Bereavement Math - and you thought Common Core was bad

Yeah, I said I probably wouldn't write here for a few days. I changed my mind. Grief brain makes decisions... malleable.

Doug has been gone for 32 days. We were married for 126 days. 32/126 = .254

My husband has been gone for just over 25% as long as we were married. On April 23, he'll have been gone 50% as long as we were married. And as of June 26, I'll officially have been widowed longer than I was a wife.

I don't know why that math feels so significant to me.

Actually, that's a lie. I know exactly why it feels significant: we were BARELY married. We'd both been divorced more than once. And it's not as though we put our marriage through the wringer. We were newlyweds; of COURSE we were blissfully happy. But who's to say that we were really as rock solid as I like to think we were? Hell, maybe there really IS a reason he hasn't shown up for a visit in my dreams or otherwise: maybe he doesn't WANT to. Maybe he's glad to be free of me. Maybe he blames me for his death. Who knows?

Maybe in five years we would've hated each other. I certainly don't think so. I think we worked through our demons, both individually and then together, and I think we would've found ourselves just as in love twenty years from now as we did October 17. But we do tend to engage in wishful thinking, the grieving.

And still, that voice nags at me: "you weren't REALLY a wife; it's too short a time - it doesn't count." Kinda like what we parents of only children hear from multiple-child parents: you're not really a mom if you have only one (and can we talk about how rude THAT is?!?).

Is it really a marriage if it was never put to the test? If we didn't get to have years and years of shared history, can I really say he was the love of my life? Can he really say that I was his? Would he even say that now? Again, his lack of visits makes me wonder.

About a week before the surgery, we were talking about... well, lots of things, but specifically about the surgery. Doug said, "I wish I'd gotten checked out before we got married, so you could have had the option to change your mind."

I got SO ANGRY with him. How could he even THINK I would've changed my mind if I'd known he'd need surgery? Because he might've ended up with an amputation (it's been known to happen in people with a blocked aorta)? As if I'd love him less if he had one leg, or no legs?!? If all I could have were a Futurama-style Doug's head-in-a-jar, I'd be the happiest woman in the world. If all I could have of Doug were to be able to have a conversation and see him smile at me, that would be enough. That would be EVERYTHING. But instead, I get nothing. Nothing but too few memories of a too-short love.

It breaks my heart to think that, on top of being scared about the surgery, Doug ever had a second's thought that I might regret marrying him, or want out, because he might end up incapacitated. Because I would never have left him or regretted marrying him for being sick. I loved him, and when I said "in sickness and in health," I meant every word. I do have regrets about the whole "love him, comfort him, honor him, and treasure him faithfully as long as you both shall live" thing, though: He's not living, and while I can't comfort him, I can love him, honor him, and treasure him faithfully. And that will never change.

But, in hindsight, do I regret loving him? If I'm being completely honest... sometimes, yeah, I do. And I know that probably sounds horrible, and I'm not proud of myself for it. The thing is, if grief is the price I have to pay for loving him, well, honestly, that price may be too high. Yes, being loved by Doug, and loving Doug, was the happiest I've ever been. But if I hadn't had that, I would be who I was five years ago: maybe not blissfully happy, but happy enough: I didn't know what I was missing then. I may not have had the incredible joy of loving him, but I wouldn't be completely destroyed now. I'm not sure which fate is the worse of the two options.

Having something so incredibly good, and then losing it, it really is unbearable. Because now there are nothing but empty nights ahead of me. The past 32 nights of sleeping alone, of no good-night kisses, of no hugs, of no "I love you," of no "it's your fault," of no waking up to find he stole the blankets AGAIN... they've been agony. And I have to do those same 32 empty nights over and over and over and over and OVER, until my own time runs out. Every night feels like an eternity and breaks me a little more, so how horrible will years of this feel? How much more broken can I get?

The empty nights are the worst. The loneliness is like a lead suit: weighing me down, grinding me down, breaking me down.

The empty nights are when I miss him the most.