Finding ways to pass the time

It's the end of another work week. I'm not unhappy about that, but it's not like I'm looking forward to it, exactly. I will say that I genuinely need the two days: my brain is working really hard to get me fully functional at Ye Olde Workplace; I'm still nowhere close to where I used to be or where I want to be, but I'm definitely doing better there. But all those brain cells working overtime? By the end of the week, I am absolutely, totally, and completely wrung out.

How wrung out? After I wrapped up work today, I napped for 90 minutes before heating up dinner. And I could go to bed right this minute if not for the fact that I want to digest my food first. I'm TIRED.

I had several hours at work this week when I felt somewhat like myself: sharp, together, able to analyze a situation and recognize a problem that even two weeks ago probably would have gone over my head. You'd think this would be encouraging, but given my new status as a perpetual Eeyore, I just see it as evidence that I'm becoming someone whose entire life is my work because I have nothing else. That's not someone I want to be, but the universe doesn't seem too concerned with what I want these days.

After last weekend's foolhardy overindulging in activities, I'm not making that mistake again: I'm taking tomorrow entirely off - I'll sleep in (assuming my body lets me), play with my Oculus, read, nap, relax, and then I have a zoom dinner date with my friend Suzi: we're gonna get all dolled up, drink high-end adult beverages (Widow Jane Bourbon for me - c'mon, with that name, I HAD to try it - and Scotch for her). It's the first meeting of what I've decided to name the Old Drunk Widows Club. Who knows? if we get sufficiently plastered, maybe we'll go on Facebook Live and entertain you all with our drunken shenanigans. Sunday, I'll do some housework, but I'm definitely not going to try and boil the ocean here: what gets done will get done, and everything else will wait.

An aside: yes, I had Bourbon and a cigar with my friend Mike earlier this week; and I had two beers while talking to my sister on Wednesday, and one during our very last grief group last night; and I'll be drinking tomorrow. Fear not - I'm not going to make a steady habit of drinking this much or this often, but it's nice to get a little enjoyment out of adult beverages again. All things in moderation, right? Including moderation.

Sunday evening, I'm participating in an online play reading - I'm just reading the stage directions, but it's a lovely group of lovely people, and it'll be fun. I do have an upcoming Facebook Live script reading that I'm genuinely excited about next month, but since nothing's been announced publicly, I'm keeping my lips zipped on that for now.

I also booked a couple of weeks at a cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains this Autumn. The diminutive direwolf Kellogg will accompany me - as the cabins allow dogs - but Lady Marmalade and Houdini-Beanie will remain at home in the care of a house sitter - as the cabins do not allow cats. (FYI, in case you weren't paying attention: there will be a house sitter, and I don't have anything worth stealing in my house anyway, so don't get any ideas.) I'm not going to take two weeks off from work; for one thing, I'm going to have the same limitations there that I have here in terms of trying to stay away from people, so it's not like I can indulge of lots of recreation. But I'll probably take off Fridays and Mondays at least one of those weeks. And I'm looking forward to that trip, too. It'll be cool enough to go hiking, and the rules of these cabins require outdoor lights to be turned off at 10:00 PM, which means it should be terrific for star-gazing. And the cabin I'm renting has a wood-burning fireplace 

I know y'all must have mental whiplash from trying to understand how it is that I can have fun things I'm looking forward to and yet still say that my life isn't really worth living, and I get it: it's a difficult concept to wrap your head around. Hell, it's a difficult concept for me to wrap MY head around, and I'm LIVING it. But here's the thing: yes, I can laugh at things that are funny without feeling guilty; yes, I can now enjoy a good meal; yes, there are now activities that I can enjoy, and people I enjoy spending time with (virtually, of course). But the emptiness of my life without Doug is always there; the longing to be held, and kissed, and that need to be fully seen and understood - those never go away. And whatever fun or enjoyment I can have is dimmer and smaller because of that. I'm doing things, and I'm enjoying them, sure: but my life as a whole is just about finding ways to pass the time until I can be with Doug again, because that's all I really want. Fun doesn't necessarily equal happiness, and I'm way too old to be satisfied with a life that's fun but not happy.

Circling back to the grief group wrapping up, we're going to keep getting together every two weeks on Wednesdays, because the group managed to bond nicely over the eight weeks we had together (yep, trauma bonding really is a thing). Someday, maybe we'll even be able to meet in person. Someday. Maybe. Not gonna bother looking at the Magic 8 Ball on that one, because it's all about the 'rona and when it'll be safe to be among people again.

And just writing that makes me realize that I'm becoming far too accustomed to being completely alone all the time. If faced with real-life socializing again, my reaction is likely to be this:

My verdict on this week: on balance, it could've been worse. I know it's good that I'm able to do things I couldn't do a few weeks ago. I just wish I could bring myself to feel as though it all means anything.

But if all I can do is pass the time, I'm going to try and pass it with whatever small bits of enjoyment I can cobble together. It's not enough, but it's all I can do.

No good day goes unpunished

I did SO WELL for most of the weekend. And as "good" as Saturday and most of Sunday were, that's how bad yesterday was.

Oh, I managed to sleep in our bed (that's twice in a row; three times if you count last night - quick, set off the celebratory fireworks 🙄), and slept for seven hours. But work was a nightmare; I was trying to teach someone how to execute a process that I came up with, and I couldn't remember ANYTHING; for two hours, instead of actually putting together documentation about the process like we were supposed to do, the poor woman watched me flail about trying to get it working (and at the end of those two hours, it still wasn't).

By the end of my workday, I was totally demoralized and drained. I did manage to make myself eat breakfast (although, not until early afternoon), and I did indeed cook my black bean and sweet potato burgers and zucchini fries for dinner. But it wasn't as tasty as I remember it being, so that was a disappointment, too.

But, y'all... I just don't know how to make anyone understand. It doesn't matter how much I adjust to this or get used to it - I am not going to be happy on my own. And what's the point of living when you know you'll never really be happy? What is the point of trying, when I know it's futile? Getting through the day isn't the same as living. And no amount of people getting excited over meaningless little accomplishments is going to convince me otherwise. 

And please, I know: every widow goes through this, and most of them end up just fine. Well, for one thing, I would question that "most," because the truth is that most widows are probably lying through their teeth because they know that nobody wants to hear the truth. But even if it's true, that means that some are not just fine - and even if they were, WHO WANTS A JUST FINE LIFE? I've already done the single thing, and I've done it for most of my life; I cannot be happy doing it again. What sane person wants a life that they know will never be happy?

That was my evening last night: trying to understand why I'm even bothering. What difference does it make if I eat? Or if I sleep? If happiness is out of reach, why not eat all the chocolate and all the red meat and all the ice cream and all the potato chips? Why not just become physically one with my couch? Why not drink until I pass out every night? Why bother to take a shower, or polish my nails, or even just brush my hair?

I have yet to come up with a satisfactory answer to any of those questions.

A successful(ish) weekend

There's danger in finally feeling the slightest bit rested after more than five months of not really getting any rest at all. That danger is that one will interpret that slight amount of newfound energy as one's old energy level, and one will then overdo it, thereby crashing and burning. I did the former - all weekend - and last night I paid the price for it and did the latter.

For the first time in months, I had a little energy to do things, and do things I did: 

• I washed, dried, folded, and put away four loads of laundry. 
• I changed the sheets on the bed, because I decided I was going to sleep in our bed last night (mission... accomplished-ish). 
• I washed and dried the sheets and the blanket, because the pets decided it was their bed during my extended absence, and I'd rather not sleep with a blanket that smells like dog.
• I baked the sweet potato and cooked the rice for the black bean burgers I'm making for dinner tonight, so I wouldn't be rushed later after work. 
• I swept the living room, removing approxmately 2.5 Kelloggs of fur (yes, a Kellogg is now my default unit of measure for dog fur). 
• I loaded and ran the dishwasher each night, and emptied it each morning. 
• I did a few hours of Java training (yes, I'm trying to learn Java for work), and a few hours of training on the data governance software we use (since I'll be training other users, I need to really know it). 
• I made a batch of DIY cold brew for the week. 
• I cleaned out the fridge to make room for the groceries that were delivered.
• I put away all the groceries.
• I cooked dinner Saturday night.
• I got the leftover salmon labeled and into the freezer.
• I highlighted my script for the stage directions I'll be reading for a friend's streaming theatre experience next weekend, and attended a rehearsal for that. 
• I read the next two chapters of Just Mercy in advance of Tuesday's book club meeting. 
• I wrote. 
• I got in 30 minutes of VR boxing each day.

By 8:00 last night - in the middle of my zoom rehearsal - I hit the wall. I powered through, because I'm a pro (no, I don't get paid for acting - or, in this case, reading stage directions - but I pride myself on professionalism). Then, I talked to a friend for a few minutes.

And then, everything crashed down on me. Yes, I had a productive weekend. So the fuck what? I'm getting excited about cooking and eating a MEAL? Y'all, this is all nothing but busy work. None of what I did this weekend changes the fundamental truth of my existence, which is that it's just that: existence.

At group on Thursday this past week, we talked about the roles that our late spouses played in our lives, and how we now have to take on those roles ourselves. For me, there's little in terms of practicality that Doug did and I can't do; yes, we split household labor, but it's not as though he was responsible for, say, balancing the checkbook and I had no idea how to do that. I've been single for most of my adult life; we were both independent.

But when it comes to the emotional side of things? That's a very different story: Doug was my biggest cheerleader, able to encourage me even when I was at my lowest. And he was my most honest critic, willing to tell me the things about myself that I didn't always want to hear. No one is self-aware enough to do those jobs themselves. Most important, though - and I've said this before - Doug was HOME; without him, I'm homeless. 

We also talked about the possibility of dating at some point, and... here's where I struggle: I loved (and still love) Doug with a depth and intensity I didn't think I had in me; I like to think he felt the same about me. I LOVED being married to him (and the year-and-a-half when we lived together before our wedding). I was GOOD at it. I was a much better ME with him. We barely got to have a marriage.

And I want that. I want to get to have that full experience of years and years together. But that opportunity died with Doug. and I just don't see lightning striking twice.

Knowing that the only future I want can't ever happen, why am I getting excited about getting laundry done, or sleeping in our bed, or having an empty sink at the end of each day? Is THIS what my life is going to be for the rest of it? Triumphing in accomplishing meaningless tasks, because that's all I have in my life?

An open letter to my friend Coward

Dear Coward,

It's been nearly two months since you wrote the comment in which you said horrible things to me and about me, and it's time to break it down and explain to you exactly the damage you've done. Don't worry: there'll be no cursing or screaming; I'll exhibit as much "grace" as I can.

First of all, the reason why so many people jumped all over you when I posted about it on Facebook is this: you violated the rules enumerated in the Ring Theory. Perhaps you actually thought you occupied the center circle of the ring; perhaps you simply didn't care that you don't. 

But the thing is, you're not in the center circle: I am. And that doesn't mean that I love Doug more than you do, or that he loved me more than he loved you; it simply means that I am the person most impacted by his death, and there can be no disputing that. Whatever his relationship with you, of however many years, I was his wife. I was his partner for the last four years and change. He and I chose to live out our lives as loving partners. If it had come to it, I would have changed his diapers and he would've changed mine - and even if it had come to that, I still would've thought he was the handsomest, sexiest man in the world. So, yeah: I'm in the center circle, just as Doug would have been in the center circle if I'd been the one who died.

And in accordance with the Ring Theory, you dump/vent OUT and comfort IN. You didn't do that. Now, you could say that my "get a grip!" friend didn't do that either, but here's the difference: "Get a grip" was shouted in a heated moment in a telephone call, when both I and the person in question were in a full-on panic because I was reliving Doug's last half-hour but imagining my son there instead. But you? You didn't have to write that comment. If you felt I was somehow neglecting you, you could have reached out to me, calmly, to talk about how you felt. But instead, you took the time to sit down, and think about it, and publicly and anonymously say horrible things to me under the guise of worrying about me. Worry, dear Coward, does not lend itself to that sort of cruelty. At any point, you could have thought, "you know, maybe this isn't the best way to handle this situation." But you didn't.

Now, on the off chance that you actually were worried about me - which, again, I doubt, as evidence indicates otherwise - did you really think that you had cause to be that worried? I mean, if you were so panic-stricken with concern, is a comment on a blog post really the best way to act on that worry? I don't write about anything here that I don't also discuss at great length with both my therapist and my grief counselor (both of whom are licensed and trained professionals, which I'm guessing that you, Coward, are not). Neither of them has expressed any concern about my openly-stated desire to die, so clearly neither of them thinks I'm actually a danger to myself or anyone else. Or was it that you just didn't want to hear about it anymore? Because if that's the case, that's easy: stop reading what I write.

Let's talk about what you did to me: for several weeks, I didn't really talk to anyone except for my grief counselor and therapist; because I didn't know who you were, I didn't trust anyone to listen without judgement. So I grieved almost totally alone in every sense. And my anger boiled out of control, where it remained until I finally found a way to deal with it constructively just a few short days ago. 

Even after those first few weeks, I remained withdrawn. I still barely talk to most of my friends about what's going on with my internal life, because I feel like I'm burdening them if I do. I feel more alone than ever. I'm going to let you in on a little secret, Coward, that only my therapist, grief counselor, and sister know: the closest I've come to hurting myself since Doug died? It was when I read your comment: I had to physically fight the urge to go into the kitchen, grab my chef's knife, and slit my wrists. And I know the right way to do it to bleed out, so we're not talking about making a dramatic gesture here. So, congratulations - you actually managed to temporarily make me genuinely suicidal. Thank goodness I have my therapist's cell phone number.

I've still been hesitant to express my feelings fully, even almost two months out. I'm getting better at it, especially now that I've found an outlet for my anger. And I'm done holding back. You see, I'm not writing this blog for you, Coward. Nor am I writing it for my family and friends (although they're welcome to read it and comment on it here and on Facebook, and I'm thrilled that they do). No, I'm writing this blog for exactly two audiences:

• I'm writing it for myself, so that I have a record of what this time has been like. Assuming I get to a point where I'm able to and want to really live again, I'll have this to look at the next time a disaster rocks me on my heels, to prove that I can come back from anything.
• Mostly, though, I'm writing it for other widows and widowers who may find it down the road: I've heard from some folks in this awful club who've gotten joy back into their lives, and I cannot believe that they were ever as destroyed as I am, because it seems absolutely impossible to recover from this. By keeping all this emotional vomit for posterity, I have date-stamped evidence that I can show to a new widow/er to say, "See? I was exactly where you are, and I made it." (Of course, this is assuming that I will "make it," which is definitely not guaranteed.)

In closing, Coward, you nearly silenced me for two months, but no more. My writing is good for me; it may someday be good for other people as well. So I'm done giving you free rent in my mind. For what it's worth, I do have a sneaking suspicion as to your identity - I've narrowed it down to a very small group of possibilities. I hope you'll be enough of an adult to come forward and own what you've done. Sadly, I don't expect that you will, which says much about you - and none of what it says is good.

At any rate, this is most likely the last time I'll address you, Coward. I don't hate you anymore - you're not worth that much effort.  I wish you the peace that you've denied me since June 7; beyond that, I hope not to think about you at all.

A milestone - the good kind

"Two posts in one day?" I hear you cry. "But, you haven't done that since early on when you were tossing out stream-of-consciousness mourning in real time!"

Yes, I know. But this is a BIG deal, and so I had to post about it. Tonight, I cooked something new; the last time I tried that, I ended up unable to eat it until the following day. because it was too hard to make something new without Doug here to eat it along with me. Not this time.

This is a wild-caught sockeye salmon fillet:

And this is dinner: Miso maple glazed salmon with roasted baby gold potatoes and Brussels sprouts, and spring mix, with all the veggies drizzled with an aged balsamic reduction. And I enjoyed a nice (and generous!) glass of pinot noir with it. If you're wondering, the "new" part was the miso maple glaze on the fish; I usually just broil salmon with a little lemon and garlic.

My presentation skills could be better, but I really don't care that much about how it looks: it's all about how it tastes, and it was fantastic. The potatoes creamy on the inside with crunchy exteriors, the crisp-tender, caramelized sprouts, the fresh, crunchy lettuce, the salty, slightly sweet glaze on the salmon... Y'all, it was so good. And I have enough left over for dinner tomorrow, plus two more pieces of salmon that I can freeze.

Most important, I actually enjoyed cooking a meal for the first time in 156 days, and that's enough to make me cry with relief again: Original Recipe Kathleen was a good cook, and I LOVED cooking. I especially loved cooking for Doug, and not gonna lie: cooking for just myself sucks as much as I knew it would. When I make something yummy, I want to share it; making food is one way I show affection for the people I love. Not being able to do that? It absolutely takes a lot of the pleasure out of creating something delicious.

But I made it, and I ate it, and I got through almost my entire to-do list today.

I don't know what tomorrow will bring - and it might be unbearably awful - but today? Today I felt rested, I cooked and ate a really good meal, I got things done, and I'm not full of rage. And I am SO grateful for all of the above.

I think Doug would be proud of me. I sure hope he is.

Better living through technology

Get yourself a nice drink and settle in, folks, because this is a long one. On the bright side, it's not going to be misery-inducing, so at least there's that.

It's not news to anyone that I'm tired: physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted, really. And of course I'm tired, considering that I've slept in an actual bed maybe three times since Doug died, and with very rare exceptions, no more than five hours a night, for over five months now.

It's not news to anyone that I'm angry: the love of my life is dead, I have no social life (beyond the tiny virtual social life I've been able to cobble together thanks to Zoom and book club), I'm lonely beyond what I ever could've have dreamed up in my worst nightmares, I'm surrounded by covidiots who are keeping this damn pandemic as widespread as possible for as long as possible (thereby keeping me from having an actual social life), I'm not able to do my job at anywhere close to my former capacity, and I can't do any of the things I need or want to do that might ease the pain or help me feel close to Doug.

It's not news to anyone that I'm feeling generally crappy, considering that I've been living on one "meal" a day - and usually a frozen or prepared meal at that, because I haven't been able to bring myself to cook more than a few times in the past five months. I honestly can't remember the last time I ate a fresh vegetable or piece of fruit. 

I keep half-joking that I should be a size 10 by now, given how little I'm eating, but it's not surprising that I'm still fat AF, because fat people are super effective at hanging onto fat under normal circumstances: throw in sky-high cortisol (from stress and constant, simmering rage), lack of sleep, and no real exercise, and of course I'm hanging on to every ounce of fat I've got.

And it's surely not news to anyone that I don't want this life - not without Doug.

But I've reached something of a crossroads: if I could have willed myself to die, it would've happened long before now, so clearly that's not happening - at least not today, and probably not any time soon. And while I still have no doubt that my desire not to be anymore isn't going to go away no matter what, the fact is that I'm here, and I've got to find a way to deal with being here and not end up in the nearest mental hospital.

Here's the challenge, though: the only way I'm going to be to able to integrate with society - and be remotely functional again - is to get some rest and find a healthy way to deal with my anger (and preferably, one that doesn't scare my poor pets). And the only way to get rest and deal with my anger productively means doing things that will extend my life: eating actual food and working my body to exhaustion. Y'all know I don't want to extend my life. But something's gotta give before I snap.

A couple of weeks ago, someone on Reddit recommended an Oculus Quest VR headset, because there's a boxing game for it that's supposedly really good. This intrigued me, as I think I've mentioned I'd love to go to a boxing gym if not for the fact that there's a pandemic going on. So, I bought one (yes, I'm very lucky that I can afford to make an impulse buy like that), thinking I'd give it to my son if I hated it. It was delivered Monday. I charged it Tuesday, went through the setup on Wednesday, and tried out the boxing app for a half-hour before spouse grief group on Thursday.

Y'all, I did NOT hate it. It's the coolest technology I've ever experienced, and despite being a computer nerd, I've never been a gamer, and I've mocked the existence of VR for as long as it's been a thing. So when I say it's cool, I'm not making it up. 

By the time I got through those 30 minutes beating up the virtual heavy bag, I was sweating buckets. And it worked: I was still angry (I mean, how could I not be? my life is a cesspool), but it tempered that raw, homicidal fury, and in fact made it disappear for a little while. So I did it again last night, with the same result. (There's also a tai chi app, and I bought that too, though I haven't tried it yet.)

It seems that getting out that rage was the key to unlocking everything: I slept last night, and I slept hard: I shut off my phone a few minutes after 9:00 PM last night, and while I woke up twice for no reason I can think of, I went back to sleep immediately both times. Woke up to my alarm at 6:00 AM, because I need to clean out the refrigerator for the groceries that'll be delivered later this morning, because I actually planned out meals for the week. And I need to eat, because I'm ravenous now that I'm actually being seriously physical - no walk, however, speedy, is going to be as taxing as beating up a heavy bag that doesn't even exist (I know that sounds ridiculous, but it's true). 

Y'all, I feel rested for the first time in over five months. Don't get me wrong - I'm still exhausted, because I've got an enormous sleep deficit to overcome - but I feel so much better physically than I have on any day since Doug died. I could cry from relief. 

And I didn't go crazy with the meal planning: breakfasts will be overnight oats or a Dave's Killer Bagel with almond butter and a banana; lunches will be a salad with some goat cheese and pistachios, and I only planned three dinners to last me the week (leftovers, doncha know). And I'm not doing anything fancy, because I know my (new) self well enough to know that plans don't mean a lot these days. But tonight, I'm making miso maple-glazed salmon with roasted new potatoes and brussels sprouts for dinner, and I'm actually looking forward to it.

Does this mean I've turned some kind of existential corner? Let's not get too excited about that possibility; grief isn't linear, and it's not as though I'm now happy and well-adjusted. I'm not happy, I'm definitely not well-adjusted, and my life is no better than it's been since we went into lockdown. I miss my husband. I miss my family. I miss my friends. I want a hug - a REAL hug - SO MUCH that I could (and do) cry. But if I can channel my anger in a way that gets it out without hurting anyone, and if that leads to me eating better and sleeping better, that has to make a difference; it already has.

If not for Covid, I know that there would have been people rallying around me physically just as they have virtually: they would've been here, literally dragging me off the couch to go out to dinner, or karaoke, or hiking, or fishing, or helping me clean the house. I haven't had that - not because no one wanted to do it, but because they couldn't. And I'm not gonna lie: I'm proud of myself that I've stuck with therapy and grief counseling and trying things, even though I didn't believe they'd help (and I still don't believe that anything I'm doing is going to help me have any will to live). And I'm happy that I found a way to express my anger that's not damaging to me, or my pets, or my property.

Today, at least, I feel rested(ish) and I actually want to eat real food.

Today, that's enough.

The polite couple

I want to tell you a sweet story about Doug and me:

When we first started dating, we were both pretty cagey. We'd each been burned before, and we'd each made poor choices before, and so we were testing-but-not-really-testing each other those first few months.

In particular, neither of us wanted to seem needy or clingy, which was great in theory. In practice, though, it led to strings of texts like, "you don't have to reply right now if you're busy" and "I'd really like to talk tonight, but if you're tired it's no big deal."

It was sweet, in a way. It was also exhausting. I mean, I knew he was crazy about me; he knew that I was crazy about him. But we played this silly chess game just to be extra cautious not to scare each other away. Like I said: it was sweet, in a way.

We were kinda like these guys:

Once we got past that phase, we went into the Please-God-don't-let-me-fuck-this-up phase. This phase of relationships happens much more intensely as older couples, I think. Because, y'know: baggage. It's the time when you start to share all your little quirks and neuroses and insecurities, and you're terrified that the other person is going to see all this shit and bail. 

My "quirk" was my deep-seated fear that I was unlovable. Doug's was the terror that he'd been single so long, he'd forgotten how to be in a relationship. I remember him telling me that if he ever acted like he wasn't in a couple, that I should point it out.

But you know what? It may have happened once, and I don't even remember what it was so it couldn't have been that big a deal. Maybe Doug didn't remember how to be part of a couple, but all the stuff that goes into being part of a couple? Compassion, ability to listen, willingness to compromise and admit mistakes, willingness to call me out when I needed it? Ability to laugh at himself? And the ability to laugh at me? Man, he had ALL of that.

Look, I know how lucky we were to find each other. And I know that we packed more love into our four years, four months, and four days (yes, I'm counting our first not-a-date) than some couples do in 50. It's not that I'm not grateful for that, because I am. But I'm greedy; I wanted more.

I'm afraid to jinx it, but...

Y'all, I don't know how to say this, but...

I had a good day yesterday.

That's not to say I didn't cry (oh, I did, but I didn't spend the entire day either crying or on the verge of it). It's not to say I'm now all "I want to LIVE, dammit!" (you've met me, right?). It's not to say everything went perfectly. In fact, I had a bunch of annoying stuff go down at work (just minor technical glitches - it happens when you work in technology).

But here's the thing: those minor technical glitches? Even just two DAYS ago, they would've put me into hysterics. But yesterday, I cursed softly and figured them out and moved on, which is exactly what would have happened six months ago.

I only slept for three hours Tuesday night, so it's not that I was rested. I managed nearly seven hours last night; I long for a restful night's sleep, and at this point, if someone told me I could have that for the low, low price of everything I own, I'd seriously consider it. I didn't exercise at all yesterday, because I was dead on my feet - that and it was too hot to go for a walk even at 6:00 AM. So it's not as if I did anything dramatically different that led to a good day.

But the oppressive cloud of misery hanging over my head was just a TINY bit smaller. Does that make life worth living again? Hell if I know. I sure don't feel any more willing to spend my days and nights  without my Doug. I still don't feel hopeful that anything will ever be meaningful again. And I certainly don't feel hopeful that I'll ever be happy.

But for one day, it wasn't entirely unbearable all day. And I didn't think that even THAT small a thing would ever happen, so for now, it's enough.

148th verse, same as the first

Exactly nine months ago, at this very moment, Doug and I were standing on a beautiful hillside overlooking Hanalei Bay, pledging to spend the rest of our lives together. It was one of the happiest days of my life, and I know it was one of the happiest days of his.

After our wedding, we went down to the beach to try and get a good sunset photo, but a torrential downpour came out of nowhere and soaked us to the gills before we even had time to grab the umbrella. The resulting picture, with both of us looking like drowned rats, ended up being one of our favorites.

We were kinda dried off by the time we headed over to the Princeville Resort for our fabulous wedding dinner, but we sure weren't photo-friendly by then. 😳

After dinner, we went back to our condo, and went out on the lanai to take in the evening - and we spotted the perfect bookend to our wedding day: we started the day looking at a rainbow, and ended it looking at a moonbow. And then we went inside, made love, and spent our first night together as husband and wife, snuggled together all night.

Exactly five months ago, at this very moment, I was in our house, alone, getting ready for bed. I was feeling relieved, because Doug's surgery had gone well; I fully expected that he'd be off the ventilator the next day, home a week after that, and by now we'd be starting to get ready for our planned two weeks at the beach house next month. And after that, we'd be planning our next great adventure: an African safari. But the trip to the beach house won't happen. The safari won't happen. Sure, I could do both those things without Doug, but why would I? I've said it before: what's the point in trying to make memories when I have no one to make them with and no one to share them with?

Early this afternoon, I finally closed Doug's checking account. Driving back to the house, I decided to take a back road I hadn't traveled before. As I was looking at the houses and the small, quaint commercial buildings, I was taken back to the times that Doug and I would just get in the car and drive, with no destination in mind. He'd point out particularly lovely houses as I drove... it was a small, fun thing we used to do. For a moment, I felt the hint of a smile at Doug's memory - and then I was hit with the realization that it's another thing we'll never do again. And then I came home and nearly threw up the breakfast I ate midmorning - the first solid food I'd eaten since Tuesday. And then I spent an hour trying to keep the threatening panic attack from coming on (mission accomplished, so at least there's that).

Getting married didn't change anything about Doug's and my relationship, and yet it changed everything. No, it didn't change how we felt about each other, and it didn't change how committed we were to each other. But in some indefinable way, there's something about formally promising to love each other forever - and really knowing what that means - that's special. Especially when both parties are older, cynical, and originally intended NEVER to go down that path again. Maybe we didn't need the legality of it, but it meant everything to us anyway.

Of course, now I wonder, if we hadn't gone to Hawaii, how long would it have been before Doug would have clued me in that there was a problem with his legs. Certainly it would have led to him requiring surgery eventually, but... if we hadn't taken that trip, and hadn't gotten married, I would still have him sitting next to me. If I could go back in time and stop that trip, we'd be together right now, blissfully ignorant of the ticking time bomb in his gut. But we'd be together, and I wouldn't have to endure all this insanity while also trying to endure doing it without my love. I know, I know - down that path lies madness, but aren't I already pretty much there? 

I've been attending a spouse grief support group via Zoom on Thursday evenings since June 11. The group is wonderful - seriously, everyone is delightful, and we've grown closer than you might think in only six short weeks. This week, we all exchanged contact information so that we can stay in touch after the group officially ends on July 30, and I've already communicated directly with several of the group members - including one fella who told me he found this blog. I suggested he might not want to read it, as he probably thinks I'm a whole lot nicer than I actually am, but he's planning to read anyway. I expect the poor man is probably scrubbing his brain with bleach and regrets right about now. 🤣 

That new reader led me to go back and re-read everything I've posted from the beginning, and it's clear that my sense of things was right on: I've become progressively more angry over the past five months; it's evident in my writing as well as in my subjective observation of my mood. I don't like this version of me; it's certainly not who I was, and it's definitely not who I want to be. If only I knew how to change it, but I don't.

As I've said on many, many occasions, this isn't getting easier. If anything, it's getting more difficult. Every day that passes is another day further away from the life I had, and the only life I want. I'm so profoundly tired - physically, mentally, and emotionally. I'm so profoundly lonely. I still haven't dreamed about Doug. I still haven't gotten any kind of sign that he's still with me. And that's a constant ache and longing, the desire to know that he's okay, and that he still loves me.

The days, and weeks, and months are all endless, and yet I can still picture Doug sitting where I'm sitting right now, and it's as though it was just yesterday that he was here.

Three months from today would be our very first anniversary - an anniversary we'll never celebrate. I don't know how to accept that, or even how to just... not be so angry about it. It's a huge, bitter pill that's been stuck in my throat for the past 148 days. I imagine it's going to be stuck there forever. Am I even going to be able to do anything to honor Doug and our marriage that day? Or will I still be trapped in this house, all alone, like I've been for four months now?

So much happiness, just gone. All the years we thought we had ahead of us, gone. All the memories we wanted to make, gone. And with Covid making it impossible to indulge any of the activities that might bring me even the tiniest comfort, I'm still stuck back in mid-March, when we initially went on lockdown. I'm in this horrible limbo, where I can't move forward and I can't move back, and I can't do anything to make myself feel better, or even feel the tiniest glimmer of hope. Yeah, I'm functional(ish) now, so you could say that means I'm "better," but it sure doesn't feel better. No, I don't cry all the time like I used to, but that's only because I can control it better now - not because the impulse isn't there.

The bottom line is that I'm living a nightmare from which there's no waking up. And it's taking a toll on me: my hair is still falling out in clumps; I look at least five years older than I did; I have a hair-trigger temper; I have zero patience for any change in routine or for the unexpected. And, in the ultimate insult, my body seems to have adapted to my failure to eat: despite my lack of appetite, I'm not getting any smaller. You'd think I should be down to a size 10 by now, but between the cortisol from all the stress and sleep deprivation, and the hearty Irish peasant stock in my family tree, I'm evidently really well-positioned to survive a famine. And isn't THAT delightful?

I'm just SO TIRED, y'all. I miss my husband. I miss our life. I miss his voice, and his smell, and his hands, and his lips, and his laugh, and... his everything. I miss my Doug. I would give damn near anything to have him back, but I know the universe doesn't work that way. I'd happily settle for just checking out (standard disclaimer: no, I'm not going to kill myself), but the universe isn't cooperating with that, either.

I wish I could have hope for a better future. I wish I could have faith that life will be worth living again.  I wish for lots of things, but as this isn't a fairy tale, I'm pretty sure my wishes don't count for much.

I'm gonna go cry myself to sleep now.

 

The four-letter word that rules my not-a-life

If you're the squeamish type who can't stomach expletives, you'll want to move on along, because they're going to be used abundantly in this post. Yes, I'm talking to you, Coward, you fucking piece of shit - there will be no grieving "with some class" here today. But I FUCKING PROMISE you, there's going to be a post dedicated JUST to you and the absolute DEVASTATION you've wreaked on my already precarious emotional health in the not-too-distant future, so stay tuned for that one. Unless, of course, you want to grow a pair and come clean so that I can cut you out and stop feeling like I can't trust ANYBODY. I'm betting that you won't have the character to show yourself and take your well-deserved lumps, though: people like you never do. Just to be clear: you SUCK, and if I still speak to you at all, it's only because I don't know who you are. But know that you've managed to replace my bio dad as my most-despised person on the planet, and THAT'S no small feat.

When we think of four-letter words, we typically think of the biggies (thanks, George Carlin!): Fuck. Cunt. Cock. Twat. Then there are the expletives that are not four-letter words, but which colloquially we refer to as four-letter words because they're so profane: motherfucker, cocksucker, son of a bitch, twatwaffle...

None of those words is my problem. Hell, I embrace them. No, today's post is brought to you by the worst fucking four-letter word there is; the four-letter word that governs my every move (or non-move, as the case may be).

Today's post is brought to you by the word "can't".

There are universal, immutable, eternal  truths:

• I can't see Doug, ever again.
• I can't hear Doug call my name, ever again.
• I can't be Doug's wife, ever again.
• I can't hold Doug, ever again.
• I can't make love to Doug, ever again.

These truths are unbearable, even in the absence of all the other things I can't do. You might say that there's empirical evidence that I can, in fact, bear these truths, because I'm still here. You'd be wrong: hanging on to this excuse for a life by the skin of my teeth and against my will is NOT bearing the truths so much as it is surviving despite them.

Then, there are the truths that are, theoretically, temporary. These are the truths that exist only because of Covid, and only in the Land of the Covidiots who refuse to mask and maintain appropriate distance, thereby forcing me to remain isolated in my house 24/7. The challenge that's hitting me in the face is that there is no way to know if "temporary" means another month, or another six months, or another year, or another two years, or another five years. But one thing is certain: as long as Covid is still in play, I'm effectively paralyzed: There are things that I could do, even WANT to do, because they'd make me feel connected to Doug, or they'd bring me some comfort, or because they just plain need to be done. But those things can neither connect me to Doug nor comfort me - either because they aren't available at all due to Covid or are too risky to engage in due to Covid:

• Go to a football game: can't do that (I'm certain there will be no college football this Fall)
• Watch sports on TV: can't do that
• Get a tattoo in Doug's memory: can't do that
• Travel overseas: can't do that
• Travel here in the States: can't do that unless it's to a remote cabin where I can get groceries and booze delivered (I'm not drinking much these days, but I'd hate to take it off the table as a possibility while sitting in a hot tub). And I'm not sure that really counts as 'travel', anyway.
• Theatre: can't do that (I can participate in Facebook Live script reads, but the meaty, heady experience of digging into a character and making her my own over weeks of rehearsal? nope)
• Go out for karaoke with friends: can't do that
• Kayaking: can't do that because I'm not experienced enough to go out alone, and because I can't buy a kayak to go out with friends since A) I can't go into a store (too people-y) and B) I have no way to transport a kayak.
  
  Also can't go rent one with friends because the only time that's an option is on weekends, and the rentals aren't available early in the morning or in the early evening (which, frankly, are the only times I should be out on the lake; I've already got a tiny black spot on my left forearm that might be melanoma, so spending MORE time in the hottest sun of the day doesn't seem like a good option)
• Learn how to ride a motorcycle, get my license, and buy a bike: can't do that
• Any of the many, many repairs that need to be done on the house: can't do any of that because I'm not handy, and having professionals in my house here in the Land of the Covidiots who refuse to mask or maintain appropriate distance isn't a good idea
• I can't even enjoy cooking anymore: my friend Dustin did a porch drop of some beautiful chanterelle mushrooms the other night; I sauteed them last night just to get them cooked before they started to go bad, and I tonight I made a chanterelle risotto. It's the first time I've ever cooked with chanterelles, and experimenting with new foods was one of my favorite things to do; Doug was a great taste tester. This was the first time I've cooked something new since he died. I finished making it, and... couldn't eat it. My appetite vanished. I started crying - loud, ugly crying. The risotto is now in the fridge, and I hope I can stomach eating it tomorrow so it doesn't go to waste.

Granted, I could do a social-distancing hangout with friends, except that it's too fucking hot to be outside 99% of the time, and I NEED HUMAN CONTACT, not just seeing people in close-ish proximity. 

You may think I'm feeling sorry for myself. You'd be right. You may think that I should just get my friends together in the driveway to hang out, even if I can't hug them, because that would be "better than nothing." To that, I say this: can YOU remember the last time you touched another human being? If the answer is yes, then I suggest you fuck all the way off, because I can fucking GUARANTEE YOU that a social-distancing visit is NOT "better than nothing;" a social-distancing visit is not going to do me any more good than a fucking Zoom call.

So, what CAN I do? The same goddamn motherfucking shit I've been doing EVERY GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING DAY FOR THE LAST FOUR GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING MONTHS: I can watch Netflix. I can read. I can spend far too many hours on Reddit and Facebook and Twitter. I can text and talk to friends and family. I can paint (very, very badly). I can play the flute (also very, very badly since I'm so out of practice). NONE of those things brings me comfort. NONE of them makes me feel connected to Doug. Essentially, all I've been doing since mid-March is rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic that is my not-a-life.

Pretty soon, I'm going to have to choose between risking getting Covid and possibly dying a horrible, excruciating death in my house alone... or giving in to the mental breakdown that's been threatening since February 20 (hey, would THAT make you happy, Coward?). And the latter would end up with me probably hospitalized and losing my job, house, and pets.

Quite the conundrum, it is.

Hamilton

Today is a Big Day for theatre fans: today, Hamilton began streaming on Disney+.

Doug and I wanted to see the show, of course, but the opportunity hadn't presented itself. And so I settled in to watch the filmed version of it alone. I knew, going in, that it would be bittersweet. I didn't expect just how emotional the experience would be.

Note: this is not a review of Hamilton; people far more knowledgeable and eloquent than I have already weighed in on that for the past four years. This is just me writing about my experience of watching it.

It's important to know that I went into Hamilton cold: I've heard bits and pieces of it, but I have a policy of not listing to the original cast recording until I see a show. So I knew the basic plot, and snippets of songs, but none of the details.

I was enthralled from the opening moments: the costumes, the music - the variety of music! - the plot, the characters, the cast that was perfection... it was everything I hoped it would be. I was wistful, and a little melancholy, but I was hanging in there.

And then Jonathan Groff came on stage to perform You'll Be Back. Groff's King George is gloriously demented (damn near literally foaming at the mouth) and hilarious. Which, of course, made me think of Doug, because he would have loved that number as much as I did. And so I smiled and laughed my way through, but halfway through the very next song (Right Hand Man; Christopher Jackson's George Washington), I realized that I was crying.

I wasn't actively crying so much as my eyes were leaking, seemingly of their own volition. It wasn't the song - I mean, it's a phenomenal number, but not emotional - it was that the sadness that had been waiting for its moment just... bubbled to the surface. And there it remained, with me quietly crying through most of the rest of the show.

I say "most" because there were moments when the tears became overwhelming: Eliza's (Phillipa Soo) scream at the end of Stay Alive (Reprise) wrecked me. I had to pause for half an hour until I could get my emotions sufficiently under control that I could go on. The same thing happened after The World Was Wide Enough (Leslie Odom Jr as Aaron Burr and Lin-Manuel Miranda as Alexander Hamilton), only this time it took nearly 45 minutes - which turned out to be a wasted effort, as I wept through the entirety of Eliza and Company's Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story.

Hamilton was beautiful, and it was heartbreaking, and it was uplifting. I'm so glad that I watched it, and I will absolutely watch it again, and again, and again. But it left me with a question to which I wish I had an answer: Will I ever again be able to enjoy anything without an unordered and unwanted side of sadness? 

It's my day, and so what?

Today, I'm 55 years old.

I should have awakened to three birthday cards from Doug. For every occasion, he gave me three cards, and I had to open them in order: the first was always hilarious, the second was over-the-top schmoopy, and the third was a wild card.

I had to work today, so there wouldn't have been a fancy breakfast (we would've saved that for the weekend), but he'd most likely be grilling dinner right now, having poured me a beer and a shot to celebrate my birthday. And he would have picked up some decadent cupcakes for dessert.

I won't say that I miss Doug more today, because I miss him immensely all the time. But what I do miss are those damn cards, because he always picked great ones. I miss hearing him say, "Happy Birthday, Beautiful." I miss the kisses and hugs I would've gotten throughout the day. 

I can't say I miss hearing him say, "Happy Birthday, Wife," because he never got the chance to say that. And even though I know I'm NOT his wife anymore, I still feel very much married to him. I'm still every bit as in love with him as I have been for the past almost-five years. I still refer to him as my husband rather than my late husband, almost all the time. 

Many people honored my request to completely ignore my birthday, and I'm very grateful for that. Many others reached out to me, but were kind enough not to go the cheery "Happy Birthday!" route. And quite a few went the cheery route, probably out of reflex. And I know they did it out of affection for me, so no hard feelings, but...

I appreciate the kindness on all fronts. It probably won't surprise you, however, to know that it has not been a happy birthday. It's been a terribly lonely birthday, despite the best efforts of many people who tried to make it otherwise. It's been lonely because the person I'm lonely for is the one person who isn't here. And it's sad because life moves on - even for me - and I can't. At least, not yet. I'm still not sure I'll ever be able to, or ever even want to. I still want my husband back. It's the ONLY thing I want, and I can't have it. 

Doug's best friend Mike (and at some point, I really need to start referring to him as MY friend, because he is - but I only have him in my life because of Doug, and so Doug gets the credit) texted me this morning to inform me that he was going to be in my neck of the woods today, and he was going to my favorite Indian restaurant for lunch and would be picking up food for me and dropping it on the porch. His tone suggested that it was not really a question, and saying "that's not necessary!" wasn't really an option. And that's how I ended up with enough Samosas and Ghobi Manchurian to have for lunch and dinner. He brought flowers, too, which was a lovely touch.

I had my weekly session with Brooke today, as she has a conflict for our regular Thursday session tomorrow. She suggested I consider going to a cabin for a week or two, just to have a change of scenery. She even recommended cabins in Georgia that she's visited, and they're dog-friendly. I went to the web site, and looked at the cabins... and immediately started crying. Because the views from these cabins are gorgeous. Because I know it would be good for me to get away (and I can work from anywhere there's broadband internet, so I wouldn't even have to take time off), but I'm afraid I'd be miserable, even in all that beauty, because I'd want so desperately for Doug to be with me. Because I don't even know if a change of scenery would help me, because wherever I go, I'm still gonna be there. And I don't much enjoy my own company these days.

Somewhere early afternoon, I realized that Friday is a holiday (yes, July 4 is Saturday, so they're giving us the holiday on Friday). A three-day weekend. And I got SO ANGRY. I used to love three-day weekends. Now, it's just one more day I have to fill while not actually going anywhere or doing anything. And it's not even that I'm bored, exactly. It's just that I'm on this endless wheel of... nothingness. I just pass time. I may not cry every minute that I'm awake, but I have no more of a life than I did 131 days ago.

I know that lots of people are thrilled that I'm still here. I wish I shared their enthusiasm, but I'm profoundly sad. Living without Doug is more painful than I can express, and lonelier than anyone who hasn't been here can imagine. My life is all emptiness, all the time. I'm just drifting through the days, the weeks, the months, and nothing really matters. I'm like that character Pete Davidson plays on SNL, but without the good humor: It's a beautiful day? ok. Hamilton will be on Disney+ this weekend? ok. I swear, somebody could hand me enough money to retire right now, and my response would be: ok.

So, yeah. I'm another year older. I'm another year closer to death. And I'm without the one person I want and need the most. And that really doesn't feel like anything worth celebrating to me.