Broken

I had a small hiccup in my "routine" yesterday afternoon: I called the veterinarian's office to have them put aside a bag of food for Marmalade. Marmalade is the EvilGingerKitty who needs super-special prescription food to keep her from developing bladder stones (again) and to keep her weight down (spoiler alert: that's not working).

They were out of stock. And didn't know when they'd be getting more. Because, apparently, people are now hoarding cat food to go along with the toilet paper and cleaning supplies.

Kathleen-Before-And-During-Doug would have found this mildly irritating, but would have managed just fine: she would have asked for the vet to email the prescription, and would've gone online and ordered from Chewy or something. She also would've made the call sooner than one day prior to running out of food, so it wouldn't have been a big deal even if there was a delay (thanks to my friend Tanya for hooking me up and saving the day).

Kathleen-After-Doug cannot absorb small irritations with aplomb. Or at all, really. No, I started crying as soon as poor little Nikki said that they didn't have any food and no idea when they'd get it. And then, near hysterics, I told this poor woman - who I'm sure is exhausted from dealing with crazy people - that my husband just died and I'm not coping well and WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO TO FEED MY CAT?!? Unsurprisingly, she suggested I pick up a script and then call local vet offices to find someone who has it in stock - a perfectly reasonable suggestion, under normal circumstances.

As if these are normal circumstances. As if I have the mental or emotional capacity to do that much legwork. As if I have the mental or emotional capacity to do ANYTHING.

So that was my day. And my night. I started crying while I was talking to Nikki, and I never stopped. I cried through the afternoon. I cried through the evening. I cried through an entire (attempt at a) conversation with my sister. I cried and blew my nose so much that my nose was bleeding for most of the night.

There was no sleep; I watched episodes of The Walking Dead until 4:00 AM, then switched to the news.

Supposedly, the grief process isn't linear, but it seems pretty linear to me, if not exponential. I get worse every day: more depressed, more lonely, more hopeless, more certain that this life holds NOTHING for me.

Spent a fair amount of energy and time talking to Doug through my tears yesterday, BEGGING him for some kind of a sign that he's here with me because I can't do this alone AND I NEED HIM.

I got nothing. As usual. Clearly, Doug is NOT going to visit me. Not in my dreams or anywhere else, apparently. He's as gone as my hopes, my dreams, and any chance for a happy future. Other widows get signs from their dead husbands all the time: dreams, the feeling that he's hugging them, the radio playing their song as soon as they turn it on, the sudden smell of his aftershave... Not me. My husband may not have chosen to leave me, but he sure is choosing to stay away.

You know that scene in The Princess Bride when Count Rugen uses The Machine to suck one year of Wesley's life away? Rugen asks Wesley, "How do you feel?" All Wesley can do in response is whimper and cry.

That's pretty much my life now: whimpering and crying, punctuated by occasional screams and wails.

Grace the Grief Counselor says that this level and intensity of despair is not sustainable. Apparently, I'm the exception that proves the rule, because here I am, on Day 43 (or 34% as long as we were married), still DROWNING in despair. And tomorrow is his birthday, which I'll spend completely alone, like I spend every minute of every day.

I'm ready for this to be over. SO READY.