Not everyone will understand or accept my journaling on this post of what life is like without my husband of twenty-eight years, my friend for thirty-one. He died suddenly in a motorcycle accident. But I am a writer, so I write. If I were a runner, I’d run, or a swimmer, I’d swim. I can see my husband laughing at the two analogies in my mind’s eye. I am neither of those things, but I am a writer. A writer with a heart latched on to my sleeve like a koala bear on a eucalyptus tree.
The details of my husband’s death aren’t important. The details are actually too muddled and painful to think about. Suffice to say, the initial report seems to point the blame at the other driver. Not sure yet what the official report will conclude – that’s going to take some time yet. And I suppose it doesn’t matter where the fault lies right now; maybe it will in a month when I can direct my anger somewhere, to someone. For now, all I know, all I feel, is my husband is dead and I must start the last part of my life without him. We were supposed to travel on that path together. Suppose-to’s aren’t whatever happens.
The past few days I’ve been living in a fog. Sometimes it lifts, sometimes it’s too dense to see right in front of me, and most times it’s clear enough to navigate with fear and caution. I have gotten the mundane things out of the way – the planning of a memorial service, the breaking the news to family and friends, the letting his workplace know, the discussion with all his policies companies, the filing of the necessary paperwork and the going through some of his stuff. Peter kept a lot of stuff. As much as he was the organizer in our relationship, he was also the keeper of crap always explaining “one day I may use it”. In his defense, he used some, but not all. In his defense, I am now scrambling to find the warranties, the sale receipts I didn’t keep, the ones I need this morning.
This morning, my lifeline died, my cell phone. I am devastated. Not only is my connection to the outside world, the friends and family who keep in touch, but it’s another thing I just can’t deal with. It’s another thing I have to figure out to fix, to reach out to someone and I don’t have either of those skill sets yet. If I could, I’d sleep until tomorrow and it’ll all be fixed, but I can’t, and I deep down, I know sleep doesn’t fix anything.
Yesterday, was a day to sleep. After days of two to three hours of sleep since it happened with constant ruminations, I finally slept. Really slept. I slept Monday night going into Tuesday and napped most of Tuesday. My adrenaline sprung a leak and I collapsed. I wish I could say it felt good. Maybe it would have if I didn’t wake up to the same nightmare. Sleep didn’t take away the emptiness or the dread inside of me. All it did was push it back.
Every day, there is some ant hill or mountain to conquer. The ant hills are easy. The mountains are hard to catch my breath. It was so much easier to do it with my husband at my side. Easier is not in the game plan now. And I suppose I have to write new ones. No supposing; I do have to write new ones. It’ll be okay. I am a writer, you know.