I am tired and hungry. I want a piece of warmed apple pie in a buttery, flaky crust. I have not yet learned how to make a kick-ass pie crust like I did with certain bread on my repertoire. I told Eric that I would learn how to make the best pie crust, and bake him his favorite pecan pie. I never did learn how to make pecan pies, and I don't want to anymore. I don't even like pecan pies. I hate breaking promises.
I have successfully navigated through 28 days of unchartered waters in December. In many ways, each day was oddly familiar; yet, unfamiliar.
Christmas Eve, I introduced Eric to somebody I just met as my "late husband," and it disgusted me. I don't think I am ready for that term. No shame for trying.
Everyday past I looked at the dresser that Eric used, and wondered when it would be the "right" day to clear out the content. I have tried it three times in the last two months. Each time, I took out the Patagonia sport shirts, folded them - again - meticulously. Then laid them right back where I found them. Same drawer. Same spot. The only thing I could have done to make the sport shirts look even more meticulous was to iron them. Thankfully, I still have a little pride and sense left in me.
I folded every piece of clothing, again, and put in different piles: Discard, Donate, Give. Then I got to the small notebook Eric used for recording his pain level, the minor activities he could tolerate for the day, and the medication taken, or not, to relieve the agony; whether the pills were worthless or marginally useful. I had hoped that I would or could stop breathing and die. Right in my bedroom.
All over again, I seethe all the gods-of-organized-religions who claim omnipotence, love, and healing powers. The self-serving "gods" who let my husband suffered never-ending physical and intolerable emotional and mental pain for years on end, while they looked away and controlled human emotions and fear. I loathe and seethe them all, but to loathe them is to acknowledge their existence. The intense, theological debate made me boil with anger inside my head. Without reconciliation, my only release was to cry. I sobbed on the floor for 15 minutes over a notebook and some damn gods I seethe, yet do not acknowledge. It was a fine Friday night. Intense. It was fine and intense.
I fully recognize I may be offending others with my outwardly spoken sentiment. I am very at peace with it. Whether one agrees with my sentiment, my gratitude remains that my readers visit my blog and share my writing.
I stood up. Wiped my tears and blew my nose. I took out the shirts, one at a time. I folded every single one meticulously. For one last time.
Memories must be honored. Materials must be released. Pain must be destroyed, sometimes literally.
I texted couple best friends about this momentous leap forward. Then I talked on the phone for two hours. Feeling hungry, I wanted a piece of really good apple pie.
I don't consider this a particular "accomplishment" - rather, another critical step towards finding my New Normal. It's no bigger or smaller than stringing our wedding rings together. Or releasing his prized possession. Or tossing out his toothbrush, the first of many "momentous" moves. I do believe, however, this surreal grief and healing is unexplainable and unreachable unless one has gone through a parallel experience.
The biggest accomplishment on the first Friday evening post-Christmas was that my purses and handbags now have an organized home in my bedroom. Now is that so bad?
