There are many candidates for the worst day of my life. The day we learned Vaiva's cancer had recurred for the third time comes to mind. But there were yet actions to take, an operation to arrange, doctors to see. The day we learned the cancer had spread to the brain was much worse, because her cognition and responsiveness were impaired forever after. But even then, we were given hope by the doctors. (They don't really know what they are talking about, by the way.)
The fear of the last trip to the hospital, getting the news that it would likely be a "terminal event," sending out the word that Vaiva had only a few days left to her. The final destruction of hope, all bad, bad, bad.
December 13, Vaiva's death, marked the end of her suffering as well. She was a believer, and so it marked the beginning of her eternal life in heaven as well. So, bad, but not really the worst day.
Death launches the ceremonies, the funerals. They were marked by very poor weather, by innumerable small problems, but funerals have a momentum all their own.
The worst of day my life was December 24, 2008, the day we buried Vaiva in Vilnius. That completed all my promises to her, and brought my life to a conclusion of sorts as well.
I'm living in the postscript now. I knew immediately that I would have great trouble constructing for myself a "post-Vaiva" identity. She knew it too, knew how tightly bound to her I was, at my core. A year later, I am no closer to a solution to that problem. For all practical purposes, I am lost.
The next year will be harder than the last. Everyone else can move on. I cannot, I will not.
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