Ch.233 Eighteen Months A Widower
Jan.1, 2024
I didn’t anticipate that this anniversary would hit so painfully. I expected 2’s and 3’s on the emotional pain scale, not 7’s and 8’s.
Sometimes I make the mistake of believing my grief is a linear process. I imagine it steadily receding like a sunset on a partly cloudy evening, colorful but predictable. But that’s not reality. Just as Pat had Lewy Body Dementia, a notoriously unpredictable fluctuating disease, I have grief, another fluctuating “dis-ease.” And this week has been hard. Pat died July 1, 2022; exactly 18 months ago. Happy New Year it’s not. (I accidentally typed “Happy New Tear.” Apparently, my unconscious has an ironic sense of humor).
I’m back to sudden spasms of tearfulness. They only last a few seconds, but they come on so suddenly and unpredictably they scare me. I cling to the illusion of control, the small human being trying to direct his destiny; these cloudbursts of tears destroy that illusion. If I had been in control, Pat wouldn’t have gotten Lewy Body; she wouldn’t have died, either. She’d be here with me now, sharing our hopes for the new year. But die she did. Eighteen months ago.
I feel alone today, not lonely. Alone in the universe. When I feel lonely, I miss the presence of other living people. When I feel alone, I yearn for the presence of someone no longer living. Someone gone forever.