Errands must be done. Business must be taken care of. Organizing must be done to ready for the next leg of my travels. I don’t know whether to be thankful I’m busy or to resent all that must needs be done. Whatever. I feel so untouched by so much right now.
Get up. Face the day. Wander around the condo. Stop and look at Handsome Husband’s picture on the table.
Eat crap because it doesn’t occur to me to eat anything else and I don’t have much else in the fridge anyways. We kept special food around for Handsome Husband but no need for that now. My brain is so fogged that it only recently occurred to me that if I ran out of eggs I could eat cereal. Oh.
Organize paperwork for the day. Do I need to make phone calls? Wander around condo looking for phone, phone numbers and paper and pen.
Phone calls made. Not sure if I understand or remember all that was said so it’s good I wrote most of it down. Notes will end up misplaced at some point. Notes will be found at some point.
As I’m making phone calls, informing one more agency or business of the death of my husband, contemplate the pain of grief. Say to self again “He must be dead. Otherwise I wouldn’t have to make these phone calls”.
Shower, dress. Pretend to care. Or don’t pretend to care. Catch glimpse of self in mirror. Still a shock to see my lack of hair. And a shock to realize I don’t care what it looks like. Who am I trying to impress? Handsome Husband is dead.
Gather what I need. Go out to car. Realize I didn’t bring my phone. Or IPOD for music. Contemplate that I don’t really want to listen to music anyways. Go back in. Find phone. Remember keys.
Driving on roads that slam me back to the winter. Driving these roads with Handsome Husband. Contemplate the grief. Contemplate the hollowness of grief.
Contemplate the not knowing he had cancer again. That it wasn’t a fungal infection. Or at least, not all of it.
Drive, drive, drive. Look at the beautiful Arizona mountains. Realize that yes, they are beautiful but I don’t care.
Mind drifts to Saturday and being back on the road. Pull my mind back. I must stay in the moment and not anticipate. I’m here now, I’m here now, I’m here now.
Mind meanderings as I drive: is my grief at this point normal? should I still be feeling this level of pain? should I get some medication? whether it’s normal or not, can my body long sustain this level of pain? do I want to continually feel this way? can I force myself to not feel this pain? tried it; it doesn’t work. oh well.
Drive to Verizon to cancel his phone. Such a simple thing to do, canceling phones. And yet, as soon as I speak the words to the technician, my throat closes up, my eyes well up, and I have to stop. One more connection to him. Gone.
Drive to AAA offices. Cancel his card, start an account in my own name. A pickax to my heart, many times over.
Call auto insurance. Put it in my name. Agony.
I observe these things and many others, as I do them. I’m interestingly kind of removed from myself as I do them. Interesting because even while I’m removed, I’m in more pain than I’ve ever thought possible to have and yet….live.
I’m in the company of millions, I tell myself. These feelings are not unique. I bet Handsome Husband would be handling this better than I, my mind says. And quickly adds “You know what he would say to that!” (He always reprimanded me when I was harsh with myself).
Errands done. Back at condo. Look at piles of everything as I prepare to pack. Eat crap again. Contemplate that I should go exercise. Who cares, I respond to myself. What the fuck does it matter? Watch TV. Or rather, turn on TV. White noise. Read a book. Wonder what I just read. Not really. I don’t care what I just read. Its’ meaningless to me.
Don pj’s. Wander around condo. Drink diet pepsi. I outright call it aspartame. Its’ bad for me. But I don’t care. I’m in survival mode. Contemplate drinking water. Maybe later. Sit down. Study phone. It’s his phone. I’m using it now, with my number. His is less scratched. Contemplate that he held this phone, he put it to his ear, he spoke a last message to me on it. Waves of pain.
Bedtime. No set time, because what does it matter? He isn’t here to put his arms around me, to talk with me as we drowse into sleep. He isn’t here to touch his pinky finger to mine as we rest side by side. When I can stay awake no longer, my eyes close to the torture of sleep.
24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Since March 27 when I took him to the ER. Non-stop fucking grief tsunamis.
No, my grief isn’t special. I don’t think for a minute that it is. I don’t give it that much thought, really. It just is what it is. My own whirling, slicing, dicing, whiplashing, gut-splitting, heart-rendering, new world.