People have come and gone, food packaged up, and it’s quiet here. The boys are here, doing things…I am not sure what but that’s ok. they need to be doing things. I am trying to unwind or decompress or something, from all the social activity. Even in the best of circumstances I am not a social type of person, and yesterday was a 16 hour long stretch of constant activity and people. It was exhausting but I continue to be amazed at the outpouring of affection for Terry.
The memorial service was…well…amazing. The chapel at the funeral home holds 300, and it was packed with people standing and the lobby was full. We sang “It Is Well”, which Terry said many times was what he wanted sung at his funeral. Of course, we expected him to be 80, not 51. Imagine 300 people singing that…in parts. It was breathtaking, and for the first time EVER I was able to sing along without choking or crying. The service truly was a joyful celebration of both his life and his entrance into the Kingdom of Heaven.
But now, the nitty gritty of it all begins. The seeds of The New Normal (as my widowed friend calls it) are planted. Just this morning I realized that he won’t be here to eat tacos with on Sunday nights when #4 is at Youth Group. We would drop #4 off at the church then go to El Sombrero for their Sunday night $1 each tacos. He would call me a cheap date and I would say “no, I’m low maintenance” and he’d snort and say “not really but that’s ok, I like you anyway.”
Who am I going to eat sushi with on Friday nights when I don’t feel like cooking or the beans burned? I’m going to have to remember to take the trash to the dump now.
What am I going to do with his ginormous Man-Truck? He was so proud of that truck, it made him feel like he had Arrived. When he was looking to buy a new truck, we went to the Toyota dealership and were looking around. He saw a Tacoma and had decided he’d get that even though he was looking kind of wistful about the big 4-door contractor’s Tundra. I suggested he give it a test drive, he demurred, I told him to test drive it and so he did and that was that. He loved it, and it suited him. Big and white, just like him. For now I am going to keep it, parked off to the side, but I am too scared right now to get in it. It will smell like him, the seat is set for his long legs, the mirrors…now I am regretting my tidiness about the cell phone….all his messages are deleted. I don’t have a recording of his voice. That hurts.
The sensation of being hollow is kind of intense. It’s not really sorrow yet, unless this is what sorrow feels like. It’s more like a piece of gauze has been draped over this life, these children (who are grown men but whatever). Food tastes bland, sounds are muffled by the ringing in my ears. I set out to start a task and just stop, and sit down, not caring if it’s finished or not.
I have good friends and family. They have carried us through this, from one of them gathering up my laundry and washing it all, another cleaning the house and changing the sheets, and all that food at the hospital. They sat with us, held our hands and comforted us and there always were several people praying for us. Even in the middle of the night there were people with us, making sure we were never alone in despair. Men have come alongside #4, 2 of them lost their fathers at his age and will be with him as he needs. This is a comfort beyond words. I cannot imagine having to go through it all alone.