by Abby Maslin
It didn’t have to be brain injury—although brain injury may be the most extreme, expedited form of change two partners experience. It could have been cancer or depression, an affair or regrettable neglect. But this question I have arrived at is the question I was always destined to arrive at: In this difficult moment, with so much uncertain, will I choose this marriage again?
This life together will always be a challenge. Brain injury guarantees an uncertain future for TC—early dementia, rapid aging, unpredictable changes in personality. It may require me to be the constant witness of his suffering, an act that continues to shake my soul.
To stay means accepting the possibility that the road ahead may be harder than the one we’ve already traveled. I don’t know if or how I will manage it. Sometimes I’m not even sure how I’ve managed the days that have passed. But for today, I roll my purple suitcase toward the entrance of the airport and prepare to return to the only person with whom I want to be.
I begin the long trip home.
CHAPTER 31
July 2017
There is a ten-kilometer trail that begins in the city of Oia and travels atop the steep coastal cliffs of the caldera, ending in the bustling town of Fira. The hike is not an easy one; powerful winds and blazing heat make it feel as if one is summiting a great mountain, although I suppose mountain would be the wrong geologic term. Santorini is not a mountain. It is the physical aftermath of a now dormant volcano. The transformed landscape of thousands of years of eruption and destruction.
And yet the scene before me is far more stunning than I can hope to capture with the camera of my smartphone. I keep the phone tucked into the waistband of my running shorts as I lift my sneaker once more, another foot of ashy incline beneath me, inviting to be conquered. I turn around to make sure I haven’t lost TC.
His body has gone still. He’s removed his T-shirt and tucked it into the green vinyl pocket of his backpack. Sweat begins to accumulate around his temples and the wrinkled groove of his belly button. The surgery scars on his abdomen glisten with moisture as his right arm hangs at his side, stiff with spasticity. These days TC wears his black-rimmed glasses only when reading or driving (a skill he just relearned one year ago). Now his eyes are covered by dark sunglasses as he stands looking out over the midnight-blue ocean.
“You OK?” I call back.
He nods silently, unable to pull his gaze away from the water.
I take a few steps back in his direction. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”
“It’s incredible.”
I force myself to pause, to take in the same sweeping Aegean landscape, the salt of the ocean water carried by the wind, the arid interior that evokes memories of Arizona. TC is seeing it all for the first time. And even though I’ve been here once before, it feels new to me too.
We made it. Three years after I bid this land farewell, five years after I bid my old life the same, and eight years after we first took those vows, we have arrived at the very place we’ve been trying to reach: Greece.
The years have been quick; the days have been long and messy. Dawn till dusk trying to find our way back to ordinary, wondering every day why our existence must be so much more effort than it was before. Our tragedy will not be our crutch. We will not let it keep us from having a fully lived life. And yet we are so damn tired.
The first few days in Athens were spent collapsing into bed, waking every few hours in search of a gyro, and, of course, finding time for the obligatory visit to the Acropolis. We weren’t totally alone. My sister, on a six-month travel sabbatical, took a short detour to meet us. One night the three of us sat outside at a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth table, stuffing ourselves with eggplant and fresh feta as the sun disappeared behind the sky, leaving the glowing Acropolis in its place.
“Dad would have loved this,” Bethany remarked. TC and I smiled in agreement.
I marvel at the journey of grief—how no one day is like the next. Some days my father feels so present. My mind rolls over the happy memories and there is his voice, gentle and laughing, his gray eyes twinkling with warm laughter. I don’t think about the sick days very often anymore.
And then there is TC. We’ve been living the After together for more years now than we lived the Before. The math astonishes me, reminds me that this is the only marriage I belong to. Neither of us can live one foot in the past. The present demands everything we’ve got.
Each step forward on this hike, for example, requires TC’s full attention. He concentrates hard not to trip over loose rocks as his calves burn with the incline. I temper my instinct to go fast, to race up the hillside that will lead us to Fira. I remind myself to pause and rest at his side.
* * *
At home, the scenery is different.
“Are things pretty much like they were?” people ask me all the time. And I know what they want to hear. Please let it be possible, their eyes plead. Please let us believe in the simplicity of miracles.
“No,” I answer gently. “But they’re exactly right.”
Each morning, TC leaves the house, headed back into a hectic world. Work sustains him, but it also fatigues him. He has returned to the job he worked so hard to make his own again, but the challenges are new. He must accept that work does not come easily anymore.
Small children keep me busy these days, both in the classroom and at home, where Jack and his one-year-old sister infuse bright, energetic life into every small moment. Jack is six now, exuberant and hilarious, a recent kindergarten graduate who continues to be obsessed with dinosaurs, dancing to Bruno Mars, and, in the tradition of his father, making pets of every insect and animal he finds outdoors. I watch him with awe sometimes, wondering how anyone can be so effortlessly delighted just to be alive. He carries himself with the unbreakable confidence that tomorrow will be an even more fantastic adventure than today.
And then there is Rosalie. There is so much I’m still discovering about my daughter. Her steely blue eyes unnerve us all. She is serious and contemplative, very much like the pre-accident version of her father. The one she’ll never know.
Becoming a mother again was a wish I hid from myself for as long as I could, until it burst forth during my month in Santorini. When I returned home, I willed it back into hiding. After all, our lives have been plenty complicated and full of responsibility. Why would we ever want to introduce another snag that might unravel things?
But I could not make it go away. I longed for her, hopeful and assured it was a her before she was any bit of anything at all. I looked at TC and wondered what I would miss, knowing we might never have more children. I listened to his words and heard the pain reflected in his thoughts. Of course I want another baby. I just don’t know if I can be the kind of father I want to be.
I understood his worry. More than that, I felt the same way. We want everything in this world for our children. Health. Happiness. Safety. The total absence of pain. But life is uncertain. There are no guarantees we can make ourselves, and we cannot fight against the impermanence of this world. Impermanence is the only rule the universe abides by. Things will be broken. They’ll also be put back together.
I am learning to walk through the uncertainty. To find beauty in the unknowable. I used to believe that love was stationary—one single, familiar feeling etched into our souls for a lifetime. But I was wrong. Love is fluid. It is fire. It runs through us, and sometimes it burns. My love for TC is not easy. It’s transformative.
I cannot erase the terrible event that led us here. And even though there are days I wish that I could, I’d never be willing to give up the person I’ve become along the way. There is a strange sense of relief in knowing I can never go back to who I was before the assault. She was a good person, a kind one, hardworking and loving. But she was also limited. Unable to imagine a different life for herself, one in which she didn’t look to anyone else for the answers.
TC an
d I are still easing into these new identities. He is more spontaneous than I remember him before. More interested in the twists and turns of fatherhood and our little family than he is in career success. He is also gentler; he has drawn boundaries around himself to avoid the toxic negativity and gratuitous violence of our culture. TC’s keenly aware of the need to protect himself in this hardscrabble world. I, meanwhile, am listening in to learn. I am paying attention to the way the world works for other people. I am noticing injustice in every corner and feeling a grave responsibility to make use of each of my days. My luck in life astounds me, humbles me, sometimes even paralyzes me with gratitude. I don’t ever want to live a small life again. I don’t want to waste anything.
We bump hips in the kitchen sometimes, still trying to intuit the sway of each other’s bodies as one of us reaches for the milk or scrambles up an egg. We interrupt each other at odd moments, convinced we know how a sentence will end and surprised to learn we are wrong. We are still clumsily relearning each other—our bodies, our minds. It’s like playing double-dutch with a jump rope some days. Figuring out when to jump in. When to wait another beat. But there is a familiarity between us that is undeniable. A recognition of each other’s souls. An unspoken promise to stay on this ride for as long as we can.
And I want all of this forever—the crying baby and spilled LEGOs and husband who can’t find the word for refrigerator until he’s had two cups of coffee. The children on my lap. TC cooking breakfast. Spencer snatching Goldfish off the table. I want it all so much that the wanting fills my throat and I can barely breathe through the feeling sometimes. I know I can’t keep it all forever. And I know, by some miracle, I’ll survive it.
Each trip to the grocery store or checkup at the doctor is a chance that the winds might change, that we might get knocked off our feet again, and I take none of it for granted. Each reunion, each walk through the door at night, is a testament to our great fortune. Each struggle is an invitation to dig for more truth.
In the end, all we can do is live. And, in the process, let the life we’ve been given seep into our souls as we lean into the heartache, the suffering, and the almost intolerable grief of being alive. Because if we don’t, if we choose to turn away from the work instead of toward it, to give only a fraction of ourselves instead of our entirety, we will miss the wonder of the heartbreak. To survive, we must simply live. To love, we must love hard.
* * *
TC and I finish the hike, nearly eleven kilometers of mountain terrain, and then surprise ourselves by continuing on.
“There’s a winery on the other end of the island, just another few kilometers from here,” I tell him. “Are you up for it?”
He sips from his water bottle and then returns it to his backpack. “OK,” he says, laughing. “Might as well.”
But the road is longer than I realized, and as I keep my feet moving forward, I feel TC’s pace slow behind me. “Just a little bit longer,” I call out.
I must remind myself sometimes that TC will always try to match my effort. I, in turn, must try to match his pace. It’s the constant compromise of our marriage today: learning how much to push, learning when to stand still.
Thirteen kilometers from where we started in Oia, we finally arrive. We sit outside on a sweeping patio overlooking the southernmost tip of the island, where we can trace with our eyes each of the steps we traveled to get here.
We order wine, but first, bottles of water, which we suck down quickly in exhaustion and happiness.
“Cheers.” TC lifts his wineglass, clinking it against my own.
I smile back. “Yamas.”
That night we take a taxi back to our hotel on the other side of the island. TC uses a large brass key to unlock the door of our small white villa. The curtains from our bedroom blow with the meltemi, sweeping through the window as we make love inside.
Much later, I find myself stirring. I turn on my side, the moonlight illuminating the rise and fall of the curve of TC’s back as his body renews itself with slumber. My husband is beside me.
And I am awake.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In yoga, the word namaste is commonly translated as “the light in me honors the light in you,” or more simply, “I bow to you.” But I often think of namaste as another beautiful word for thank you. When it comes to the writing of a memoir, life cannot be separated from art, and for that reason, I have many, many people in both my personal and professional lives to whom I bow and give thanks.
Five years ago I nervously clicked send on an e-mail containing the twenty-five heart-pounding, messy pages that would become this book. The recipient of those pages, my bold and fearless agent, Andrea Barzvi, has been with me ever since. Thank you, Andy, for believing in the potential of those pages, for your patience as I traveled this journey of healing, and for guiding me down the path to authordom.
I’d like also to extend my deepest gratitude to my editor, Jill Schwartzman, and the entire team at Dutton for their sensitive and skillful care of this manuscript. It has been one of the great joys of my life to watch this book come to life and it would not have been possible without your enthusiasm and editorial wisdom.
Theologian and author Nadia Bolz-Weber once advised to “write from the scars, not from the wounds.” This has been my mantra in creating this book. As writers, our job is to share the stories from which we’ve made meaning and offer those insights as testament to the human experience. But none of this is possible without teachers. Over the past few years, I have been blessed with an army of gurus, masters, and healers, all of whom deserve my profound gratitude.
From the brain injury and caregiving communities, thank you to Lee Woodruff, for that first, inspiring phone call that gave me hope for a happy future. Thank you also to Rosemary Rawlins, my editor at Brainline.org and dear friend. Rosemary, you always say the thing I need to hear and you always find a way to make my writing better. Thank you to Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor, the late Cathy Crimmins, and the indomitable Gabby Giffords, whose books landed in my lap at exactly the moment I needed them.
I learned to write truth from the books I love, so thank you to my nonfiction writing “sheroes”: Kelly Corrigan, Cheryl Strayed, Elizabeth Gilbert, Brené Brown, Glennon Doyle, and the late, great Dr. Maya Angelou.
To the healers who have given our family a chance at new life, I am most indebted. Thank you to Dr. Christopher Kalhorn and the incredible team of doctors, nurses, and therapists who cared for TC during his time at MedStar Washington Hospital, including our dear friend, Dr. Mladen Sokolovic. Thank you also to Dr. Suzanne Anderson, Bobbie Merlino, and the team at NRH. To Linda Wozniak, Ellina Kostopoulos, and the InteRACT dream team, you have given us new life. Thank you. At every step of the way, we were fortunate to receive great care. Now we must ensure every brain injury survivor is allowed the same opportunity.
In the yoga community, my path has intersected with many brilliant and beautiful minds. Thank you to Carri Uranga, Sarah Walsh, Michele Doiron, Liz Dornisch, Betsy Poos, Ann Hunt, and Alana Layne Greenburg. Your teachings have been the gateway to deep inner work around what it means to inhabit this body on earth. And to my Greece girls, well, I think you know. What we created together transcends words.
Brain injury is an isolating journey and I was warned at the beginning we were likely to lose friends along the way. Fortunately, that has not been the case. To Ryan O’Banion and Patrick Bean, who lived each day of the hospital life with us, thank you. Your love for TC has been a powerful gift to us both. Thank you for the helmet stickers, the long games of Connect 4, the Roti deliveries, and the suggestion to document it all. Thank you also to those friends who held our hands at each step of this journey, particularly: Ilya Bondarenko, Claire Dougherty, and our incredible Bucknell and Duke communities.
It takes a village, they say, and in my case, that village is a neighborhood called Capitol Hill. Here I fall inevitably short in expressing
my gratitude. To the hundreds of people who banded together in the early days after TC’s injury and supported us financially, emotionally, and otherwise, you have defined generosity for me. Thank you especially to Elsa Huxley, Vanessa Ford, the CHAMPS team, Alison Smith Marriott, Reya Mellicker, my expansive Brent family, and so many others for your kindness. And to John Parker, thank you will never be enough. You saw a young man on a porch who needed help and you did not turn away. You saved TC, but you really saved us all.
No matter where life takes us, home will always be Southern Maryland. Thank you to Shep and Pat McKenney for making it so. As you know, this course was always meant to be.
To Jim Vore and Moira Egan, the most magnificent godparents on earth: you have been there for each and every one of us. It is a profound honor to be your goddaughter.
To Ruth, Don, and Sean: thank you for your blessing to tell this story and for loving us along the way. I am proud to be a team together.
To my first friend and most faithful reader, Bethany: now that this is finished, can we get back to the sitcom writing? I love you harder than hard.
There are two people without whom this book literally could not have been written. For a busy mother and full-time teacher, time is a precious gift. Thank you to my husband, TC Maslin, and my mom, Kate Sullivan, for gifting me with the time I needed to do this special work. For all the diaper changes and nature walks I missed over the past year, it soothes my soul to know Jack and Rosie were in your loving care.
Mom, there is no universe without you in it. Thank you for everything under the sun, but mostly for teaching me the strength and fortitude it takes to live this human life.
To my dad, Martin Sullivan, thank you for showing me what a great man is so that I could find one of my own. You are the ingredient in all my happy thoughts and the voice that points me forward.