SPOILER ALERT ... lots of sad, perhaps a little whining, and a bit of self-therapy!
I'm done ... I'm so done ... Seriously, I'm just done!
My sweet April has told me that more than once ... I've said it more than once or twice or three times. And we both know that we aren't ... but in that very moment, oh yes, we are so done. I sometimes, no frequently, wonder if I'm going to have "normal" again, days when I will spend more time joy filled, laughing, home by 4, quilting, cooking and even cleaning my own darn house.
Today as I left the house at lunch time, I was overcome with sadness, I sat in the driveway, in my car, tears streaming down my face ... looking at the door, all I could think is, "He is never coming home, never again." How does that happen? 9 months and 12 days later, how does it overcome me like water rushing out of the shower, covering me, entirely. And I sat and asked, "Why?" Why today, why out of the blue, nothing special, I was just heading back to work at 1:15. And there it was, the blunt reality ... my Doug is never coming home again, not at noon, not at 3:30 ... never ever. And I was so sad.
Today I went to the nursing home around 5 p.m. to see my sweet daddy. He slips away a little bit more each day. I treasure every single moment with him. Tonight I was helping with his supper and we had a sweet, quiet visit. As I kissed his forehead, like I do every night, I told him I loved him, he said he loved me too, and then very quietly he said thank you. So I picked up my coat, and he started his prayers. I said prayers with him, the very prayers he taught each of us kids as little people. And the tears ran down my face ... those poor nurses and cna's each night, as I walk out, tears running, they are very compassionate and kind people.
Each night when I leave there, I wonder if it's the last night I get to tell him good night. I get cranky sometimes, and tired, getting home late ... but tonight as I drove home, overcome with sadness, crying my eyes out, thinking about stopping at a friends house, just for a hug, for human touch, I finally realized a tiny part of it. Not only am I watching my sweet dad get weaker and weaker, and worrying that each time I say good bye it's the last ... but it's the "good-bye, I love you" that Doug and I never got to share. He was snatched away in the blink of an eye ... and I wasn't prepared.
Now ... let me tell you, no matter how prepared one thinks they are ... we aren't. My dad told me this morning he didn't think he wanted to have 16 more birthdays, I said, "That's OK, you don't have to have 16 more, how about you go when you are ready, it will be OK." He got quiet for a second, then he slowly said, "I think I could probably do a couple more." And I wanted to tell him, "I don't think I can do two more years of this roller coaster, if you are going to go .... GO; but if you are going to stay a while ... please please STAY."
I sat at Bible study last night, "Making Sense of the Cross." It's a small, intimate group, and we talked about the 4 gospel stories of The Passion. Comparing and contrasting. I told the group that for the longest time I identified with the words, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." But this year, this Lenten season, the words I hear are these, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" ... heartfelt words ... words of suffering and fear, words of sadness and anger ... and I'm not talking about Jesus' emotions, but my own.
I miss my Daddy, my Poppy ... and he's not gone yet.
I miss my love, my sweetie, my Doug, and he is really and truly gone. His spirit is here ... I hear it in the shrill call of the Cardinal that lives in my yard. I see it in the kindness of my sweet Nolan, I watch it in the unconditional love of my son for his wife, I hear it in the laughter of my beautiful daughter ... and I think My Doug, my love, would be so proud of each of us as we go through this journey without him. He would find joy in my strength, he would find pride in the accomplishments of his kids, he would find peace in the way we have strengthened as a family, holding each other through this; he would find delight in the friends who have done so much ... If he were here right now, this very moment, he would be sitting in his recliner, with his left leg bent under his right, and he'd shake his head and say, "I don't understand why so many people are helping." And I'd laugh, and I'd be snarky and tell him, "Well, why do you think, it's not like you are kind or nice or anything." And we'd laugh.
I miss his laugh!
Until soon,
Vic
P. S. I did give you the spoiler alert, and I'd like to thank you ... somehow it's so helpful to write this, and know that someone is reading it. It's my form of therapy. Not sure how or why it works, but it does. Thank you :)
