Thinking about Jenny

I think a lot about Jenny. Perhaps, more than I should. 

My rational mind tells me I should not dwell so much on her. That I should suppress the thoughts and focus on getting along with life, keeping myself occupied and staying on an even keel. That being stuck in grief can be detrimental for my health and well-being.

But the more I consciously try to put her off my mind the more I gravitate back to her.  I think of her when I am shaving, eating, strumming my guitar or when I am just moping listlessly around the house. Especially when I get restless, wondering if she had been around she would have helped me pass the time more prolifically.

I think of her in her normal healthy self before she got unwell, always composed and self-assured. And I think of her again in her sickly and weakened state, pale and gaunt, the glimmer receding in her eyes. I try recalling the little that she had shared with me as she bore through her suffering most of the time subdued in sombre silence, speaking up only to voice her pain and medical needs and to occasionally share her innermost fears. And who would not, in the face of impending death, be fearful?

“Dad, I do not want to die”, she murmured faintly as the anxiety got the better of her, sadness written all over her face.  She was referring to me like she was another one of our kids. The child in her was speaking to provoke a response from the parent in me.

“You will make it, Honey. The doctor will get you well. You need to eat well and keep your hopes up and continue praying. You will get well, you must get well”, I remember assuring her, in fact many times during the months when she was undergoing her chemo treatment, at home or accompanying her on the way to the clinic.

And I think of her lying in the hospital bed during her final five weeks.  Her body was viciously betraying her from within. She was a pitiful sight. A tangle of medical tubes, some draining ascites fluid out of her body whilst others are pumping medication and  parenteral nutrition into her veins.  But the light was fast fading and the deed would soon be done.  The cancer was on course to complete its evil mission and in turn also self-destruct to perish along with the host.

Just last night, for the first time, I dreamt of her lifeless body. But in that same dream she came back to life. Miracles happen, but unfortunately only in the state of dreams.

I think of her a lot.  But unlike before, these flashbacks do not stab me as sharply as before. Perhaps I have gotten numbed to the pain. Perhaps the tears have dried up. Possibly my grief has meandered into another phase. That of acceptance? If that is true then I should be feel relieved somewhat.

But it is relief mixed with fear. I fear that my memories of her, her as a real person in my life, as loving wife and mother to my children would dissolve with time. “She will always be alive in your memories”, kind friends have told me many times. But unfortunately the mind does not work like that. The average human brain does not retrieve information with clock-work repeatability like a digital computer. At least mine don’t. Over time, our neural connections weaken. Our memories are like sieves and much as we cherish them all, some will inevitably leak through. And with age and possibility of dementia setting in it can only get worse. Would we be mentally “divorced” over time?

I have sufficient digital images of her to refresh my memory of how she looks. But which photograph can truly recall her actual smile?  As for real-life interactive experiences, they depend solely on mental recall. Can I remember how she verbalise her various moods – happy and passionate or in less cheerful dispositions, when annoyed and complaining?

So I believe my tendency to constantly think about her arises from my own natural response on dealing with this fear. I need to refresh  the memories to keep them intact. So I can still hold on to the past. And how she was and how we were during the many happy years we shared so intimately with each other.