I consider today my first full day of, well, I guess for lack of a better word, I have to call it widowhood. Is there another word for it? I’ll have to find out, because, honestly, when I say that word, it feels like an Elmer Fudd word. You know, in the way that he can’t pronounce his “r’s” so that they come out as “w’s”.
Wordplay. It keeps me distracted.
Last night was my first full night of being alone in forever. Handsome Husband is dead. The kids are gone. People are back in their own lives. Appropriately so. And, yes, they are still grieving in their lives for the loss of their friend, their mentor, their lack of him in their lives. As they will continue to do because there is a huge void in so many lives now.
I had a busy day yesterday, which was good. Yes, my plan, after the girls left to go back to their lives, was to spend the day under the covers. That would have been such an easy thing to do and I really did seriously contemplate it. As it happened, I stripped all the beds, found every towel and bit of linens I could, and did 4 loads of wash, then re-made the beds. I still need to do vacuuming and other assorted household tasks, but those will happen.
And then I showered and dressed and drove to Indio to seek out the courthouse so that I could get the death certificates that I need. I had directions but couldn’t find the right street, and my GPS isn’t working due to a short in the cord (new one arriving soon, hopefully). I didn’t allow myself to be frustrated and just tried to be in the moment of open windows, the sun, and the breeze on my face as I drove what is now my car, not our car, down the highways.
I found a pink dress to wear. My intent is to surround myself with pink, to wear pink, to drive pink, to think pink. There is where I find my serenity and peace and sense of happy. Not that I’m feeling any of that at the moment, but the intent is there, and the action is there.
And then I searched out a local Gilda’s Club, so named in honor and remembrance of Gilda Radnor, who died of ovarian cancer many years ago. Her husband, Gene Wilder, started these clubs as a way of supporting people with cancer, and their families. It was hard being on the other side of the table, where I sat with others who were seeking support. I’ve always been the facilitator. It was a good reminder for me, as I continue in my role at Tapestries of Hope, of the shock and pain of early grief.
I signed up for a bereavement support group, I met one-on-one with a counselor, I registered for a hypno-meditation class, and got the schedule for Tai Chi and yoga classes. Rented some comedy to watch. I made myself reach out when all I want to do is shrink into myself and howl with pain and missing.
I walked into our rental at the end of the day, feeling the emptiness of Handsome Husband not being here. Organized a bit, talked to my sister who lives in Okinawa and felt better after the talking. Slept alone. Felt the emptiness right through to my heart and soul. It stands ready to annihilate me. But I won’t let it.
This morning, I cooked an egg for myself. I didn’t ask Handsome Husband if he would like one also, carefully leaving out the yolk. Didn’t make his first, adding some onion and hot stuff to it. I made mine, over-easy and put it on a small plate. Which sounds awfully pathetic. And it is. But I did it, and I ate it. And that’s the first time I cooked for myself and ate something vaguely healthy since all this fucking bullshit began.
Tiny, tiny, steps.