7 years later - am I still the same?

Reflections on the anniversary of Brad's Death

7 years ago, at 1:49 pm on a sunny afternoon, Brad took his final breath.

It was after a rare, aggressive, and unexpected diagnosis of renal cell carcinoma a mere 100 days before. A diagnosis that brought out the raw, intangible facets of life and forced us to embrace the vulnerability required to live authentically.

7 years later, I am still processing the shock and the grief of that time. Even more so, I am still processing the admiration I had for Brad and how he responded to death showing up at our door. Processing how to live my life in a way that demonstrates that level of ferocious courage.

Brad and I had been in each other’s lives for 14 years, meeting when we were just kids in college. Before I began routinely sleeping over in the bottom bunk of his dorm room, he used to invite me over on Sunday mornings for coffee and the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle. We’d sit on the back patio on the ground floor of his apartment and he’d balance his Switzerland flag coffee mug and a smoke in his left hand and the Times puzzle and a pen in his right. We’d laugh and flirt and make attempts at deciphering the clues in front of us.

We spent the first 7 years of our relationship navigating commitment, ambition (his, not mine), and early adulthood. We shared life in a 500-square-foot studio that others commented was a “test to our relationship.” Our days were spent bouncing between work, the local dive bar, and city strolls with our beloved dog, Dune. Looking back, life was carefree and easy (although if you asked us at the time, I’m sure we felt burdened with the responsibilities of being alive).

Our next 7 years were full of big dreams and bigger possibilities. I was still searching for my passion, while Brad settled into his. We started to dig into the depth of existence, experiencing the full pendulum of life (and its fragility), with my cancer diagnosis, several unexpected deaths, and finally, Brad’s shocking diagnosis. We were tested and we were loved, until his very end.

As I sit writing this in the quiet morning of the anniversary of Brad’s death, my body feels full of knots and nerves. The trauma from 7 years before, still etched deep in my bones.

Yet, despite the deep well of grief, the last 7 years have shown me how expansive life can be. How, even when it felt like I would be swallowed whole, I could keep living. How I did keep living.

In these last 7 years since Brad died:

• I spent 3 months driving across the country. It was intended to fulfill our joint dream of interviewing people on how to live courageously in the face of mortality. It ended up being 10,000 miles of crying and processing my early grief (and learning the lesson - that I would be reminded of over and over again - that you can’t tend to other people’s grief until you tend to your own).

• I quit my business to work for a non-profit (so I could have a steady income and be approved for a mortgage that wasn’t in my name¹).

• I realized sitting behind a desk in a windowless cubicle from 9-5 would crush whatever semblance of life I had left (no matter how lovely the ladies I worked with were), so I quit that too.

• I showed up as loved ones continued to get cancer and (some of them) died (and others gave me the life-saving gift of surviving - and proving that some people do, in fact, live).

• I moved up to Northern Michigan to live in a 100-year-old cabin on a lake, where eagles soared the skies above, porcupines stole fruit from the backyard apple tree, and mice had free reign of my sweet potatoes and avocados. I knew no one and planned to use the solitude to write a book.

• Instead, I moved my dad into my spare bedroom, after he was diagnosed with esophageal cancer (on top of a host of other issues), beginning my 18-month caregiver journey (and the hardest period of my life where grief on top of grief on top of grief emerged).

• I said goodbye to my dad the month before the world shut down, leaving me alone in the wreckage of my mind to process that experience (still working on that).

• I officially made Northern Michigan my home, purchasing the cutest little cottage across the street from the lake, and accepted that I would probably never live in Detroit again. I mourned that truth.

• I created my first Book of Stories, and shifted the Forced Joy Project from a space where I shared my story, to a community space that helped capture the stories of others.

• I started creating, facilitating, and hosting retreats for cancer survivors and widows (sign up to be notified for this year’s retreat). I also joined my friend, Tiffany, in hosting international trips for widows and widowers (we still have space if you want to go to Bali this spring!).

• I stumbled around in the world of dating before falling in love with Nate, a friend I’d known for years. We merged our worlds, splitting time between DC and the shores of Lake Michigan, and have the most beautiful, unconventional relationship that works for us.

• I amazed myself at what I was capable of and created the safe and supportive community I wish had existed in the immediate years after Brad died.

• I felt more alone than I thought possible, but eventually deepened my relationships, and worked on being a better friend, partner, sister, daughter, and auntie.

• I grieved. Every single day.

• And I lived. Every single day.

7 years and a lifetime ago.

They say the number 7 is significant.²

In astrology, every 7 years, there is a planetary shift in the cosmic energies that leads to personal transformation. It creates a “crisis” that forces change.

In science, every 7 years, the body renews itself.³ During this cycle, all your cells die off, leaving you with a body of completely new cells. That means there's not a single cell in my body now that Brad would know.

Grief transforms so much of ourselves, but as I look back to that version of who I was 7 years ago, I wonder if any of her is the same. Or with each new day, a new layer is stripped down, transforming me into something completely new. If all my cells are different, am I different too?

Would Brad recognize me today? Do I recognize me today?

These unanswered questions remind me of the Theseus theory⁴:

"In Greek mythology, Theseus, mythical king and founder of the city Athens, rescued the children of Athens from King Minos after slaying the minotaur and then escaped onto a ship going to Delos. Each year, the Athenians would commemorate this by taking the ship on a pilgrimage to Delos to honour Apollo. A question was raised by ancient philosophers: After several hundreds of years of maintenance, if each individual part of the Ship of Theseus was replaced, one after the other, was it still the same ship?"⁵

Essentially, if the planks of a ship are replaced over time so that no original plank is left, is it still the same ship?

Does the same apply to me?

If slowly, piece by piece, layer by layer, I am replaced by new cells, new thoughts, new experiences, am I still…me? How much of my identity is defined by the makeup of my body? By my internal compass? By my role as Brad’s wife?

With all that’s changed over the last 7 years, have parts of me remained the same?

I don’t know.

But what I do know is that I have the privilege to continue asking the questions. To continue to find out.

Tomorrow is day one of a new 7-year cycle. I know better than to expect smooth seas - life will continue with the full breadth of joy and grief. Love and pain. Life and death. And through those rough seas, I will continue to evolve and change in a myriad of ways.

Through it all, I will continue to live⁶.

Tomorrow, on the first day of my next 7-year cycle, I embark on a new epic adventure. One where I cross off my biggest (and only) bucket list item, setting foot on my 7th and final continent, Antarctica.

The journey to get there is considered one of the most treacherous voyages to make, but if I have learned anything in the last 7 years, it’s that I can ride the waves.

Plus, I can’t imagine a better way to kick off the next 7 years and to see what, of myself, I discover there.

1. A story/lesson for another day, but if you are married, make sure both your names are on the mortgage and the deed.

2. After a quick Google search, I learned:
7 continents
7 days of the week
7 wonders of the world
7 circles in the geometric symbol known as "The Seed of Life"
7 colors of the rainbow
7 deadly sins
7 chakras
7 seas
7 sacred teachings
7 musical notes
7 days for God to create the world
7 Harry Potter Books

3. The average age of a cell is 7 years, but it takes between 7 and 10 years for your entire body to replace its cells.

4. It actually reminded Nate of the Theseus theory, who then shared it with me when I was talking about writing this post. Pro-dating tip: always date someone smarter.

5. Sourced From Wikipedia

6. Until I don’t, because, as Brad used to say, “We’re all terminal.”