What Could Have Been Any Different?

What could have been any different? Or any better? What more could Sharon have done? She hung in there so long. I can’t imagine her gearing up for any more rounds of illness and recovery. She just didn’t have the last fight in her. I wasn’t ready for her to quit, maybe she was.

I could hear her breaths getting shallower and fainter. I just wanted to comfort her, but didn’t feel it was working. I put on the music to soothe her. I lay next to her and held her hand. I said all the words I knew to give her faith in her soul’s existence. I didn’t buy any of what I was saying, so I doubt she did either.

OH GOD. All I have now are memories. And all they do is make me cry. I’m hurting my eye with tears, and my whole body just gets weaker because I can’t find the will to do much of anything. I can’t give up yet, I have to try to keep doing things. Telling myself the things I’m doing are worthwhile, necessary. If I could just sleep. And sleep and sleep and sleep. I wouldn’t mind living, but it involves so much pain.

I’m not in massive physical pain, just the nagging little kind that tells you you’re old and will most likely not get any better. You’ll just learn to live at this level until you drop down to the next one. Somewhere along the way, spiritual understanding is supposed to kick in. The gratitude for all things that are still “OK.” Or a shift in perspective would take place, that all is OK, despite appearances. This hasn’t happened yet.

I’m still the same old entitled, self-centered ego guy that used to be quite a bit better off and didn’t realize it. Now I realize how good I had it. So many things I took for granted, now ripped away from me. My whole center is gone. Though I despised my role and felt that I was forced into it, now all I can do is cry about this little thing or that little thing that she would have said, or did or thought. About this or that or anything and everything. She gave me a focus, and even if it was something I felt I’d be better without, it was my identity.

Now how am I supposed to live? I am freer than I have ever been in my life. To do whatever, whenever. And I just wish I could crawl back to a month and a half ago and have a few more minutes of that, please. OH GOD.

Just get through another evening. Another meal and TV show. Another toothbrushing and tea. Whatever little things I do, filling up the empty slots until I can sleep. Maybe I’ll sleep a few hours, maybe. Maybe tomorrow will be a little better, maybe. Maybe not. I’d have to bet the second, given entropy’s track record.

I planted some stuff in the garden today. I’ve been tilling the soil and making flower beds and some areas for vegetables. Some of the sunflowers I planted last week have sprouted. I am doing this for her. She saw that I was enjoying watering flowers last spring and she bought some seeds. And a couple of urns for planters. And a gazing ball and a Buddha statue. She was always wanting to buy me whatever she thought I’d like. So now I just have more things to remind me of her. I hope the flowers do well. I’ll do my best to take care of them.

I Can't Believe You Are Gone

I just can’t believe you are gone. But you were gone before you finally let go and left me for where I do not know. Outside, the birds are “going to town,” as you once said. Then I had immediately burst into inappropriate tears. You were still here. You asked me what was wrong. I said it just made me so sad that it was such a beautiful day, and you couldn’t go outside and enjoy it. That made you cry, too. I was good at that.

You were content to just hear those birds chirping away. I had to go and make you think about the flowers you couldn’t see, the green grass and trees and horses and barns and cows that were part of a world you were missing out on. Those things were outside, and you were locked in that room, in that body, wasting away. I wish I knew how to carry on, but I was barely living then.

I thought, selfishly, that we’d both be better off if you were dead. Then I could pick up the pieces and finally do what I wanted. But I don’t feel like doing anything.

It’s Saturday, and you would be watching golf on TV. I never could have imagined anything more boring than that. But now, I just want to sit there and watch golf, and I wish you were here to watch it, too. But you’re not.

Maybe you are in a better place. I just still see your cold, empty face as my last memory. You were alive right up until that moment you slipped away forever. I didn’t even know how alive you still were, just watching golf. Struggling to eat, losing your ability to swallow, drink water or even breathe. You were conscious, and you were here. And now you’re not.

I’m left with a giant emptiness that I can’t fill with anything. Nothing is fun. I just want my shitty life back, as much as I hated it, now I would find a way to cherish it.

I know it can’t be that way. You are truly gone. And I’m all alone with the cats and dogs and my wretched heart. Nowhere to go, nothing to do. No one telling me what a fool I’m being. I can’t stand it.

I should have been more present for you when you were here. I was here, but I was like a kid who just wants to go out and play, not stay inside with his grandma. I acted up and said mean things. I should have realized that one day I would miss every single thing about you, even the stuff I got mad at. Because now I’ll never have the chance to do it over. To make everything better.

You accepted your fate so graciously. You were unafraid and didn’t ever ask the big questions. Why! Why me?

You told me off numerous times, drove me half crazy, but that was early on. When sickness really took hold of you, it seems, the worse you got physically, the more you were able to let things go that would have bothered you. Should have bothered you. I matured at a snail’s pace compared to you.

I still have a lot left to do, I guess, but I feel like I can’t go forward. Like there’s nowhere I want to go, really.

I feel the pull of responsibility. I should do this or that. So I mow the lawn. And I’m cleaning up the house (at an incredibly slow pace). And I haven’t started drinking or burying myself in drugs. Yet.

I still remember you saying to me, “Let’s smoke a bunch of weed and get really high, listen to music and just laugh.” And I said, “Oh, honey, I miss those days, too.”  And you cried.

Now, I cry every time I think about anything that you liked or wanted to do or thought or said or bought or asked for. I feel sad every time I walk in that room and see the spot where you lay for so long.

I gotta hope you are in a better place. I just honestly don’t know. And if you could only let me know, maybe I would find a way to be at peace. Until then, sadness. Until then, just trying to get through each day. Make small improvements, avoid setbacks.

I just want to watch golf today. And maybe get really high. I want to laugh. I really want to laugh, but for now, crying is all I can seem to do.