Six Month Whatever-Versary

Today is the six month anniversary of Trey’s death.  Except it’s not an anniversary, because Anni- means Year.  It drives me crazy when people talk about a one month or a two week anniversary.  Is there a word for a month-versary?  Honestly, I’m not in the mood to learn vocabulary today so I’m not going to look it up.

Six months ago today I left work, drove to my parents’ house to pick up the kids, arrived home and found my husband dead in the living room.

Six months ago today my life fractured.

I can still see the future we were going to have.  I can still see us attending our kids’ graduation.  I see us arguing over what Junior High they should attend.  I see us at the third grade neon glow party.  I see us watching the upcoming Justice League movie together.  I can see it clearly in my mind.

It doesn’t matter how hard I look, however, I cannot make it real.  That future is lost.

What did I do today?

Well, I went ahead and dropped the kids off with my folks like I usually do on Tuesdays.  A client wanted to talk to me, and I was anticipating needing the time to work.  I snuggled with them for too long and had to fight the urge to throw a conniption fit when they dawdled getting dressed.  I let K wear his clothes from yesterday.  I just couldn’t fight about it.

In other words, it was like every other Tuesday.

I dropped the kids off and rushed to my counseling appointment, for which I was 20 minutes late.

It was just a coincidence that I had an appointment today.  But it was a happy coincidence.  I only recently started seeing someone.  I believe this was our third appointment.  I still feel like I’m not sure how it helps to just talk to someone, but it does help so I’m doing it.  I enjoy our sessions.

I felt . . . normal.  I’ve felt normal for a while now.  I get sad and I get lonely.  I am sometimes shocked when the reality hits that this is permanent.  Overall, however, I go about my daily routine and function as a human.

I am not a fan of the phrase “the new normal,” but I suppose it applies.

Today was no different.  I felt normal, but that in itself felt odd.

I arrived home after my appointment to find a card in my mailbox.  A real card, with a handwritten note.  My best friend from high school, my maid of honor, knew this was coming up and she sent me a beautiful and supportive card.  It was exactly what I needed, at exactly the right time.  I sat on my kitchen floor and wept.

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I don’t remember when I last cried about Trey.  It feels like forever ago, but so does his death.  It feels like forever ago and it also feels like it happened last week.  Grief time is weird.  If I had to guess, I’d say it’s been two or three weeks since I really cried.  I needed it.

Then I realized I could not find my wallet and the next couple of hours were consumed with finding it.  And with cleaning that gross sticky spot that I had not known was under my sofa until I accidentally stuck my hair in it while looking for my wallet.

I found my wallet and headed to the grocery store to buy supplies for our celebration of Trey’s life.

Kit Kats, M&Ms, Tootsie Rolls, Tootsie Pops, Hershey’s Kisses.

Yesterday I told the kids that today would be six months.  K, who speaks like a small adult, said, “It doesn’t feel like that long.  It feels almost like it was yesterday.”

I asked what they wanted to do to mark the day.  We discussed going to the beach where we scattered his ashes, but that is a full day trip and none of us were up for it.  None of us felt like making a big deal out of it.  It’s already a big deal without us adding to the drama.

The kids’ idea?  Buy a “mother lode” of candy.

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A Mother Lode of Candy

Trey had quite the sweet tooth.  I have always claimed to not have that much of a sweet tooth, but the truth is I drink my sweet in the form of sodas and in the form of coffee drinks that are essentially liquid cake.  In any case, a couple of months ago it was brought to my attention that with Trey gone our house is devoid of candy.  I did not intentionally cut candy out of our home.  When I make a grocery list, I just don’t think about adding candy to it.  Trey always did, though.  “Pick up some Kit-Kats” he would say.  Or, if he went to the store unsupervised, he’d come home with half a cart full of candy.  So it makes sense to commemorate him with candy — although I suspect it was a bit of a ploy on the part of my kiddos.

No matter the true motivation, I obliged.  Today I hit the store and filled a basket with candy.  I also bought some flowers for the dining table, some tater tots for tomorrow’s casserole, and marshmallows because I have a huge box of rice krispies burning a hole in my pocket.

And I wept.

I cried in the car the whole way there.

Car crying was my favorite form of self expression in the first couple of months.  I haven’t done that in a while.  I sobbed the whole way to the store, sniffled my way through the aisles and hitched my breath during checkout.  I’m sure I looked like some sort of sad housewife cliche.  Here I am, an overweight white woman in sweat shorts and T-shirt, sticky stuff in my hair, purchasing candy and tater tots and flowers and Moscato.  (I also bought a bottle of Moscato, of which I am currently partaking, as my own private six month tribute.)

I came home and proceeded to set up my new phone.

My phone broke a while back and my new one came in today.  That feels particularly harsh of the universe.  Trey worked in cellular/telecom since 2001.  He handled all of this.  I have never ever had to set up my own phone.  It was more complicated than I expected.  I had nobody to ask and nobody to help.  Just me and a phone that somehow uses a different charger than every other device in my home and nobody to complain to about that.  It was unreasonably heart breaking to handle this myself, but I did it.  I got my new phone set up.

Then it was time to pick up the kids, and get back to the regular routine.  I cooked dinner while they played tablets.  They ate candy.  We had dinner, watched 2 cartoons, brushed teeth, read a story and they went to bed.  Now here I am, spilling my guts to the ether.

That is what happens in my life when I reach the six month anniversary of the day I stopped being a wife and became a widow.

Literally Dreaming of His Return

This is the second time I’ve dreamed that Trey returned.

This is not a dream where he simply still lives.  I have those every so often, but they are comforting rather than unsettling.

In this dream, the full reality of my life exists.  He died, we had a funeral, I have been sorting through our stuff and painting our house in some sort of weird ‘nesting’ reaction to grief.

And then he walks in the door.  As if nothing happened.

The last time I dreamed this, it was a month or so after his death.  At that time, I had gotten rid of his underwear and some of his work clothes and papers.  I dreamed he came down the stairs and I was crying with relief, “I was sure you were dead!  What was all of that?”  To which he responded, “Where are my clean underwear?”

This sounds hilarious, but in the dream it was distressing because I was afraid that he would feel like I was tossing out his stuff too soon after his death.  Like, “Good Riddance to You!  I’m moving on!”  He was confused about why I would have thought he was dead, and I explained about finding him in the living room and the whole experience.

This time, the dream crushed me.  In the dream, just like in real life, it was coming up on six months and he waltzes in the door like it is all normal.  I freak smooth out.  I’m crying and screaming, and he is calm and amused.  I start yelling, “This isn’t okay!  You died!  I held your cold hand!  We all did CPR!  The medical examiner came!  You can NOT come back and act like this is normal!”

I asked him where he had been, and how he could explain all of this.  He told me just to trust him, that he was back, and that I didn’t need to know where he’d been.  He looks around and sees the closet and the cabinets, and remarks on how they’d been cleaned out.  He is again confused that so much of his stuff is missing.  By now I have very few of his clothes left, and sold his speakers.  I explain that he was dead.  We’d scattered his ashes.

In the dream, I was afraid he would find out I’d gotten rid of a box full of his hats. He had an issue with hats.  I believe this is a common trait among men.  I must have three boxes full of his hats.

In the dream I was afraid and confused and angry.  I was so angry at him for acting like everything was normal when I had been through so much.Picture 055

The Little Things That Kill

You think you will be destroyed by the enormity of the situation.
By the knowledge that he will never see his kids graduate or marry.
That he will never be a grandfather.
That you will not grow old together.

This, however, you can survive.

It is the little things that crush you.
The little things rob you of your breath and sting your eyes.

Requesting a table for three.

Sorting laundry without his clothes.

The stockpile of hot sauce that only he liked.

Feeding his cat.

The unused passenger seat in the car.

Getting rid of things we kept out of habit.

Keeping that hideous Scarface poster he loved.

Moving the lamp to my side of the bed.

Helping the kids with their math.

Baking cookies using his recipe.

The empty half of the dining table.

Taking the kids on their first plane ride with my dad instead of with theirs.

Leaving his token in the box when we play board games.

Putting away the Cards Against Humanity we used to play in the evenings.

Watching our favorite shows in silence, alone.

Coming home from the store.

Fourth of July fireworks.

Watching previews for movies we were going to see together, movies that still have not come out because it was so recently that we were sitting together planning our summer.
It’s the daily details that get you, not the grand plans.
We miss you.

The Monkey’s Paw

Well, I have pretty much everything I’ve been wanting for the past couple of years, and all I had to do was lose my husband.

I swear I didn’t wish on a monkey’s paw to be able to be a stay at home mom again.  I didn’t encounter any shady genie types and request to be able to work from home.  I never bargained with a leprechaun to allow me to quit the job I hated and end the commute I hated even more.

Here I am.

We moved here two years ago, when the kids were five and starting kindergarten.  I thought I was supposed to go back to the typical work force once the kids were in school so I got a job and we moved.  I spent the next two years filled with regret, often crying and battling depression.  I loved being a stay at home mom, and could never adjust to working full time with all that entails.  Sometimes he would comfort me, reminding me of all the reasons we moved to a place where we could no longer be a single income household.  Other times, he was exasperated with me, pointing out that I was crying because I had to have a job like most people do.

I wanted to be more involved with my kids’ lives.

But not like this.

Because of a combination of life insurance, etc. and the lessening of household expenses with one less person, I was able to quit my job.  I re-opened my home business and am working for myself.  I drive my kids to school every day.  I help them with their homework.  We eat supper together.  I volunteer at their school and attend daytime events with them.  I bring them to playdates at the park.

All of these were things I missed, about which I regularly cried and moped.

Now I have this all back, but I have nobody to share it with.

I am so lonely.

He is gone.

Most days, it’s strange — it feels normal.  Even though every detail of my life has changed, something about the rhythm is the same.  Wake, pack backpacks, work, get kids, dinner, dishes.  I am in a routine and it feels simply like he is not here.

For much of our marriage, we worked dissimilar schedules.  He worked evenings and weekends, while I worked a standard 9-5.  It has only been the past couple of years that we have had the same hours off together.  It therefore does not always feel odd to not have him around.

Then the anvil drops on my head.  He is not coming back.  I’m not going to tell him about the awesome thing his son said to the neighbor.  He is not going to scold me for dyeing shirts in the kitchen sink.  He will not listen to the new audiobook released by our favorite author, nor will he see any of the movies currently in theaters.

I will never hear his laugh.

I will never drink a beer with him on a hot afternoon.

I will never tell him again that our dog stands up just like Rory Calhoun.

But everything else in my life is falling into place, and the guilt is extreme.  Like somehow that horrible thing happened so these good things could happen.  It’s not a fiar trade though.  It’s not and I can’t handle this.  I can’t handle going to help at the kids’ school knowing that I can only do it because he is dead.  I can’t deal with parking my car in the garage because now there is room for it.  I can’t face my clients knowing that I would still be in my toxic job if he were still alive.

I can’t enjoy these things.  I won’t enjoy them.  Maybe if I reject all of this, somehow the universe will realize its error and reverse this.

I know that doesn’t make sense.  I know it in my head, but my heart can’t bear the weight of happiness or even of contentedness.