This morning I was going over chapters of my memoir, written before Andrew died.
“I don’t think there is anyone who hasn’t paid to have their future read to them at some point,” are the opening lines of one chapter. “Or at the very least wondered what might lie ahead. When I look back at the last fourteen years of my life, I think that it is just as well that we can’t see into the future. For starting when Alexander died in 1995, and Hugh lost his job nine years ago, I had no idea that what lay ahead of us would be years and years of increasing hardship and change that would test us all to breaking point…”
Reading the above paragraph, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, for when I wrote it, in May of 2009, Andrew was still alive. What I didn’t know then, and in my wildest dreams, or I should say, nightmares, I would never have imagined, was that the clock was ominously ticking.
Andrew was close to the finishing line. Five and a half months left on his clock, and he would be gone!
There was a time when I’d say or think things like: ” It can’t get any worse than this.” I even remember thinking once, not long ago actually, that we had hit rock bottom.
That way of thinking has gone out the window now. When Andrew died, I had started and stopped writing my book many times as a result of changes in my life. After his death it occurred to me that I should just keep writing and call my memoir: A CHANGING STORY.
More and more, as I reflect on life, my life, and what goes on in the world, I realize how futile living in anything other than present, really is.
Life only happens in the present. But even Alexander died, thinking that the worse that could possibly happen to us had happened; I took so many moments with Andrew and with the rest of my family, for granted.
Were I able to turn back the clocks, I would do many things differently.
And of course, I would be standing at the entrance of Bobst, and stop him from entering.
And then we would talk about it all. But I had never had the chance. And now he’s gone.