Another birthday we can't celebrate together

Today, Doug would be 68 years old. But he isn't. He remains 66, and he'll always remain 66.

Because he's dead.

Today has hit me hard: two of his birthdays have now gone by since he died. Two birthdays on which I couldn't take him somewhere fancy, or cook him a special meal, or buy him three birthday cards, or wake him with a cup of coffee and a kiss.

I'm trying SO HARD. And most days, I manage to be productive(ish), and laugh a few times, and have conversations that don't revolve around the death of my person. But on days like today, I wonder if those days are possible only because those are days when I don't let myself think about what my life really is: empty, and lonely, and pointless. Those days are simply the days when I'm successful at lying to myself and convincing myself that I'm okay. Days like today are my actual reality: crying all day, wishing only to be with the only man who ever loved me; the only man I've ever loved.

A friend of ours posted this on Doug's Facebook timeline today. The text is from a Facebook post that Doug made right after we returned from our weddingmoon in Hawaii.

I realize that there are many people who never experience being loved like that. I realize I should be grateful for what we had, and I am. But it wasn't enough. Forty years wouldn't have been enough, that's true. But four years? That's just cruel. It's barbaric. We deserved so much more. I still have all this love inside me; what the hell am I supposed to do with it?