Rose,
Just as you have trouble looking at pictures of C (??? I'm not sure if I got this right. Since Bob's death, foggy widow brain has been a constant companion. It SUCKS!!!), I still can't look at pictures of Bob without the floodgates opening BIG!!!, TIME!!! The only pictures I have of him that aren't packed away in the closet in the guest bedroom, the room that holds so many horrific memories that after over 13 months, I still have to leave the door shut, are two small pictures in wooden frames, one in the shape of a fish, and the other in the shape of a sailboat. Both of these pictures were taken by one of our very dearest friends, while the four of us, our friend, his wife, Bob and I were on a cruise. (It turned out to be the very last one before we knew how sick Bob was. I'm so grateful to God for giving us this one last perfect vacation.) The picture in the frame in the shape of a fish, was taken in Barbados. Bob and I are in the ocean... I'm in Bob's arms, the biggest smile on my face... The picture in the frame in the shape of a sailboat, was taken during cocktail hour, later that day, in one of the ship's many bars. Our arms are wrapped around each other, big smiles on our faces... I need a tissue... This SUCKS!!!
Backing up a bit, the only reason these pictures are in my living room is because they've been in the same place since the day we moved into this house. I used to look at them often when Bob was so sick, needing to remember all the wonderful, very special moments we shared... Bob looked at them often too. For Bob's 66th birthday, about three weeks before his death, my daughter had a collage of family vacation pictures made into a large throw. It was the perfect gift. It arrived while Bob was in an acute rehab facility. I was so excited when I brought it to him. I knew he was going to love this very special birthday present. One of the nurses had helped Bob into the chair in his room by the window. After I showed him the blanket, he immediately asked me to cover him with it. When he got home, I wrapped him in this blanket, now one of his very favorite possessions while he was in his recliner, and when I helped him into the hospital bed (for what would be his very last night spent on earth), I covered him with it.
The next day, he didn't seem like himself. He seemed much weaker and much more tired than usual. I wanted to drive him to the hospital where all of his specialists worked, the only hospital that could handle all of his complex medical needs. He said he just needed to rest and refused to go. That night, he got up from dinner to use the bathroom. He was so weak, I wanted to call an ambulance, but he refused. He said he was fine. I followed behind him with a kitchen chair just in case he needed to sit down. When he made it to the bathroom, he said he was okay. He asked for some privacy. I went back to the kitchen, but had that horrible feeling I sometimes get before something really bad happens... And then it happened. He fell in the bathroom. His legs were in a very unnatural position. He was in agony. My always calm, stoic, take charge of everything, husband, begged me to help him. I immediately called an ambulance. It took the ambulance a very long time to get to our house.
It was during COVID and all the ambulances in our area were on other calls. I never felt so powerless, so helpless as I did then. I tried to be strong for Bob. He needed me. Although he begged me to move his legs, I couldn't. I held him, I told him how much I loved him, how badly I felt I couldn't help him, but that the ambulance was on it's way. I remember asking the dispatcher many times how much longer it was going to be, all she said was they were doing the best they could to get to our house as soon as possible. She could hear Bob begging me to help him in the background. She told me to keep him calm. I tried my best but he was truly in agony. It was the most heartbreaking experience in my entire life, but I knew I had to remain calm. It felt surreal, like it couldn't be happening, just a nightmare I would wake up from. I think in a way, I was disconnected from reality, if this makes any sense. It helped me focus, remain calm. I had no choice.
This was the very first time I had ever seen Bob like this, so out of character for him. Backing way up, before the surgery to remove his kidney right after Christmas in 2016, right before my daughter and I were asked to leave the holding area because he was going into the operating room, after he told us how much he loved us, and to tell our sons he would be talking to them soon, he tried to make us laugh. We knew that the procedure was going to be very dangerous and that there was a chance he wasn't going to make it, but he kept his cool. He wanted us to be okay, he wanted to shield us from the reality of the situation. No matter how much pain he was in, he never complained, he always said he was okay. This time was different. I had a sinking feeling..., wait!!!, I knew in my heart, he wasn't going to survive this time. It was his very last night in our house... but it still felt so surreal... I can't stop crying...
There is so much more to this story... But, what I wanted to say before I got off track, is that this very special blanket is still in the guest bedroom, on a corner of the only piece of furniture left in the room, a desk, in the same place I put it when two very kind and caring volunteers, from the nonprofit organization I called, came to pick up the hospital bed and all of the DME. I can't look at it. I can't pick it up. I can't wash it. I don't know if and when I'll ever be able to use it. Although I can't get anywhere near it without bursting into tears, I'm so very glad my daughter had it made for him. I hope someday, I'll be able to use it... Those tears will be laced with smiles, whenever I wrap myself in it, remembering some of the best days of my life, shared with Bob, the one true love of my life.
I think I know what you mean about living in sort of a time warp. For many months after Bob died, I don't remember exactly how long, memories kept popping in and out of my head, no way to stop them... The tears constantly flowed... Mr. Grief held onto me so tightly, at times I felt like I couldn't breathe. I felt like I was having panic attacks. I was being swallowed up, almost suffocated by memories, once so very happy, now so very sad... I was living in the past, reliving our life together over and over again, and at the same time, unable to wrap my mind around the fact Bob was dead. Bob was NEVER!!! coming home again. Everything was a trigger for tears... his favorite foods on grocery store shelves, cars in midnight blue (his favorite car color), his empty chair at the kitchen table, etc., etc., etc....
I'm not sure how long I lived like this, all I know is one day someone said something funny and I laughed. It was at this moment I finally realized I would be okay, never the same, but okay. Fast forward to the present. I'm finally beginning to have more good moments than bad ones. I'm finally beginning to live again, not just survive. I'm finally looking forward to the future. But, and this is another one of those really BIG!!! BUTS!!!, I'm always lonely, even when spending time with friends.... I hate to sound so pessimistic, but I think no matter how much I'm able to accomplish in life, even if I'm able to cross many things off of my bucket list, I think I'm always going to be lonely without Bob, here on this earth, beside me. I think I'm going to be lonely right up until the very second Bob and I are reunited. Life will always be so very bittersweet..., so lonely..., but I'm finally looking forward to the future. It's a really good feeling.
Continue to be very gentle with yourself. The timeline for healing is different for each one of us. Try to remember, you ARE!!! healing... You ARE!!! doing all the hard work grieving forces you to do. In time, some of your tears will be replaced with smiles...
As always, sending you lots of hugs and love, wishing you peace, all of us peace. DEB
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