Time travel

The subject of endless discussion in sci-fi, pop culture, and many children’s imaginations, but as far as we know, it’s not actually possible to travel in time. But having spent so many months essentially living in the future, and now endlessly revisiting the past, I wonder how true that really is.

Almost by necessity, much of Lindsey’s treatment was spent discussing all of our future plans. We had so many. We would look at houses online, even taking virtual tours. We added destinations to our list of places we wanted to visit. We were sure we’d move to Canada within a few years given the new criteria that gave her birthright citizenship; unfortunately we didn’t get the paperwork in before she passed. Our plans for our life together were simple but we looked forward to them. A house with big windows overlooking the woods. Lots of cats. Maybe kids someday, when the cancer was a distant memory.

This future will never come to pass. It may not have even if Lin was still alive, but every time I remember yet another thing we won’t get to do, we never got the chance to experience, it’s another stab to my heart. We never got to go ice skating. We never went on a plane together. We won’t get to go skiing for Christmas. Then I remember all the plans she had, too. Selfishly I always think about our plans first. She wanted to do aerial yoga. She wanted to learn piano. She was going to do so much. The incredible potential that she held burns in my chest, somehow stings and aches at the same time.

I’ve been told countless times not to live in the past. How could I live anywhere else? I cling to each and every memory I have with Lindsey, from the first messages we sent each other to the final time I held her hand. I revisit photos and videos like a museum, desperate to recall every tiny detail. We liked to reminisce together, perhaps because we both have poor memories, or perhaps we knew our time together would be short on some cosmic level. She remembered what I wore on our first date, but I don’t. She reminded me that she wore a blue, low-cut sweater, and that detail sprang back to my mind. I remember trying hard not to look. I told her that, and she said she wore it because she wanted me to look. Maybe I will find that sweater and frame it. Add it to my collection.

Having to be present, to attend to this immense pain, is almost more than I can bear. I say almost because I have to. I have to give it the care and acknowledgement it deserves. Anything less would be disrespectful to Lindsey and to the pain she endured throughout her life, and especially throughout her cancer journey. I can continue on because she wants me to. The only peace I know is she is no longer suffering, and she never had to endure the pain of living without your other half.