I want to write, but I don't know about what. I sit in front of my Mac and stare at the screen, wishing the Facebook "blip" would sound. It would signify somebody makes a comment on my post. Any post. I take a sip of my coffee, let my brain runs around in circles. It naturally goes to the warm, sunny day 365 days ago, and the Excel spreadsheet I worked on all afternoon… The office was thinning out around 3pm - such would be the norm on a sunny winter afternoon - yet I decided to stick around until official quittn' time. To finish the spreadsheet, I said. At 5:15, I put on my turquoise Patagonia jacket, I waved "have a good weekend" to my gal pal Julie, and flashed a big smile. I was going home to my husband. My niece Katie was waiting for me downstairs; we were carpooling.
I threw away the spreadsheet and I never looked at it again. I secretly loathe Excel.
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For all our years together, I never dreamed about Eric. Not once. How unromantic!! But, why would I dream about him when he was already with me?
That is, until a month after Eric died. He came to let me know, he was completely pain free. And fine.
I blog about it on this day because I need us to know, Eric is completely pain free. And fine. In whatever form he is. Wherever he is. My good friend Ginny said, that a person dies is not nearly as important as how the person lived.
I am very comfortable talking about Eric's death - and using the word died and death in conversations. My husband didn't pass on. He didn't pass away. There is no need to soften anything with me. Facts are facts - we need to be respectful in handling them. I can handle facts like a champ now.
I used to sleep through almost anything. Thunderstorms, howling wind, earthquakes, barking dogs, neighbor screaming profanities. That is, until Eric died. Melatonin worked its magic every once in a while.
The night Eric visited, I actually slept. In the dream, I found my husband sleeping in blue striped flannel pajamas… WTF. He never wore pajamas. He didn't own pajamas. And FLANNEL? Really? Who dressed my handsome husband!? I was not pleased… I was about to stop my dream and go straight to the one in charge of the sleepwear department.
I turned on the light in his dorm room; he sat up and complained, "HONE, you woke me up!!!" He hated being woken up, because it took him so much efforts to fall asleep. What an oxymoron: taking efforts to fall asleep.
"HONE! You woke me up! I have a trip tomorrow morning!"
"A trip? Where are you going? How are you supposed to fly?"
Silence. Smiled. "What do you think?"
Stunned. "Where are you flying to?"
Smiled. "I'm trying to get on the same trip to Dallas with you!"
I broke down and weeped. For him to sit in the cockpit and fly my plane to Dallas, it could ONLY mean one thing: my husband was no longer caged in like a zoo animal. My husband was no longer in pain. My husband was free.
I never talked about my dream or my Water Rabbit story. They lived solely inside of me. Until now.
I don't know how dreams work; I don't care. I don't want any "expert" to interpret my dreams. I don't even know if the rabbit story has the slightest significance to anything - but who cares!? I'm not trying to cure cancer and save babies - that's not my gig. My gig is to be a "teacher" through my unconventional experiences, a role I never asked for, but it's the cards I've been dealt. That's my gig.
Find-Your-Gig. Express it fully. Dive All In.
On Day 365, a much anticipated day, the anniversary of my husband's death, I am strong, soft, brave, graceful, vulnerable. I am sad, and I am relieved. I am immensely grateful. My Gratitude Cup has never been so full, and that it perpetually overflows day and night.
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| Water Rabbit Dallas, TX May, 2013 |
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