Time to Cocoon

 Wrote a long FaceBook post (I rarely get personal on FB but today was the day).  It's easier to copy it than to retype it.

I don't often wear my heart on my sleeve on FB, or write really long posts. But today is the day.

This post goes out to Los Tenorio, Beth Roach, Maria Steurer, and all those on the bereavement path.

My year is winding down to its end. In my own personal calendar, the end of the year is March 30, the day I lost Bob.

On March 28, 2020, he raised himself up in bed and yelled "It's over. Let it be over."

We stopped his treatments. On the 29th we said goodbye, and they started the morphine drip that would finally end his pain, and keep him unconscious.

On the morning of March 30, we died. Because when he stopped breathing, after 48 years of being "we" I was suddenly just "I."

This year it's particularly difficult, because it's hard for me to comprehend that it's now been five years. For some reason, the number 5 seems significant.

5 minutes. I vaguely remember being pulled off of him and into the bathroom, where they splashed water on my face and firmly told me to stop screaming.

5 hours. Jeff Horton and Rob Barrett were infinitely kind and came to bring me home. After three months away, I was shocked to remember the beauty of my land and home, and the joy of seeing my cats.

5 days. After three months of living in the goldfish bowl of Bob's hospital room, with nurses in and out 24/7, and always buzzers and beepers and alarms going off, I am alone in the enveloping silence. Here, I can lie on the floor and scream, with no one to stop me.

5 weeks. Learning to navigate this strange new Covid world; Bob died, and everything changed. So much closed. Everyone staying 6 feet away. Furtively going to the grocery store, masked, self conscious about buying food for one.

5 months. Outwardly, I'm functioning. Inward - I'm still in a fog. I somehow feel that if I just hang in there, and go through the motions, things will be all right. But if the phone rings, I think for a moment that it might be him. Cooking dinner, I'll look out the window and wonder what's keeping him. Sometimes I look around, forgetting that he won't be there. I'll want to tell him something, but then remember that I can't.

And now somehow it's been 5 years. There hasn't been a day that I haven't missed him, or a night that I haven't reached a hand over to his side of the bed. One thing that I used to say to him quite often, laughing, was "Please take care of yourself; life wouldn't be nearly as much fun without you." Nailed that.

The best analogy I've found for grief is that it's like a heavy backpack. At first, the weight of it takes you to your knees. Eventually you're strong enough to carry it - but it's always there. Add to that "pulling your big girl panties up" and "lifting yourself up by your own bootstraps" and you get a very silly visual image, but that's me.

It's exhausting, and I'm tired. My gift to myself each year is to take these last two days off. I cocoon; I don't go anywhere, see anyone, and try not to talk to anyone. I love on the cats, wander in the woods, and be OK with not being OK. Rest. Breathe.

Come the 31st, I'll shoulder the backpack, pull up the big girl pants, grab those bootstraps, and march into year 6.

As always, my love,

I love you

I miss you

And, above all

Thank you