That’s how I’m doing, with lot’s of help from those close to me. Rich made sure of that, not that they needed his directives, but he was clear and made them promise. These discussions came as a surprise to me after he was gone. After 56 years it still never occurs to me that people waste time talking about me.
The hardest blow was learning that he was telling others that the end was near. He never told me that. From his last admission to the hospital until he could no longer communicate he never told me he loved me, never called me pupshn. His only personal words to me were the day of my birthday dinner, but still no “I love you” or “pupshn”. Outside that brief window, he spoke to me like a caregiver he had not yet gotten to know.
From his funeral service and the days following I learned that Rich had made his wishes clear on the care and handling of me. I worked hard at understanding and ignoring the hurt, but each day became harder. I managed quite well for 39 years before I met him. I’ve done a damn fine job the past three years--being the warrior while he was the diplomat; being the bad guy so he good be the hero. All of that evaporating in the last days of his life and I’m no more than a caregiver who needs guidance and supervision with spending.
I chewed on that for a while, but I just couldn’t swallow it down.
Seven days after he died we had our first post mortem fight. It was my third day back to work, and I learned from the first that I could get through the day until about 3 pm, when the dread would ooze over me, realizing I would soon leave work for the day, but I would not go to him. He would not be at home, I could not get myself to his bedside. The third afternoon was no easier than the first two, and I had only more days of chewing and choking.
I can count on one hand the number of “fights” we’ve had in 15+ years, and they all go the same way. It starts after days of trying to work out my grievance in my own head, playing both prosecutor and defense attorney. Only after that has failed do I take it to the mat.
I need to say “Ouch!” I need to explain to him what hurts and why. This post mortem fight went exactly as all the others. I am met with absolute, set-jaw, refusing to look at me silence. What woman does not feel THAT gasoline rushing towards her fire? Rich has always told me (afterwards) how hard it is for him that I’m a “fair fighter”. In the heat of it I can remind him that I’m angry at the situation, not him; I’m fighting the situation, not the person; I’m scared and hurt; not trying to punish him. It doesn’t matter. All he can process is that I’m angry and he’s the cause. Men are sloooooow learners. He immediately goes into defense mode and his defense is silence. Occasionally he’ll lob a panicked knuckle ball at me that has NOTHING to do with the topic at hand, lands just below the belt, and my mind reels.
Once I’ve covered everything from the prosecution table I deliver my closing summation, at which point frustration and exhaustion propels me to the defense table and I serve him to the best of my ability. One of the Voices offers an occasional objection, always overruled and I slide into home with the defense’s closing statement. Not unlike any other fight. It lasted through the night. I woke the next morning and got ready for work. In love with him all over again.
Now I can accept the last many days. There were, after all, so many witnesses for him, explaining that he couldn’t handle leaving me, did his best to prepare me. I just needed to say OUCH. It requires a special skill set to fight with a dead man. It seems I possess that skill set. For what it’s worth.
Now I can smile to myself when his appointed people call to check on me. I think they have an arranged schedule of shifts. I’m no longer upset that I didn’t force the issue of my taking over the finances in the last few months. It was the last thing he could still do and I couldn’t bring myself to strip that purpose from him. Despite the fact that he made me promise never to use on-line banking (I promised with my fingers crossed), yet he left me with three checks and none on order, and the credit card expired in May with no calls to the bank to find out why the new ones hadn’t arrived. Or the bill I got this week from his therapist for a $55 no-show fee even though he told me he called them about his hospitalization. It’s all okay.
Because yesterday I opened and read the birthday card he gave me two weeks ago. The one I opened at my birthday dinner and only pretended to read because I couldn’t at the time. In his even worse than illegible writing he had written “I will always be with you.”
I’m on top of the required tasks, I’m functioning with more ease than I anticipated. I am aware and trying not to reference him multiple times in every conversation even though he is with me like never before. I do not cry unless I’m alone.
I am working through the finances, making necessary calls, downloading and printing necessary forms. I have my two eye surgeries scheduled so that I can see beyond my nose. I have started sifting through the rubble that a dead person leaves behind. I am tending to everything Rich believed I could not (or should not) do by myself, reminding myself that for fifteen years he took care of me because I let him.
I cry a lot. Only privately. I figure that as long as my tears do not exceed or prevent my functioning, I am entitled to all I want. I cry for the things he did not share with me nearing the end, but there’s no more anger about that. I cry for all the things I did not do well enough for him. Mostly I cry because he is beyond my physical senses now and as much as he fills my soul, I ache for the sight of him and the sound of his voice, and the feel of his hand on mine.
The many questions of how I’m doing will dry up long before the tears do. I’m doing mostly fair with scattered showers.
