Just when I thought I couldn't cry any more

Every day gets worse, people.

I miss Doug. I'm stuck in this house alone, missing Doug. Missing me. Missing US.

The loneliness doesn't "wash over me in waves," as it's so often described. The loneliness is more like a mega-tsunami that comes out of nowhere, knocks me down, pushes me under, flips me upside down over and over, and then eases up just long enough for me to get to the surface to catch my breath for a second or two before it starts all over again.

I have never felt nor been so alone in my 54 years. Given the current pandemic, that's not likely to change any time soon, and I don't know how long I can stand it.

I'm worried about my sister. I'm worried about my son. I'm worried about my extended family. I'm worried about my friends. I'm worried about me, because I'm seriously starting to fear that I'm going to well and truly crack up from the stress and the solitude and the immense, unbearable weight of my loneliness.

Just when I thought I'd cried myself out, I went and got the mail, and there it was: the first piece of mail addressed to "The Estate of Douglas Allen." Thanks, AARP! Don't know how you got the news, but that was a lovely knife through my heart. (Yeah, I get it, and I know that's how it has to be, but NOW IS NOT THE TIME, since I'm barely holding on to my sanity.)

But there was more.

There was a letter. A handwritten letter, from an InstaCart associate who'd delivered our groceries on Christmas Eve. A handwritten letter, and a card from one of her earlier attempts to write me. Evidently, she's been struggling with this for the past several months.

Yes, I've used InstaCart for a long time, because A: I'm just that bougie; B: I'm happy to pay a little extra so other folks can have some income they wouldn't otherwise; and C: Even before Doug became ill, I chose not to waste my time on mundane tasks when I could spend time with him instead. Not a SINGLE regret there.

Anyway, when she delivered on Christmas Eve, I asked how she was - y'know, just making conversation. She said she was doing well; she'd just come from visiting her mom, who was in the hospital being treated for cancer, but things were looking good. We chatted for a few minutes (she was wrapping up for the day so she could get her Christmas shopping done), and then she went on her way.

After she left, I changed her tip from the 20% I always tip, to $100. I'm not bragging about this or looking for any kind of validation: Doug and I were financially comfortable, all things considered, and so we tried to give as often as we could - to friends' GoFundMes for medical and unemployment emergencies, giving to various non-profits, etc. A little voice told me that young woman needed a good break, and so I gave her a Christmas gift.

And truthfully? I'd forgotten all about it. She, however, did not.

Letter, page 1

Letter, page 2

Letter, page 3

Letter, page 5

Card

I had to read that letter three times before I could get all the way through it; I could barely see it through my tears. That little thing I'd done... that little gesture of kindness and holiday spirit, moved her so much that this young woman agonized over how she could thank me properly.

I didn't need thanks. I didn't ask for it or even want it. I was kind because I wanted to be and because I had the means to be. But the fact that she took the time to do that for me? That was a gesture of kindness that I desperately needed. And I texted her and told her so. I'm beyond grateful to her for giving me this gift at a time when I feel so useless and so alone.

But here's the thing: it doesn't really change anything. Once I'd texted her, all I could think of was how sad it is that Doug isn't here to share in this warmth and appreciation from a total stranger for whom we'd done a small kindness. 

It's not fair. And I realize that "fair" is the exclusive domain of small children and smaller tyrants, but it's NOT fair. I try to be a good person; Doug WAS a good person; one of the BEST people, really. And right now, at this moment, I'm seeing example after example of people who think of no one but themselves, bitching and moaning because they can't go hang out at a bar for a few weeks so that maybe we can get this pandemic under control. They're still here. And I'm still here. And Doug is not.

I don't know how much more suffering I can take. I truly don't. Every day, I think it's got to start getting better, or easier, or more manageable. And every day, it gets worse.

I've heard anecdotal evidence of people dying from a broken heart. All I want to know is, how much more broken does mine have to get before that happens?