 

He died less than three months later. 

In the wake of his death, I had to deal with an aftermath of emotions.   Steve may have died in January, but he was gone the previous Thanksgiving. Lost to the myriad of medications he had to take, Steve suffered through the toxic side effects of the chemotherapy and was increasingly swallowed by his fear of dying, of leaving his friends, his children and grandchildren, of leaving me.   

For nearly a year, I have had to sit with memories of what it was like to watch Steve slowly slip away, to be a witness to the pain he was enduring and to endure my own suffering over not being able to help him.   It’s taken time, but I’ve been willing to walk through each moment, to feel whatever it is I’m feeling, to accept the dark thoughts, the conflicting emotions, the fact that I may never be done grieving the loss of Steve and everything else that came before his death. 

Still, there have been glimmers of hope. 

In September I traveled to Sedona, Arizona where I had first hiked the red rocks in 2016 with my friend, Sandy.  Steve and I were just friends at the time but if you watch videos I shot back then, you can hear me talking to him about the gorgeous vistas I was recording.  At the height of Eagle’s Nest in Red Rock State Park, I shot a panoramic view of Cathedral Rock. “This one’s for you, Steve,” I said.   

This year even though Sandy and I traveled to Sedona together, I chose to hike to Eagle’s Nest alone.  The climb was often riddled with loose red rocks, requiring me to take one precarious step at a time so I wouldn’t slip off the cliff.  When I made it to the top I sat in the shade of the cactus tree, marveling at the view before me, the very same view I had recorded for Steve eight years ago.   

Lovingly, I thought of Steve and all the years gone by, the gratitude I have for loving him and being loved by him return.  All at once, a hummingbird zipped past me, then darted back, hovering directly in front of my face so I couldn’t miss it.  The joy of seeing it’s ruby-red head, of hearing the hum of its oscillating wings brought me out of my grief and into the present moment.   

Well, hello Steve, I thought.  Now you can be with me everywhere. 

Later that day I was sitting with Sandy on the deck chatting about what a life-changing trip it had been and how I was looking forward to next year when we would make September in Sedona an annual trek.  When I stood up to go put on my bathing suit so I could enjoy the afternoon sunshine, I turned to her and spontaneously said, “I’m so HAPPY today!” 

It had been a long time since I had felt happy for any period of time, but in that moment I knew that I was able to finally open the door to a life beyond Steve’s death, beyond the pain of everything we had endured together, beyond any expectations of what I was supposed to be – and embrace the happiness that was there in that moment. 

Like the hummingbird at Eagle’s Nest, joy flits in and out of my life now.  Still, when I am quiet, Steve makes his presence known.  And while I am not always happy, I am at peace knowing that he will speak to me in a language I will understand.