|Trying to Get Home (M.A. Reilly, 2012)|
For the last few months there have been so many wonderful friends and family, Hospice caregivers, and others in and out of our home and I have had so much to do for Rob while he was here or when he was hospitalized that now with such empty time before I feel adrift, unmoored, unanchored. My true north, my Rob is gone.
Now, others tell me it is time to begin to grieve. And I guess I am. But unless you have lost your husband I don't think anyone can quite grasp how devastating this is, how I naturally slip into anticipation. I know he has died, but I still turn to the front door, expecting Rob to come through it. I look at my phone expecting to see a text message or receive a phone call. I notice his briefcase by the couch and expect him to ask for it. I made a meal last night and suddenly recalled that it was the same meal I made on December 28 for Rob and Devon. Then it was our 25th wedding anniversary.
What I know these days is something so small and slim, you might write it on a slip of paper and fit it into your back pocket. When I cry, scream, and sob--when I talk to photographs of Rob, or kiss one photograph of him--I feel better. That's it. I notice that when I don't try to stall the tears for fear that I will disturb others, the crying comes to a natural end and I find myself on the other side of a very dark and terrifying tunnel and my stomach calms for the moment.