January 9, 2013 | A Letter to James

I wrote this to you last night after heading down to bed. I hope you don’t mind me posting it here.

I woke this morning wanting to write to you and it was in my list the whole day. As always (yes, even when you are with me, if that’s not too strange to say), I can’t get you out of my mind. I keep thinking about how it will feel for you to drive in to Moscow and to wonder at the strange loss of the feeling of coming home, or to see all your friends that so clearly love you and to know that you must be kept apart from them by distance, money and all that stuff, and most of all, how it will feel to walk into 120 South Polk and see the remnants of our life strewn about there. The weight of what you are doing for us is unfathomable. It’s silent but for the wind down here in the den and I have little tears gathering at the corners of my eyes at these imaginings.

My guilt is sometimes, just sometimes, overwhelming. Guilt for turning not only my own but other peoples lives upside down. Guilt for acting differently after surgery and as I waited for treatment to begin. For not being strong enough or loving enough. This is my own choice to feel this guilt, and you know that I refuse to dwell on things that can’t or couldn’t be changed. I choose to feel it because I know I could have been more loving and dynamic and brave over the last few weeks, and it only makes it worse that you too knew it, and was the only one to voice your belief in me…and I let you down. It’s funny, that’s been the hardest thing. Not the surgery, not the jabs, not the fear of death, I’m really not too worried about that stuff. It’s the fear of letting you down and of being a burden.

I’ve felt really great in the past few days. I’ve wondered if I should feel guilty for saying that, as it’s not something polite people say to others just after they have left. But as you know, ‘polite’ isn’t the first adjective I shoot for (there are much more exciting ones, like wondrous, phenomenal, sparkly or intrepid). Anyway, let’s just say it was since our breath-of-air escape into the mountains that I’ve felt good, that perhaps the fright in the night and the icy water woke me up a little. In the past few weeks I’ve taken the saying ‘you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone' (or compromised, or limited, etc.) to be a metaphor for life…. and in the meantime, was forgetting that it’s the goodies inside of life that go unappreciated. The little tears keep wanting to creep back as I think of the awful nights you spent with me in hospital, or tending to me when I could hardly walk, or even worse, putting up with me as I recovered from the ordeal physically before mentally.

Today I ran the Highbury Fling twice. The feeling was incredible, flying through that greenery and feeling my body strain up the hills before gasping that gorgeous clean air and dodging the twisting trees on the way down. I sat by Harriet by the fire and discussed her favorite books and how she gets them out of the library, and cooked a lovely meal for Karen and Carolyn with ma with Electric Guest on full volume. She and I hugged as I wandered down to bed tonight and as I hugged my wheatie-bag, amongst a chorus of sweet “goodnights” between everyone. And now I stare at your pile of clothes and can’t believe that you have traveled across the world for all this.

I can only hope that during this time away you will be able to understand that this here isn’t the life I’ve chosen either…that neither was necessarily Moscow. These things have happened and we’ve found ourselves amongst them, and learnt to adapt and enjoy them wholly along the way. No, the only life I’ve really chosen is the one with you. I may be looking forward to radiation on Monday and be happy being with family, but I loved our life we were and are creating and there is absolutely no way I will ever give up on it. Our dreaming brought us together and we must cherish our dreams always, wherever we are.

The wind is gusting at 140km/hour tonight, and I’m blowing you a kiss good night. I hope it’s carried right to you across the seas, and I love you for knowing what a kilometre is (thanks).

x, your B.