I never would have imagined that I’d be nostalgic for the worst days of my life.
In my husband’s sickest days I just kept moving. The easiest moments were when I was on auto-pilot. Just keep going. Do what needs to be done. Check check check.
When I wanted to cry. To collapse. I would tell myself it wasn’t an option. Stopping wasn’t an option. I needed to do this and I needed to be there for him.
There were times when I wanted it to be over. He was going to die; we knew that. Once he died I could take a nap. Sleep through the night. And I just wanted to sleep. It was so hard, I just wanted it to be over.
Now I can stop. I can cry. And all I want is to go back to those terrible days.
Back then things mattered.
Can you be addicted to pain? To stress? To worry?
Everything mattered. Everything was so intense. Life or death, literally. Now it’s just one minute after another, with no point to anything.
I want to look down at his skeletal frame, have him look back up at me. It seemed like he was so different from the man I fell in love with that he was already gone, but he wasn’t. He could still crack a joke. Reference our dates. We were still a couple, even if it was never in the way I’d imagined it.
Now there are all of these orphaned inside jokes.
Now only I remember.
And it feels like no one understands me anymore.
I’m alone in this house.