Things that cause sharp shards of glass to pierce through me similar to the way Janet Leigh gets stabbed in the scene from “Psycho”:
Getting maintenance done on the car. Yes, he always handled that for me. Not because I couldn’t but because it made him feel good to do that for me.
Buying a new car: Like any other couple, large amounts of money to be spent were discussed between us. It was intimidating signing my first large amount check. It was painful, signing any of the papers. It brought home to me yet again that Handsome Husband is gone. Forever. It’s all me now.
Researching hotels to stay at along the way, after I leave Arizona. Handsome Husband was a long-range planner in the Air Force and it translated well into our traveling lifestyle. He sought out our destinations, he measured the mileage for how long we wanted to travel each day, he found hotels or other accommodations, he planned it all. When he was doing that each evening, sitting at his computer, I’d often put my arms around his shoulders from behind, and tell him how much I loved him for all that he did. He had a method, he knew what he was doing. I don’t. He was good at it, and worked hard at it. All he wanted me to do was enjoy myself. Every day. And he did what he did happily, willingly, and lovingly.
Deleting texts, messages and pictures on his phone so that I can cancel it. I haven’t done that yet. It makes me want to shriek in panic to do this. I don’t know when I’ll do that. Two weeks before he died, I asked him to call my phone and leave a message for me. Which he did. His voice was weak, but he left me such a message of love. Ending with “P.S. I love you”.
Wake up in the morning. The space next to me is an ocean of nothingness. Near the end, before his coughing and pain got so bad he had to sit up on the couch to sleep, we would, if we could manage nothing else at night, lie with our legs touching, my right hand, his left, together, pinky fingers entwined. The minute my mind snaps into consciousness each morning, recognizing his absence again, the razor’s edge settles into place for the day.
Going through each day. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing, whether I’m keeping busy or not. I might even laugh at something funny. That laughter isn’t mine, and has nothing to do with me. It’s a reflex. It doesn’t touch me, even though I’m the one laughing.
Breathing. I understand sighing now, especially with grief. We’re not sighing because we’re martyrs. We’re sighing because we’ve been unconsciously holding our breath and our brain finally kicks in to remind us to breathe. That sigh is an attempt to catch a breath.
Being in my body. In a way that has nothing to do with gaining actual physical weight (though I have gained some pounds through all of this, both because I hate eating, but also because all that seems to sit ok on my gut is crap food), my body is heavily weighted by the emotion of grief. It’s exhausting in every way, it’s a physical feeling and there is a gaping wound where my heart should be. Handsome Husband used to talk about an animal being caught in a trap, and it chews its’ leg off in order to find release. I kind of get that now. Anything to get away from what’s causing the pain.
Daytime is unbearable. Night-time is horrible. I want him back. And I know that will never happen. He’s gone. End of story. And the cycle begins all over again~