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.
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