#SOL16: I Forget Rob is Dying

I.

There are moments inside each day when I forget that Rob is dying.

I turn to tell him something. Or I'm reading the opening of a book, like H is for Hawk, and I wonder if Rob has read it yet. Or I'm preparing dinner and I turn to ask him if... My response at these moments is always the same: fast sick stomach riddled with surprise. Yes, surprise. The world beyond is held in suspension. For that moment I don't hear, smell, touch or see anything.  I just experience the bottom falling out of my stomach and the sick sick sickness that accompanies the shock.

My God, Rob is really dying. He is, really. Really dying.

As I begin to reenter my body, I notice each hand shakes.
And it is only by holding my own hands that the tremors calm.

II.

I've decided that there needs to be some rules about dying.

1. You are not allowed to be planning a holiday and five months later be planning your husband's funeral.
2. You are not allowed to celebrate your 25th wedding anniversary and two days later your spouse is transported to a hospital where he remains for the next 50 days, before returning home to die.
3. You are not allowed to leave a 17-year-old son to make his way on his own.
4. You are not allowed to leave the earth before all those conversations you most need to have can be uttered.
5. You are not allowed to die on your son's birthday, your father's birthday, or your brother-in-law's birthday, on February 29.
6. You are.
7. You are not.
8. You.