Eighteen months are behind me…
Miraculously, I passed through the horror of those first days…drowning, like we all have, in the huge wave of mind numbing shock...losing part of your heart without any warning. A tsunami of pain. A suffocating blanket…thick and black, wrapped tightly around me. It kept me from almost every rational thought that could have passed through my brain. But it kept me from dying too.
I honestly don’t know how I planned his funeral. It was beautiful…but I don’t know how I did it. In fact, I can't believe I can even remember it.
I could hardly speak at times…and when I could…I didn’t want to…and most of the time I didn’t.
To tell you the truth, I just wanted to go to the funeral home and jump in his casket. I wanted to wrap my arms around him, squeeze my eyes shut tightly. I would warm that cold body with my arms. I would WILL him to wake up! This nightmare would dissolve in the morning sunshine and I would look into those beautiful eyes while I sat on our big, warm bed and tell him what a horrible nightmare I had!
That may sound horrible…jumping in his casket. But it was all that was left of him that I could touch. How could I think such a thing? I suppose the horror of doing that seemed so much less than the horror of not doing it...so much less than the horror of letting them burying my Rick in the ground. So much less than the horror of saying goodbye to the face I love so much…so much less than never letting my eyes drink in the sight of him, stroke his face, hold his hand.
I could feel the blood pumping out of my heart…the life I loved living drained away with every beat.
I was in shock.
Eighteen months of strange quiet…
What a different place this house is. A house that was so noisy…our island...our retreat. It was once filled with conversation and laughter…filled with the noise of construction and movement…filled with kisses and hugs and sometimes angry voices…filled with life.
It is so very quiet now…only faint whispers of the life that was can be heard…a hush unbroken for eighteen months.
Eighteen months of homelessness…
This place is NOT my home. What I wrote my blog a while ago about homelessness remains true…it was his heart that was my home…not this quiet house.
Every day that passes, I realize how true that statement is…more so than I could have ever imagined, had I not lost him.
Every day that passes...I long to go home.
Eighteen months of confusion…
While I haven’t made rash decisions, I’ve made so many silly ones…and only after hours and hours and days and days of flipping back and forth…back and forth. No one that I trust like him to glean advice from…even about the simplest of decisions.
I am just ‘off’. Without that steady voice of reason and loving concern he shared with me…I am slightly off kilter…not quite right in the head.
Eighteen months of loneliness…
I don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve signed up for art classes. I’ve traveled for work. I’ve cleaned the yard, the house, the cat…but I do it with a sense of unease. Am I forgetting something? Should I be doing something else instead of this? What in the hell am I going to do this weekend?
Every move is such a dilemma…even more so than at the beginning. It just seems to get worse…this sense of not knowing what to do, not being sure that what I’m doing is ‘right’, is ‘good’. It makes me feel so incredibly stupid.
I accept most every invitation from family and friends…but that isn’t quite ‘right’ either. I don’t know if it ever will be. I am just out of place…out of time.
So…I’ve decided that I am still in shock.
The kind where movement is not so much the issue…just which movements to make…and when.
The kind where thinking does happen…decisions are made…they are just more difficult…more disjointed…a pain in the ass.
The kind where loneliness is not necessarily new…but still surprises me every minute…every new day…every weekend.
Yes, it is shock...that is what it is.
Just a different kind.