A couple of months before Trey died, I bought new toilet seats for all three bathrooms in our house.  I placed a box containing a new seat in each of the bathrooms, where we were sure to trip on them and fight with them every time we opened the bathroom doors.

I asked my husband to take care of changing them out.  Weeks went by with no action on the matter and company was coming, so I proceeded to change out the seat in the guest bath.  I’m no helpless female — I can change a toilet seat, after all.

“Did you change the toilet seats?”

“Just the one.”

“Babe, I’m supposed to do that.  I’ll do the others.  You don’t have to fuck around with changing out toilet seats.  Don’t change the other two, all right?  Let me.”

Another couple of weeks passed with plenty of stubbed toes and curses from the well-placed boxes.  No action on the matter was taken.

Then he died.  Without ever changing out the toilet seats.

After Trey’s death, I continued to leave those two toilet seats in their boxes, instrusively located on the bathroom floors.  Company came, and more company, and family and friends came for the funeral, stayed in my home and used the bathrooms.  Still the boxes with the new seats remained sealed, stubbing toes and eliciting curses.

He had told me to wait for him.  He told me he would do it.  I was still waiting for him.  I was waiting.  To let him do it.  Like he said.

This week, it became too much of a pain in the butt.  Literally.  The seat in the master bath was cracked, and it pinched my butt cheek every time I used it.  So I changed out the seats.  Now we have new seats on the toilets.

The world didn’t end.  I didn’t even cry.

It’s just one of many items on his honey-do list that I will now be handling.

It has been over a month, and everyone has moved on with their lives. All the family, well-wishers, and friends shed their misery, returning to their regular routines. They were only so much noise anyway, drowning out the echoes without filling the void.

I showed every indication of possessing the strength to handle his death. Until this week’s slide. As it turns out, I am not doing well at all. My insides are grinding to a halt. I am lost and lonely and see little reason to move. I’m not fine, thank you for asking. (If you do ask, please note I will tell you that I am doing as well as can be expected, I have plenty of support and am making it through this. My struggle is none of your goddam business, and I don’t want to hear your greeting-card words of support.)

Every morning the idea of getting out of bed is more ludicrous than it was the day before. Each night I spend less time sleeping. Each day I spend more time crying. More and more often I accept gravity’s invitation to lie on the floor staring at nothing. Thinking of nothing. Being nothing.

Mommy instincts keep me moving forward, keep me going to work, keep me showering at least once every three days whether I need it or not. I cry at work now. I stare at the screen. I’m behind, and I just don’t give a fuck. If there were no kids, I would be on the floor in my favorite knee socks and a blanket. Am I supposed to care that someone’s office will be painted two days late?

Little League, school meetings, homework, dinners – I force all the trappings of normal family life while stealing moments to hide away and be nothing. I wear my person mask for the coworkers, the parents, and the kids. Washing dishes, folding laundry I can wear the bright red snot nosed face of the hopelessly distraught and enraged. In my room, however, in my room and after the kids go to bed – there I can be catatonic zombie. That’s my favorite. That’s where I want to live.