One month ago today, Doug had the surgery that led to his death. One month ago today was the last time that he kissed me - grabbing me by the back of my head and holding my lips tightly to his. One month ago today was the last time we hugged each other. One month ago today was the last time my husband told me that he loved me. One month ago today was the last time we woke up in each other's arms.
Five months ago today, we were married in paradise. But it wasn't paradise because it was, as we billed it, "a once-in-a-lifetime trip" (and how excruciatingly accurate that turned out to be). It was paradise because it was us. Paradise was with you. Paradise was with you, no matter where we were. Paradise is now gone.
But now he's gone, and his love is gone too. No visions, no signs, no dreams - he's just gone. And it all went by so quickly that it doesn't even feel real. Were we even really married? I mean, I know we were, but does it count when it's so brief? If we'd gotten divorced after only four months, everyone would say it didn't count. So doesn't that apply when it ended because of death?
We didn't have to face any kind of marital problems; we were BLISSFULLY happy together. No seven-year itch for us. Does it count as a marriage if there aren't any struggles? Does it count when there won't be a SINGLE anniversary?
And today is St. Patrick's Day. We'd celebrate by eating too much and drinking an Irish Car Bomb or two, here in the comfort and safety of our home. But I'm a teetotaler these days, and I'm sure as hell not going to the trouble of making corned beef and colcannon and an Irish car bomb cake just for me to eat a few bites of it.
My grief counselor suggested I should do something to honor you today, and something for myself. What might those be? I'm alone - and have to stay that way other than the few outings I can't avoid. And even when I'm not alone, I feel alone anyway. And I can't think of any way to honor you. And I sure as hell can't think of anything to do for myself.
I love the idea of taking a long trip, a la Eat, Pray, Love, so I can discover who I am now, and find a new purpose, or whatever bullshit that book sold... but I can't. I have pets to take care of, and I have to be here for therapy appointments. Oh, AND WE'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO TRAVEL.
I'm doing everything wrong: I keep pushing people away when they want to be with me. That's partly because I hate who I've become, and it's easier for me to keep them away than it would be to let them make the move themselves and reject me. And it's partly because having people around doesn't help. All I want is Doug.
It's been one month since the surgery. On Friday, it will be one month since he died. And I'm still just as raw and empty and desolate as I was five minutes after it happened. Grief Time exists outside of linear time (Jeremy Bearimy at work, perhaps?); one month ago, and five months ago? They both feel like a second ago AND like forever ago.
Today, I'll see my grief counselor. Tomorrow, I'll see my regular therapist, because grief counseling isn't enough when my anxiety is also off the charts. And hey - what better time to spend $120 each week on grief counseling and therapy than when my husband is dead, and he had no life insurance, and so I'm already down an income. Oh, yeah, and the whole fucking world is falling apart.
It's only money, right? Small price to pay to regain my mental and emotional health, right?
Honestly, though, it feels as though I'm spitting on a 100-acre brushfire. It may LOOK as though I'm doing something helpful, but the practical effect is nil.
Nothing helps. Writing about it doesn't help, talking about it doesn't help, distractions don't help. The essential problem of my life is that I'm alive and Doug isn't. There are only two options to fix that, and one of them is impossible.
The first show Doug and I ever did together was Arthur Miller's All My Sons. NOT the feel-good show of the century. I played Kate Keller (Doug played my husband Joe); a woman who's in denial of the fact that her older son is dead. At one point, she tells her still-living son that everyone has to wait; he asks for how long, and Kate says, "UNTIL HE COMES. Forever and ever, 'til he comes!"
And so, tonight, I'll once again cry myself to sleep, begging Doug to come and get me and take me with him. And tomorrow morning, I'll wake up crying because he did neither again. And I'll keep doing that, every night, forever and ever, until he does.
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