Thoughts for this Thursday to jot down:
1). Yesterday night, I felt like my world was collapsing. I felt as though the wall of this house echoing with memories and once-were closed in on me, bombarding me with so many, too many, thoughts and emotions about Peter. There was nothing like a mindless game of Family Feud to watch, and to laugh at, to make it all go away. Or at least lessen it. I felt better taking out the garbage before I headed to bed. And while I was outside with the garbage, I looked up in the ink dark sky and asked a star to show me Peter was okay. I’m still waiting.
2). I hate doing everything now. I hate doing EVERYthing. There is no division of chores. There is no I do this and this, you do that and that because there is no you. So, this and this and that and that all is on me. Oh, I’m proud I’m doing all of it, but I don’t have to like it. Any of it.
3). I have the best friends. I do. When I was asked recently about who my support was – both by my doctor and a therapist running a grief group – I told them “I have the best friends and a few great family members.” My friends come with over twenty, with over forty, and with over fifty years of experience as my friend. I also have two sisters who check in on me a few times a week and their experience with me comes from my birth. Sometimes, I dwell on the people who have NOT been here with me during this time and I feel sorry for myself, or get angry, or both. Then I realize it’s all about wanting more, and I don’t need more. I have enough and the enough I have, fill me and have held me like no other. They are great human beings. I have to remind myself of this. Admittingly, it’s hard to do in the midst of grief which, sometimes, takes away any common sense in me, or at least makes me pity myself more.
4). My kids and I have stayed close through this all. In the past almost twelve weeks, we have become cohesive. It’s hard to share our grief because it’s raw and different, and unique to us. And, I don’t really want to share too much with them as they don’t need, nor should they have, my grief to carry along with their own. That’s not fair. That’s not what a parent does. Or at least not this parent. So, they are figuring out their own way through this nightmare we live in. In the meantime, we continue to be a cohesive group, a strong family, the one Peter helped build. Sure, each of us has our bad days, and those will happen, will continue to happen. Yet, we call, we text, we message, we visit, we love. Peter would be proud of us. I’m proud of us.
5). Some days, most days, I am still in shock Peter died. I still cannot believe I will never see him again…ever. I still cannot believe I have this title of ‘widow’ or ‘single’ and I have to check them on forms. I still cannot believe one day I’ll be taking off my ring. I still can’t believe his clothes are gone. I still can’t believe his scent, his taste, his feel are all but memories. I still shake my head in disbelieve when I choose two bananas instead of a bunch, or a half dozen eggs over a dozen. It’s all too much sometimes to think I won’t see him walk through the door, kiss me, tell me about his day and settle in with me for the night. Peter died suddenly and there was no preparation. There were no final good-byes, no letting go, no tell me agains, and no seeing him or holding him for the last time. And with the absence of finality brings confusion and paperwork – damn the paperwork – and shock. Most days, I am still shocke d this all happened.
6). When I see the amount of preparation Peter did in the event of his death, and the neat spreadsheet he kept which made a chaotic situation more papable, I believe Peter continues to take care of me…but not the way it used to be. Those used-to-be’s are over and it’s me, world. Oh, I think I am doing a fairly kick-ass job…for someone who has been left on her own vices for the first time in a long time. I mean, I haven’t totally crumbled. I’ve cracked a few times, but not crumbled. I haven’t stood still despite my second-guessing. I haven’t let it all drop, maybe just a few things. The point is, I’m upright and moving and juggling. I’m not going to lie. It doesn’t feel right, but it doesn’t matter how it feels. It matters that I am doing. Eventually, I’ll feel some comfort, perhaps. Or not. Some think I’m moving fast, not fully understanding my fluidity or my Bohemian heart or me. I know I am impatient. I know my almost ADD nature does not bode well to standing still. And I know the bottom line is it doesn’t matter what “some” think because, well, because it’s me. Besides, if my decisions don’t work out – from now on, I refuse to use the word ‘fail’ – then maybe it wasn’t meant to be, but I tried. Okay, enough of my pep talk coming out on my blog.
Well, those are my thoughts. Thanks for letting me in and sharing them. I don’t want pity. It has never been my attention. I just want to put down into words, for me, for Peter, for my kids, what I am feeling, when I am feeling it. One day, I hope to look back and see how much I’ve grown. Or maybe to remember where someone else will be at when the eventuality of Death comes knocking at their door, changing lives forever.