AKA "The Writing Woman"
My life has become a movie: Groundhog Day. Every morning I wake up and realize you’re gone all over again. I drive in my car on the way home from work, looking forward to seeing you when I get there – oh wait, Rick is dead. I knew, but I forgot. I walk into my…
Since May, Rick wasn’t himself. The radiation caused pneumonitis in the same lung as the tumors it had killed. We enjoyed our wonderful Florida vacation beginning the second week of April, but the final week, he began experiencing pain in his lung. It became more difficult for him to walk up the slight slope of…
Life is easier now. Since the cancer diagnosis last fall, it’s been continuous stress: monitoring, doctor visits, pills, x-rays, tests, scans, chemo, radiation, shots, canes, then walkers. Reading about cancer, and pneumonitis, and blood cells, and medical studies, and alternative treatments. Trying to get you to eat, trying to help you dress and shower, trying…
I hear a lawn mower running outside. It’s a beautiful (too early) fall day. You would love this. You would love the smell of autumn, and the sounds of the mower outside the window. You would want to take a nap with the window open, curled like a burrito in your old stinky blanket. You…
It’s work at home Friday again. I can imagine you in your office, doing whatever chore is required today to keep the business going. I can hear you asking me, “Is there anything I can do to help?” when I complain that there are too many deadlines and I can’t keep up. I can’t go…
You did everything you were supposed to do. I asked if you were angry. You said, what can I do? All I can do is what they tell me now. And you did. Four rounds of chemo Pills for nausea 30+ lung radiation treatments 10 brain radiation treatments Numerous numerous numerous blood tests 3 blood…
Officially dead. One by one, form by form, I remove your name from our accounts and you begin to disappear from this world. No longer joint owner on our bank accounts, credit cards, mortgage, pension. No longer listed as beneficiary on anything of mine. Removing your name from each feels like a dagger through my…
I was driving home in a thunderstorm and this song came on the radio. This is why I can’t listen to music for awhile. “This Is What It Feels Like” (Armin van Buuren feat. Trevor Guthrie) Nobody here knocking at my door The sound of silence I can’t take anymore Nobody ringing my telephone now Oh…
Thank you. For going to work every day so I can have choices now. Your 32 years of hard work has provided me with stability in retirement. I remember how hard you worked the last five years before you retired: starting over, working your ass off loading planes, relearning airport codes, and testing to regain…
You’re supposed to hold me when I’m grieving. For more than twenty years, your huge warm comforting embrace has been my strength through sadness and despair. How can I live through losing you? You were my bulwark. Your giant strong hands held mine through every loss I suffered, every sadness, every disappointment. Whose hands will…