Bahamas Interlude I

Jan. 22nd The Bahamas

It is such a gift to be here, and B.’s relatives, with whom we are staying, could not be more hospitable. But I can tell that this week could be hard in some ways, too. One is that, just as in Toronto, I may well get little time for myself. One might say that that might be therapeutic: new experiences and the opportunity to get to know B.’s cousin and his family should be helpful distractions. But an introvert always needs quiet time to “re-charge,” and I am learning that a grieving introvert needs quiet time even more. The numbness still has a firm grip on me and I have to rely on my default behavioral settings, rather like a robot, to maintain a basic level of politeness and sociability.

And I cannot but think how much K.B. would have liked to be in a place like this. One way in which we were truly kindred spirits was our shared love of water. Chris’ choice of an aquamarine engagement ring for her made total sense. How excited she would have been by the sight of the clear, turquoise waters from the plane. How her heart would have thrilled to gaze up at the stars from the shores of this island. How she deserved to be a guest at a house such as this, with its own pool! She loved her trip to Cuba two years ago; she nearly went last year (and her tip about getting last-minute holiday deals inspired us to make our own spur-of-the-moment visit there last February). She was hoping to head south again this year. Chris urged us to dance on the beach as a tribute to her, and we will, but it will be with broken hearts.

Jan. 25^th The Bahamas

It has turned out that while B.’s relatives have been wonderful about giving us the opportunity to take part in their activities, they have also been fine with us being on our own, so there has been time for us to read or go for long walks on the beach or explore the island. Planning what to do, dealing with practicalities such as where and when to eat, all keep the brain occupied. This enforced mental activity lulls one into a false sense of security, though: because I have not been thinking of her every moment, and perhaps for quite a series of moments, then I must be fine, I must be coping. I have not burst out into tears since getting here, so all must be well.

But I know it can’t be that easy. I know that the part of me that is shattered by grief is ever hovering in the background. Every now and then it forces itself to be noticed. It has me counting off the blocks of time (three a day, morning, afternoon, and evening) until I get back home. There is a kind of impatience to return to the “work of mourning,” as the term goes. I need to see what our mutual friends are saying on Facebook and on their blogs (I’m not using my phone here because of the roaming charges)—where are they in this grieving process? I need to know how K.B.’s son and daughter are, we need to visit Chris, I have to see MayB, I have to read C. S. Lewis’ A Grief Observed…I have to get on with it, I have to do all these things without hesitation. These are my priorities now.