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.