When Mike and I started this blog we made a deal that we would be honest. We would tell things openly, and honestly. He read each blog post I wrote before I posted it, and never once asked me to edit my blog, or leave anything out. Many times he would cry after reading my words, because he always felt that even though he was the one dying of cancer, he worried about me and the effects that caregiving was having on me.
In fact, everyone who was here the last couple of months of his life probably heard him tell people that he was worried about me, and how I would do after he was gone. He told me repeatedly that last week that he was worried about me, and we had long talks about everything from buying a new refridgerator for the garage (he circled the ones on craigslist that he thought I should consider, and even called on some), to me dating again. We both sobbed late into the night one night while I tried to reassure him that I could do it on my own again.
What kind of alternate universe was I living in? He was right. I have been a mess the last year. I had forgotten that Mike made me feel like I could do anything, and that anything I did was funny, and fine. He rarely complained about my inability to park on my side of the garage, always fixed the first floor toilet when someone overfilled it with paper, and would lecture us pretty much weekly on rinsing the dishes off before putting them in the dishwasher. He went around cleaning up after the Anne show, and I went around taking care of him.
Let me just tell you that Anne without Mike is an idiot.
In the height of my grief, when I was drinking Vodka like it was water I had it in my head that only boys and booze would help. I want to thank the good looking men who went along on that crazy train, they are still on my facebook, but I doubt they read this blog because after experiencing that particular ride who needs to relieve it in this blog post? Let’s just say if you are over 6 ft tall, and emotionally unavailable It was pretty much love.
After that fun, but brief phase I went through the lows lows lows again. I congratulated myself on not carrying around Mikes ashes anymore, remembering to shower everyday, changing out of his clothes, and after a year cleaning out his shoe closet. Although I admit his dress shoes are still sitting on the outside of my bedroom closet door.
Then came the shopping. New hardwood floors, jewelry, clothes, and wisdom teeth removal for my daughter. Although that isn’t technically shopping, as an only parent to a kid with a lot of medical bills, it added up. The adult in my house should take away my credit card, but there doesn’t seem to be one.
News flash,none of that helped.
I’ve managed to manufacture whole relationships in my head with people that don’t even know it, kill conversations in two states with dead husband talk, gotten pissed at people for imagined slights, refused to apologize, and spent hours hating myself for not apologizing.
I cry easily. I feel your pain. I tell my people that I love them. Not just my people, but most people. To the guy who works on my car, I was just having a good day. I probably don’t really love you. If this makes you uncomfortable, I may apologize. Probably not. See above.
The last couple of months have been brutal. Keeping the crazy in the closet is a full time job. There will be no Christmas tree, or decorations this year. Still not in the mood for celebrating. I got through his death anniversary, and our special anniversaries. I didn’t want to, but I did.
You know what? He wouldn’t care. He would be proud of me for getting through it.