Getting on with it

I have been feeling pretty smug. Life was getting, if not easier, at least a little less painful. I had been actually accomplishing some grown-up things like talking to the mortgage company about helping me stay in my home–renegotiating the loan and all that entails. I actually had been sleeping through the night–midnight to 5 a.m. is through the night, right? I have made it in to work on time and stayed all day fully 3 weeks in a row–without losing it in the ladies room every hour or so. I was feeling pretty pleased that the worst was behind me. Uh-uh. This morning should have been overcast and miserable. My mood certainly was. Some bug in my ear made going out to Ft. Rosecrans an absolute imperative. I never go to ‘visit’ at cemeteries–well, never until today. The government said they would write to let me know when the plaque was put in place on his niche. It’s there; they didn’t. Some stranger asked, “Are the ashes really in the wall?” oh, yep, they’re there. There are really good friends living their lives not a mile from me. My kids are in town and they love and support me. I don’t drink too much or take drugs other than as prescribed and right this minute I feel so very alone that I may short out my keyboard with my tears. It’s Memorial Day. Lane always grills for Memorial Day. There are always people in the pool and beer on ice and lots of horsing around and happy grandgirls shrieking at each other. In short this is one of the happiest holidays in our year–historically anyway. Elizabeth Hospice has a Monday night support group. I hope it will meet tomorrow. God, I hurt. I am not feeling smug at all.

One More Month

The routing number on my checks is not in the same place as other people’s checks. I entered the numbers wrong…well, according to the cheatsheet on the website…and the bank did not honor the payment. When I picked up the mail this afternoon there was a letter notifying me of my mistake and adding a $25.00 gotcha to the bill.

In the past month, I have learned that the world is very tolerant of the holes in my brain. When I called the management company, the nice lady was happy to reverse the charge. She just couldn’t quite figure out how to put the account in my name rather than his. He is dead. He isn’t answering the mail.

It’s not like they don’t have a complete profile of the property, including that my name is on the title. Indeed, by now, mine is the only name on the title. Note to world: DO NOT argue with a new widow. The waves of emotion that have absolutely nothing to do with property management or HOAs crashed over me in wracking sobs. I don’t want to do anything, particularly anything extra or requiring thought. Don’t ask me to find the title and send it to you when it is on file somewhere in your archives.

The waves crashed over me and they also crashed over the nice lady who was just trying to do as little of her job as possible. She felt bad. She called IT and yes they had the information…no problem. The name is changed. Just quit crying please, please?

Twenty five dollars is not the end of the world. I just spent more than that on a ledger that will not work for my accounts and I owe the government an order of magnitude more money than that (unless I figured the taxes wrong). This grief thing hurts. It makes me act like a crazy lady. It makes me feel out of control and out of my mind and really lame.

I am supposed to be kind to myself. How do I be kind to myself when I don’t even know who I am? I have been his wife for so long. His wife, his friend, his partner, his…what am I going to be going forward? I know I have to go forward. Backward is not an option. Dead stop is, I suppose, but it doesn’t appeal.

It has been six weeks–a month and a half–a century–a lifetime–the blink of an eye. I cannot tell time with holes in my heart.

A Head Full of Swiss Cheese

There seem to be holes in my mind…Holes so large that entire trains of thought go roaring through without leaving so much as a synaptic trace. I know intellectually that my confusion comes from preoccupation, distraction, grief, and sleep deprivation. Emotionally I feel like there are holes in my brain and I am leaving a trail of unexpressed thought splattered across the Southwest.

Thank Heaven for books that tell you what normal is. I have never appreciated normalcy nearly so much. This is normal. This is okay. The books don’t get around to saying when it isn’t okay any more and when one has crossed the line between normal and truly wacked. I suppose that would be diagnosis more than self help. You have to have a license for diagnosis.

Just when I get used to sleeping more than two hours at a time, drugs or no, my head revolts and forces my eyes open. There are no orders for more drugs in the middle of the night. I read the descriptions on all my scripts–some are addiction risks–I don’t really want to take them as prescribed, much less play doctor with their timing and dosage. Addiction is one thing I know I can do without.

I wake in the night and reach for Lane. I listen for the more recent cadence of the pump that subtly and noisily changed the pressure in his matress pad. The slight and constant movement meant it was easier to keep him free of bed sores. It was a distracting helper and soothing in its constancy. I find myself looking for things that are soothing and things that are constant. Lane isn’t here–oh, I remember–heavy sigh, catch my breath, sniff back a sob, and go on to the next thought. What the Hell am I going to do?

Bread and butter is a constant soother. I would have expected cookies and milk but toast with butter melting in golden pools and rivulets seem to grease the constant grinding more effectively. I’d rather wallow in the butter than the pain. That is only partly true. I rather not wallow at all.

Tonight I went to see a silly movie with friends. Confessions of a Shopaholic is not going to win a thing at Cannes and Sundance would laugh it off the mountain. I have practiced retail therapy. I know that for a moment, in the moment between the wish and the purchase, there is a feeling of power and control. There are few other moments so certain these days. I try to keep my therapy to dollar stores and thrift boutiques. I don’t always succeed. Lane would have hated this chick flick. He would have teased me about the lack of action, pathos, and believability. I would love to have Lane tease me.

When I sat to write, I had a well defined thought about losing great hunks of memory, intention, and motivation between concept and commencement. I digressed, again. A shiny object caught my eye and, like the six-year-olds, I chased it down and, again, my attention lapsed.

I am becoming adept at writing lists and making pile of things I have to do. Some things have consequences attached to forgetfulness. Swiss cheese for brains only holds so long as an excuse. I wonder how long that is? When will “Get over it” replace “Poor dear?” The perfectionist/pragmatist in my head is already screaming for return to predictability. But I cannot predict when that might come.