Six Months a Widow
Six months ago at 6:58 Mark called an ambulance because he was having a heart attack. In two minutes, he got up, let out the dog, opened the front door, collapsed by the couch, and died. There isn't a day that passes that I don't think of that.
For months, I was finding bits of forgotten medical debris. My coffee table has a permanent stain from spilled gel (I think it was gel) the EMTs used to affix electrodes to him. These are surmises on my part since I wasn't here.
My goal was to survive to today, six months. The promise was to beat the odds and I have. True, I have started a couple of kitchen fires. I drive more assertively than I should. I don't eat as well as I could. But I have remained healthy and kept breathing and that's what you do.
I function well enough. I described it recently to jaylake in this way. Once, my life was contained in a gallon jar. In that jar fit comfortablly all the things of life: love, work, friends, bills, cleaning, socialness, writing, hobbies, pets. The wide variety of things that we do during our weeks and months all sloshed about with ease. I was happy. Now I have a quart container. Yet some of the things that have to fit in there haven't changed. Work is still work. A certain amount of cleaning and bill paying must get done. The dog needs care. In the little space that's left I can only fit a few things. Maybe on one day I stuff in writing. On another, maybe it's friends. But I can'f fit everything anymore. I can survive on a quart. Six months is proof.
But I remember what it was to have a gallon and sometimes I despair.
I am fortunate in my friends. Both those who understand what I need, and those who don't but are willing to wait. Because I am fragile and find pressue of any sort impossible to handle. (No room in the jar!)
My understanding, from what I've been told and what I've read is that it gets better. Indeed, I'm living proof. While I still have terrible moments (and why always in the laundry room? What is it about laundry rooms?) they are not as intense or as long.
And I get out. I go places. I call people. I write. I read. I knit. And time passes as I keep breathing.
The future holds some scary dates: holidays, birthdays, the first anniversary. I go toward them with a certain amount of dread. But also knowing that really, all I need to do, all that is truly required, is that I keep breathing. That I can do. Because I know for certain that Mark believed in the future, and wanted me to face it bravely. And, if he had his way, with a certain amount of silliness.
For months, I was finding bits of forgotten medical debris. My coffee table has a permanent stain from spilled gel (I think it was gel) the EMTs used to affix electrodes to him. These are surmises on my part since I wasn't here.
My goal was to survive to today, six months. The promise was to beat the odds and I have. True, I have started a couple of kitchen fires. I drive more assertively than I should. I don't eat as well as I could. But I have remained healthy and kept breathing and that's what you do.
I function well enough. I described it recently to jaylake in this way. Once, my life was contained in a gallon jar. In that jar fit comfortablly all the things of life: love, work, friends, bills, cleaning, socialness, writing, hobbies, pets. The wide variety of things that we do during our weeks and months all sloshed about with ease. I was happy. Now I have a quart container. Yet some of the things that have to fit in there haven't changed. Work is still work. A certain amount of cleaning and bill paying must get done. The dog needs care. In the little space that's left I can only fit a few things. Maybe on one day I stuff in writing. On another, maybe it's friends. But I can'f fit everything anymore. I can survive on a quart. Six months is proof.
But I remember what it was to have a gallon and sometimes I despair.
I am fortunate in my friends. Both those who understand what I need, and those who don't but are willing to wait. Because I am fragile and find pressue of any sort impossible to handle. (No room in the jar!)
My understanding, from what I've been told and what I've read is that it gets better. Indeed, I'm living proof. While I still have terrible moments (and why always in the laundry room? What is it about laundry rooms?) they are not as intense or as long.
And I get out. I go places. I call people. I write. I read. I knit. And time passes as I keep breathing.
The future holds some scary dates: holidays, birthdays, the first anniversary. I go toward them with a certain amount of dread. But also knowing that really, all I need to do, all that is truly required, is that I keep breathing. That I can do. Because I know for certain that Mark believed in the future, and wanted me to face it bravely. And, if he had his way, with a certain amount of silliness.