Done

I've wanted to write many times since my last post, but I couldn't log on my devices. I guess my password is saved on my desktop, but things have been hard, and fighting to log on was too much work. I guess getting up and walking to the desktop was too much work too.

It will be four years later this month, and while the raw all-consuming grief has passed, in some ways things are worse. The shock of the loss is gone; now I'm dealing with the reality of life post-Brian. It's not good. I suppose if I'm honest I would have to say it's not bad either. Bad was hearing that your husband had terminal cancer. Bad was watching your most loved one die. Bad was getting his ashes left on the front porch by UPS. Bad was burying a bag of ash that used to be your husband. Bad was choosing a headstone for a wonderful man who died too young. What I have now is just not good.

I think the worst part is the isolation. In early grief people blanket you with care and concern. It's not that they stop caring, its just that with time, the loss is no longer on their radar. It's always on mine. At this point, the grief isn't something I can't talk about with others. They don't understand. They think I should have moved on, but what does that mean? Move on? I have. I buried our cat. I buried our dog. I adopted a new dog that he never knew. I sold our home. I bought my new home. I started a new job. I have accepted that the love of my life is dead. That's moving on, I think. I live in the here and now; I'm not caught up in the past. And that's the problem. I'm lonely. The here and now is lonely. I come home to a nice house and a great dog, but there is nobody to come home to. Nobody gives me a hug, asks how my day is, sits down to dinner with me. Nobody helps with responsibilities at home. Nobody supports me on the bad days. Nobody makes me tea when I don't feel well, or comforts me when I cry, or shares in any sort of accomplishment. Nobody relies on me to do all those things for them. The sadness isn't dissipated; the joy can't be shared - and that makes the sadness so  much worse, and the joy so meaningless.

I'm not young, but I'm not old, and I feel like I am destined to this lonely mediocrity for the next few decades.

My dad is 87 years old and having health issues. He is on dialysis three times a week, and while he is doing great, there is a lot more life behind him than in front of him. My mom is dealing with all sorts of stress and anxiety related to his illness. She is depressed and doesn't know what to do about it. She hates being old, but how do I help? I totally  understand how she feels, but she has no idea that I too feel old and depressed. I work Monday through Friday. I sleep on the weekends. The bills get paid, the laundry gets done, but the house could be a lot cleaner, I could eat better, I could get involved with hobbies or friends - but I don't. It's all too much work, because no matter what I do, I am doing it alone and without my life partner.

I don't believe in heaven. I don't believe in a God that takes people because he needs them more than we do. Brian is dead because he had horrible luck - he had a cancer cell that ate his body, and that modern medicine couldn't fight. The idea that he is in a better place is absurd to me. Death, I believe, is the absence of life. I don't believe in life after death, I don't believe in consciousness after death. I believe that we have the here and now and that we live and then we are gone - and I hate myself for not being able to live now while I have the opportunity. When I die will I regret this inertia, or will I be grateful that I had 9 years together with a wonderful man who knew me, loved me, let me love him, and made my life complete?

I was so very lucky. Now I just feel done.