Nights are the worst, and they’ve only just begun. Going into the bedroom, which I have successfully avoided all day, feels like a sucker punch. I gasp for air, unable to breathe, as this unreal pain washes over like a tsunami. There truly is nothing like it, uncontrolled sense of loss and feeling like you have been ripped in half…which is what happened.
I had to get out of there, made excuses to go downstairs a couple of times. That old adage of “get back up on that horse and ride it” doesn’t apply yet. You wouldn’t tell a cowboy who’s just been stomped into a pulp to do that, you would wait until he healed, right?
I will, eventually, go back in there. However, having been stomped to a pulp and unable to breathe, that will have to wait. I thought I could do it, I am doing so well, it seems. I can laugh and talk about him and see friends and make them laugh…during the day.
But then night comes. It gets dark and these are the times we spent together. We talked, and dreamed,and planned for a future with grandkids and travel and getting old and having wheelchair races at the nursing home. We talked about what we would look like without our dentures and would I ever remember to keep ice cream (probably not). He was going to fix all those little things eventually and I was going to remember not to put mint in his iced tea.
that won’t happen anymore, and the hole is huge. It’s, frankly, terrifying. I never planned for this. Oh, I know…God and Jesus and all that and yes, I know They are with me but they are not the warm legs to press my cold feet against or the Grandpops who builds doll houses and go-karts.
so, for now, that door is staying closed. #4 suggested I sleep in the guest room for a while. I think I will, because that bedroom I shared for 28 years is…cold and empty and the loneliest place on earth right now.
Writing it down helps, some. It’s as if putting it into these words allows it all to be set aside, or shelved. It isn’t gone, it’s just…put aside, out of my head a bit instead of swirling around. Writing allows it to congeal into something I can hold on to, evaluate, and manage.
Now I can breathe. I still can’t go in there, but now I can breathe, and hopefully sleep.