Quick Take
Lookout columnist Claudia Sternbach lost her husband six months ago to a fast-moving cancer. They had been married 40 years and she is using this space to chronicle her grief. Here, she details her first trip to New York City since his death, the memories and nostalgia it evoked. “Keep kissing, even in public,” she writes. “Feel the warmth of fingers entwined.”
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I knew I wanted to be home by August 25. Home seemed like the only place I should be on the six-month anniversary of Michael’s death. His unexpected diagnosis. His cancer, which spread so rapidly that two months after his first scan, he died.
My head is still spinning.
So on August 24, I flew back from New York City after spending a few days seeing friends and plays and wandering over to the Upper East Side to visit José the doorman, who presides over the lobby of the apartment building where I once stayed for weeks, months, at a time.
From the early 2000s until COVID-19 hit in 2020, I traveled back and forth, West Coast to East Coast, usually on my own. On this trip, however, my friend Kathy was with me. She, too, wanted to pop over to the East Side to visit José. Once upon a time we both knew his work schedule, but now too many years have passed. We crossed our fingers as we crossed Central Park, lush and green, toward the familiar neighborhood. Michael, dear Michael, always encouraged my visits to the coast he grew up on. He knew how New York City filled me with joy like no other place I have ever known.
It was Kathy’s apartment I used to camp out in. For several years, if Kathy and her partner, Jon, were out of the apartment for a length of time, I was in it. After they sold it a few years ago, both Kathy and I missed it more than we realized we would. I did find a nice hotel on the Upper West Side that soon began to feel like a handy substitute, but gone were the days of staying for months at a time.
I appreciated every moment of my New York life while it was happening. I did not take it for granted. I loved it all. There are nights now when I am home in my bed and can’t fall asleep and I imagine I am back in the apartment and about to leave for an adventure. José is working the door. And I know that once I leave the building, I am free to head north or south, east or west, and no matter the direction I choose, I will be happy. Thrilled. Where to wander, what to explore. No bad options. Central Park. The Metropolitan Museum. The East River. Riverside Park. The Brooklyn Bridge. St. Paul’s Chapel. The Frick. The list is endless.
And now, I was going to see how it would feel to be there once again. My first trip back since Michael passed.
I admit I had some anxiety about the journey, but I kept tamping it down. I feel closer to Michael when I am in our home. This is where I last saw him. This is where we were so very happy. If I am honest with myself, I will say without hesitation, I appreciated our life together.
I did not take it for granted. I loved that life. Growing up in a household without a father and then finding Michael, building a home with him, changed me. Love, security, happiness. He was my best friend. He was my safe harbor. I was regularly amazed at how lucky I was. But, that chapter of my life is over.
I don’t know if I will ever be able to develop such fondness for this new chapter.
When I mentioned the trip to friends, everyone had the same response, “New York City in August? Ugh…”
I understood their reactions. But after one or two sweltering days, the humidity lifted and the temps dropped and walking the streets was nothing but pleasure. I wanted to tell Michael.
On our eastbound flight I ordered a glass of wine. Big mistake. All I could think about was that rather than Michael taking us to the airport I had had to ask a friend. Of course he didn’t mind, but it was another shift away from the past. And always, after making it through security to my gate, I would text Michael that all was well.
I was so aware that I had no one waiting for that information that my chest constricted and I thought I might not be able to breathe. As I sat in my seat next to Kathy, an ugly cry erupted, the kind where it feels like you may lose control completely and the plane may have to make an emergency landing. And may I say that crying while wearing a mask is messy.
I handed the wine back to the flight attendant on her next pass through.
It is strange the things which trigger my grief. Passing a couple holding hands as if they are certain that that hand will always be there to grab. Or sitting behind a young couple at the theater who think nothing of sharing a kiss in the middle of the first act. And then leaning in for another. I tried to guess, honeymooners? First date darlings?
Keep holding hands, I want to tell them. And feel the warmth of fingers entwined. Keep kissing, even in public. Stay in your love bubble as long as you can.
It’s funny how one develops habits without being aware. But being in New York for the first time since Michael died showed me just how much we communicated even when 3,000 miles apart. Every long walk I took included conversations with Michael.
“You won’t believe how great the play was.”
“The rain finally stopped and it is beautiful out.”
“Zabar’s still carries my favorite sugar cookies!”
“I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Good night, I love you.”
This trip my phone stayed mostly in my pocket. Returning home became another first. Michael was not waiting for me at the airport.
Instead a lovely young woman, a friend of Kathy’s, picked us up. As I sat in the back seat watching the traffic out the window, I felt closer to Michael as we drove over Highway 17 and toward home. I felt my shoulders loosen just a bit. As if I had been physically trying to control my emotions for days. Tensing up rather than letting loose, fearing that letting loose might unleash the sadness, the despair.
Climbing into our bed, now my bed, I got some well-needed sleep. I was comforted by the familiarity of my own pillow-filled nest.
As I write this, today is the six-month anniversary of Michael leaving. I let myself feel it all. I am alone in my house and have no reason not to. No one is watching me to witness my sadness.
At 1:07 p.m., the time of his last breath, I sat in the room where his spirit left his body and tried to feel him. I couldn’t. But, I did talk to him.
I told him about visiting José. That he had been happy to see us. That it felt almost like we had gone back in time, standing in the lobby of the apartment catching up on the building gossip with the man who sees everything that goes on at East 81st Street.
Oh how I wish we really could travel back in time. To the days of Michael and me kissing in the theater. Holding hands while walking in the neighborhood. But, those days are gone.
And I am trying, really trying, to accept that. I know I can call up the memories any time I want. But I don’t want to yet. It is just too painful.
I have to put those thoughts away for now and hope that someday I can revisit all that I had and simply feel joy and gratitude. But not yet. Not yet.