March 9 2020

9:50 AM

Woke up this morning. Dammit.

No change in sleeping or eating. I'm surviving primarily on sips of Coke to settle my stomach, WAY too much tobacco, and a bite of food here and there when my stomach hurts so much from hunger that I have no choice but to eat. My body's drive to live, apparently, is stronger than my heart's need not to do so.

No dreams. No comfort. No hope.

I watched the news, and nothing registers as important. The economy is tanking? So the fuck what?

COVID-19 is now in middle Tennessee? Unless it's going to take me out so I can be with Doug, so the fuck what?

Biden's probably gonna be the nominee, which means Tweety Amin will probably be reelected? So the fuck what?

It's the ultimate irony that I've reached the point in my life where, by any objective measure, I'm successful: I make good money, I have lots of PTO... I can afford to buy or build the house of my dreams AND travel anywhere I want.

So the fuck what? What pleasure is there in having a beautiful home without Doug to share it with? What joy is there in traveling when I'll have to sleep alone just like I do now?

And no one understands. They try, but they can't. I'M DEAD, TOO. I'm still breathing, but I'm as dead as he is. And people seem to think I just need time to get past this or through this or whatever the fuck is the cliche of the day, and then I'll be back to my old self.

There IS no going back to my old self. She's dead.

FOUR MONTHS AND THREE DAYS. That's all I got as his wife.

I'll NEVER get an anniversary card from him. I'll NEVER get a "Happy Birthday to My Wife" card from him.

St Patrick's Day is coming up. I'd make corned beef, and colcannon, and a Guinness Chocolate cake with chocolate Jameson ganache and Baileys cream cheese frosting. Can't do that now.

His birthday is coming up. We weren't big on buying stuff for each other; we preferred making memories. But every year, I'd try to give him something tangible that wasn't pricey. For his 65th birthday almost two years ago, I got in touch with UT Athletics, and got them to send me school photos and press clippings about Doug's uncle, who played on the championship 1939 Vols football team. I put them all together in a HUGE frame. He CRIED when I gave it to him. That was the best gift I ever gave him, but I was eager to try and top it.

Any other year, I would have already been working on whatever that gift would be. I still love him just that much: I'd want to give him something so meaningful that it would make him cry, but I can't do anything for him now. There's the scholarship fund, but that's fallen by the wayside. Donations have slowed to a trickle, and I don't have enough clout to publicize it. People are more interested in donating to tornado victims. And while I understand that, it still hurts. I can't do anything else for him but this one thing, and I can't make it happen.

I still can't hold a thought in my head other than how much I miss him and need him.

Every day, every hour, every minute is a struggle. I have been reduced to nothing but a sentient meat puppet of pain. That's all I am: pain.

I miss him so much.

12:45 PM

Remember when I used to joke about PIS (Pregnancy-Induced Stupidity)? Good times, weren't they?

Now, I'll spend the rest of my life with GIS (pretty sure you can figure out what that is).

I managed to write down three different dates/times for my appointment with the grief counselor this week: today at 1:00, tomorrow at 1:00, and tomorrow at 2:00.

I tried calling, but their phones are down.

So, what do I do? Schlep down there and risk having a meltdown if my appointment is actually tomorrow? Stay here and be hysterical because, if I can't manage something so basic, HOW IN THE ACTUAL FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO BE COMPETENT TO DO ANYTHING?

I've been thinking a lot today about how, when a couple who were together for decades, dies within minutes, or even days, of each other, everyone sees that as sweet and love-affirming: how BEAUTIFUL that they loved each other so much that they couldn't bear to be apart.

WHY can't I have that? I can't bear to be apart from Doug, so why didn't I get to go too? Why are we being tortured by this separation? Surely HE can't be any more willing to accept that our life together is over than I am.

And please, spare me the "God wants me here for a purpose" bullshit. There's no God. That's a myth you believers made up so you can find some meaning in all this bullshit. If it makes you feel better, good for you, but I'm not buying it.

I can't do this, and the more I hear from other widows and widowers, it NEVER gets better. Not really. It's always there: the constant reminder that I'll NEVER be loved again; not in the way I had for far too little time and in the way I need. And I'll never love again; not in the way I did.

My life is over, and no one understands. And that just makes the loneliness even worse.

2:50 PM

Clearly, there's not going to be any satisfaction from TriStar Summit:

The "PLEASE GOD, DON'T SUE US" chick, Becky, along with the SICU director, just called.

After reviewing the chart from Tuesday February 18, they determined that the delay between the dialysis order and the start of dialysis was ACTUALLY only about 50 minutes. The remaining two+ hours while Doug was close to coding? Well, that was spent drawing labs, waiting for lab results, and then waiting for the actual dialysis order.

So WHY, when I kept asking what the delay was, did no one tell me that?

Golly, there's just no answer.

And why didn't I get a call when Doug coded Thursday morning? Well, the NP who presided over the code had to leave immediately for another code, and Doug's nurse didn't want to leave him once she got him back. The unspoken implication, of course, was "Would you really have WANTED him to be left unattended?" I suppose that nurse is the only one in the whole fucking unit who knows how to dial a goddamn phone.

Bottom line is they did everything right, and I'm not getting any fucking apology for the lack of phone calls.

I hope they can sleep at night, because God knows I sure can't.