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. 

I have a chair in the living room that has over the years turned into “my chair.”  It has a matching one that sits on the other side of the room. Michael and I picked them out together along with a sofa to match. They both recline and are just the right size.

The one that I always sit in is in a corner next to an end table that has all my important items.  It has a table top fan, for relentless, never-ending hot flashes, an extra pair of reading glasses and several books that are waiting or in the process of being read.  There are also framed pictures of people that I love. On the other side is a reading lamp that shines just the right amount of light on my reading materials.

Not that I only read in this chair.  I have been known to sleep there as well.  I recovered from double knee replacement surgery in that chair.  I spent a few angry nights in that chair, and a few worried ones as well.  When people are over to visit, we sit in the living room and I sit in that chair and we talk. But the night that changed the composition, karma and/or peace of that single chair is the night of my loss.

I didn’t know that when I came home that night at 2:00am or so, that I would change the serenity of my favorite chair just by sitting in it. I was moving by habit when Elaine and I walked in the house, both of us numb and exhausted.  I robotically made my way to the living room and the chair that I sub-consciously hoped would give me comfort.  I sat down and pushed back so the foot rest would engage. It felt like relief at the time.  At least it was familiar. I don’t remember breathing a sigh of relief, as there wasn’t any relief to be had for many months to come.  But I didn’t know any of that yet.  Elaine sat directly across from me, not my mate, but sitting in the chair’s mate.  She looked at me quietly and expectantly, waiting for my direction. I only realize that now.  At the time, I didn’t see anything.

My head rested back and to the left as always.  All the lights were on because we needed them in our darkness.  We spoke quietly of life and death, of illness and procedures. We spoke of my husband’s death in soft tones, words without tears, not yet, it was too soon.

I remember at one point Elaine pushed back and put her feet up too. After sometime, I got up to turn off the main lights saying, “We should try to dim things down a bit.”  I left one small light on that would keep the night away and keep time standing still.

Elaine and I sat together, her in her chair, me in mine. All the while I sat, my grief was seeping into the fabric and once living wood of that chair. I was soaking up its last bit of comfort and rest that was offered and gave back grief, pain and loss.  It wasn’t until months later, as I started to mourn from within my soul, that I realized every time I sat in my once favorite chair, my former “spot”, I relived the night of my loss.