A late Good-bye

I didn’t get to say a final good-bye to Michael as I left the hospital that Sunday night.  When I left, I was fully expecting to come back the next day and the next day to bring him home.  I wish I was with him when he died. I would have said good-b ye in such a different manner.  I would have been so loving and accepting of his process.  I would say, “It’s OK Michael. You can go. You’ve been so strong your whole life.  I will always be here for you. I love you now and forever. We will all be OK. I love you. I love you. I love you. Shhhh…you can go. Be at peace. I love you forever. Good-bye, my love. Michael…Shhhhh…”

As it will be forever, I leaned over as he got comfortable in the hospital bed and I said, "I won't call you when I get home because I know you will be resting."  I think I may have touched his shoulder, and then walked out.  I remember turning to look back at him to make sure he was ok.  He woke up approximately 15 minutes later not being able to breath, lost consciousnesses, was rushed to the ICU and 4 hours later, he died.  

Stuck in life

Today is my wedding anniversary.  It's the hardest day of the year.  I was married on July 7, 1977 at 7:00pm.  It was a glorious night.  A warm summer night full of love and promise.  Last year I went to the beach alone and mourned the loss of my husband.  This year, I feel numb and resigned to the fact that he is not here, but my love and celebration of today is still alive.  How can that be?  In the months right after Michael died, I read several books on grief.  Grief "experts" said that we still have a relationship with the person who has died.  I was so confused over this.  I couldn't understand how in the world anyone can have a relationship with a person who has died. And now, I am beginning to understand this a little differently.  A relationship has so many different levels, and the relationship with a person who has died remains unchanged through the rest of the living person's life.  It is like a hologram, it can be moved and played over and over again, but only the same figures show up.  My wedding anniversary remains in 2011, the last time we smiled at each other and went to the garden store to buy mulch.  We picked out a pretty blue planter to commemorate the date.  I still have it filled with life.  

Going Home

As I drove to the book store one sunny afternoon, I realized that being with Michael was like coming home.  I thought of all the people who I could have asked to join me.  They were people that I loved, family and friends, who may have been available for a short outing to look at books.  It was then that I realized there was only one person that I wanted with me at that moment.  That no one could fill the space of Michael.  He was who I really wanted to come with me, like we did so many time before.  He was my comfort.  He was like home, after a long, or short trip to a different place.  He was like getting into your own bed after several nights away sleeping in a hard or lumpy bed, or eating at a table that wasn’t quite the right height and had a sticky spot that was unidentifiable.  Michael was like kicking off a new pair of shoes that didn’t fit exactly right and sliding sore feet into warm and fuzzy slippers.  Even though I was happy to be at those other places and had a wonderful time there, it was not home. There was a part of myself that was always waiting to go home.  Home is where I like to be best.  So even though I love all the people I spend time with and they are required for my happiness and well-being, they are not home.  Home disappeared. I can’t get used to never being able to go home again.  

Comfort Zone

I’m leaving this afternoon to go to a graduation in Bristol, RI.  This overnight trip has me wondering why I resist leaving home.  The first reason that has come to me is Michael.  I am so lost without him.  He was my compass on earth.  I am lost when outside of my known area.  I didn’t realize how much I needed him in this area, until it was too late.  He was so patient as I struggled to find my way. I also do not have a strong desire to “see other places.”  I feel like an intruder as a tourist.  I read about the areas of the world that are interesting to me and that takes care of my curiosity.  I would much rather explore the recesses of my mind.  And I can do that from the comfort of my own living room.  But then I wonder if those reasons are rationalizations for not moving out of my comfort zone.  Do I expand my horizons by seeing other geographical areas with my own eyes?  Can I experience it more fully as I stand in front of the Great Pyramids or the Grand Canyon? Certainly so, however, is it worth the first hand experience in light of my other convictions?

No acceptance

I had a flash of acceptance once. It was just a few days ago and it only lasted for a moment or so. Just long enough for me to realize the reality of my loss and the way my life has changed. It felt “normal” for a moment. I realized that it felt like acceptance.  And then it was gone. Then I went back to the bleakness and emptiness, which is the way it has been for months now, 17 months to be exact.  Now that felt normal.

I suppose I understand on an intellectual level that one day I will be able to accept that Michael is not here with me.  But on the emotional level, I just don’t know how that can ever happen.  I don’t see how I won’t be longing for him until the day I die.   

I walk in the front door every day and the emptiness greets me the same way Michael used to.  Actually, it greets me sooner than he did sometimes.  I looked for him today.  I called his name out loud.  I opened the basement door and called, “Michael?” It felt so good to hear his name. It felt good to say his name. Most things in the house are the same as they were when Michael was alive. It’s been a hurdle to change things and when I do I always think if Michael would like it.  I paint and change curtains. I buy a few new accessories, all the while I’m really buying them through what I think is Michael’s taste. I use his colors and then realize that maybe his colors were my colors too.  And then I’m empty again.  I remember when I called and he answered, “I’m over here, Jan!”

I used to think I lived my life according to high standards and would have no regrets when someone I loved died.  Well, that was blown asunder when my husband, my most beloved, died. I am racked with regrets.  Regrets such as not telling him how much I appreciated him, how sorry I was for not getting as excited with him for all the things in his life that excited him.  Regrets about the way I spoke when I was angry.  Regrets about getting angry because none of that stuff really matters anyway.  Regrets I didn’t sit near him more and feel his body next to mine.  More regrets that I didn’t hold him close every night of every week for the 34 years we were married.  I so remember our wedding night when we both finally finished the day.  He was in bed and I was getting ready and as I started to get into bed, Michael said, “Come here. I’ve been waiting so long for this.”  He meant to sleep together, not sex, just sleep, holding each other close.  We were both too tired to do anything but sleep that night.  I regret that I didn’t say good-bye and stay in the moment of how much I love him.