It’s been three months now since my beloved’s death. Three months of tumbling into an abyss of darkness. Three months of switching accounts over to my name. Three months of packing up his clothing to give to charities. Three months of going through his papers and computer to gather information. Three months of tears, screams, rage, and exhaustion; of sleepless nights and early mornings (I get up at the hour of his passing still). Three months of loneliness.
The first month was the worst. I spent most of my time expecting him to call me at noon. I hoped he’d come into the room at home. I found the bed to be the emptiest place without him. I had meals alone. I couldn’t go out because everything I did reminded me of him. We did everything together. I listened for his voice. I longed to hear him singing. I looked at the dialysis machine and missed getting it set up. I’d look over to his chair from my desk and expect to see him napping there. I cried almost all the time. At work, they were silent tears. At home, I wailed out of my mind. While driving, I’d expect him to be there talking to me.
The second month got easier. I found that I moved into a numbness. I made it through the funeral and managed to give the eulogy. I continued working and started to try making myself more social, with little success. People still took on the tone of pity when they spoke to me. I tried to reassure everyone that they could just carry on as normal and not treat me like a glass precious thing. I still had the memories, still had the longing and the missing. It was tolerable, barely.
Now in the third month, I still greet my love when I get to work and see his picture. I still say goodnight to him as I lay down to sleep. My sleeping is as erratic as it has been when he first passed. I won’t sit in his chair. I won’t lay on his side of the bed. The house is littered with the scattered memories of my beloved. His coats hang on the door. A pair of jeans and tee-shirt hang on the wardrobe door. His towels still hang where they always have. My attempts at socializing and meeting people is disappointing, but I still carry on.
It seems to me that when people on these gay social apps find out that you’re widowed, that they either avoid you entirely, for fear of you breaking down, or think you’re somehow in a vulnerable state. In a sense I am, but I’m cautious. I’m taking my time to get to know people and not committing to anything at this time. I’m very slowly moving forward and picking up the pieces of my life. But my Michael will always be a part of me, although now a lost part. I feel like half a person. So getting involved with anyone, friends at this point, they’d still be getting only a small part of who I am. I’ve had a few try to take advantage of my situation already. If his death has done anything, it’s made me very protective of myself.
People are also afriad to broach the subject, although I can talk more about it now than I could at the beginning. I do stil cry often but that’s in the privacy of our home. And I still say “we” instead of “I” when I speak quite often. My voice no longer has that quaver of sorrow.
Widower is not a color which I wear very well. I don’t laugh with abandon as I did with Michael. I miss him every hour of every day and hold on to the memories of our wonderful life. I never took him for granted, but we’d never planned for this. He was only 47 years old. I think I still live in disbelief that this happened. I used to rush to the car to pick him up. I waited impatiently for him to get out of work; not because I wanted to get going, but because I wanted to be with him. I’d kiss him softly before I’d even move the car. I miss just holding his hand. I miss looking over to his chair and seeing him napping, hearing the soft sound of his breath. I even miss his snoring in my ear at night. Or that persistant cough he had. Or bandaging the wounds on his feet that started all this nightmare.
The night before he passed, I was falling asleep. I heard him mutter to himself in a the saddest tone I’d ever heard, and it still rings in my ears at times, that he didn’t want to go on like this anymore. He was so sick and the doctors weren’t any help. We never knew that his arteries were clogged. They never tested him for it. I never imagined that one night I’d lose the love of my life.
Now I stand alone, the lonesome warrior on a battlefield where I’d never be the victor.
wildcatleeds
I keep ya guessing
WildcatLeeds 