Moving through: Logan

When I confronted grief, I discovered I had changed.

The six-month mark for Matthew’s death has come and quietly gone.  Matthew died on March 1, just as Winter turned into Spring.  Then Spring morphed into Summer, and now Summer is giving way to Fall.

Time plods clumsily on.

I did box up Matthew’s clothes.  I did donate almost everything.  It was horribly hard.

Margarete, one of Matthew’s sisters, who he was very, very close to, asked me for some of her artwork back (you may remember she’s a well-known painter).  I haven’t had the energy to take those drawings, paintings and sketches off the wall and box them up.  I’ll get to it.  She wants to be closer to the art she shared with Matthew.  I get it.  I don’t blame her.  I need to get those pieces to her.  I just can’t seem to do it.

I did change our bedroom into a guest room.  I got rid of our big, ugly pine dresser.  It had been with us since I met Matthew.  We purchased it for $100 from an unfinished furniture store.  It remained unfinished until I had it carted out of the bedroom about a month ago.  It’ll probably remain unfinished until it’s kindling, which, hopefully, will be soon.

This final post, though, (or what I intend to be the final post, though I doubt it will be) isn’t about Matthew and how he lived for 7 years with his cancer.  It wasn’t about his fight, his struggle, and his grappling with what it meant to be dying.   

It’s not about how he’d look at me and simply say:  I feel awful.

Instead, this post is about me.

Something happened.

I’m not me anymore.

I mean, I am me.  But I feel like I was put in a blender and spit out.  When I look in the mirror, I don’t see the old me.  I see an entirely new me. 

I don’t hate what I see.  On the contrary.  I see strength.  I see muscle.  I see sadness.  I see hope.  All those things.  I feel like a wolf.  A hunter, an apex, undefeatable beast ready to defend his home and fight for life. 

I know that sounds horribly pretentious.  But I can’t help it.  I’ve written extensively about my profound grief and sadness both before Matthew passed, and after. Now I want to tell you about something I didn’t expect.  That, in this process, I was chewed up, spit out, and reconstituted into someone new. 

And that new person I’ve given a name: Logan.

It’s ironic that I saw the real Logan, Wolverine, Hugh Jackman in New York.  I didn’t know he was a Broadway star.  I didn’t even know he could sing.  He can.  He was a force on the stage, exuding happiness and confidence and passion.  He brought Radio City Music Hall DOWN.  He was how I feel, or at least the happy side of how I feel.  Maybe his Wolverine character symbolizes the deeply sad side of my grief.  I don’t know.  Or maybe I’m stretching.

But I don’t hate Logan.  It’s not a bad thing.  Losing Matthew, that was bad.  That was as awful as I can imagine a thing being.  I miss him every day, every hour.  True, now minutes go by where I don’t think about his loss.  But not many minutes, or at least not many hours.  And never a full day.

It’s Logan who will move forward out of the darkness.  Part beast and part me, I’ll see how my new life evolves.  Will it be different?  Yes.  Will I miss my best friend?  Yes.  Will I grieve every day? Yes.  But will I move forward and confront the problems, challenges and trials that will be thrown at me over the next part of my life?

Yes.

Or at least, Logan will.  And Logan?  Well, his tastes are a bit different than before.  Suddenly, my normal daily hour at the gym stretches closer toward two.  When I can I go dancing, the late-night club is a respite.  My clothing seems to have changed, too.  Logan likes things a bit tighter and a little louder.  Perhaps you’ll think I’ve totally lost it.  Perhaps I have.  But I got to say, I don’t really care who looks at me and thinks “midlife crisis”.  That happened a long time ago.  I’m well past midlife crisis.  This isn’t about trying to feel or look young again.  Someone asked my age the other day, at a dance club, and I said, “57” before I even thought about it. They just looked at me oddly.  I’m not sure if they believed me, didn’t believe me, thought I looked great, or awful.  Moreover, I don’t really care one way or the other.  So, no, not midlife crisis.  Instead, Logan’s emergence is something different, and it is the first spark of pure adrenaline I’ve had since March 1.

Logan.  Mike.  Mike.   Logan.  This should be interesting.