Seven Days...

Last Sunday,November 10th, a little after 2:18 a.m., the Husbandly One breathed his last breath and was gone.  Just like that.

I was trying to give him a dose of medication to clear his airways, and had just asked him to open his mouth a little wider so I could get the oral syringe in.  His eyes flicked toward me, his lips moved and he whispered... something... and then he was gone.  I had stared at him, then stood up and said, "Oh," in shock.

Our friend, K, who was there helping me with the night watch, stood up and leaned over him to look, then looked at me, her eyes wide with shock, and she said, "Oh," the same exact way I had.

The next thing I knew, I was wrapped tightly in her arms, and I was roaring with grief as my knees threatened to buckle, because the worst thing ever had just happened to me, and I was trying not to leave with him.

Most of that night is a blur.  I remember staring at his face earlier in the night, thinking death was coming soon as I noticed how his skin was molding to his skull.  I remember staring at his face after the hospice folks had cleaned him up and dressed him, touching his face and crying at how small he was, how thin, how... cold.  I remember sitting on the couch in the dining room, holding E's dear, dear face in my hands as she told me she loved me.  I said, "I know you do, because you came here without your teeth."

I remember how kind the hospice people were, and the policeman who came in with extremely neatly threaded eyebrows.  I remember my sister holding me so tight and telling me how sorry she was, and my other sister on the phone, telling me how much she loved me.  I remember the guy from the funeral home, who sounded like Barry White.  And I remember looking out the back door at this extremely beautiful sunrise and being startled that so much time had already passed.

And now, it's been seven days.  Seven days since my husband died.  Seven days since I last looked into his face, wishing I could relieve his suffering, and knowing there was nothing I could do except respect his wishes.  He'd been unresponsive since Thursday morning.  His last clearly spoken words to me were, "I can't breathe."

And because he was in hospice care, and had a Do Not Resuscitate order, I called Hospice and not 911.  They helped me calm him down and get him breathing almost normally, but he was practically comatose after that.  If you asked him to blink to answer yes/no questions, he'd do it.  He'd smile, or smirk, or waggle his eyebrows, and he would hold your hand, squeeze it, and tug on it.

We held his hand around the clock.  Seriously.  We took it in shifts, there was always someone there to hold his hand when I needed to sleep, or to eat, go to the bathroom, go outside and cry... someone held his hand continuously.  If you didn't, he'd look for a hand, reaching out and trying to find one.

So we held his hand.

It's been seven days since I held his hand.  Seven days since I ran my fingers through his hair and talked to him.  Seven days since I lost the one person who got me and loved me anyway.  Seven days since I told him I loved him and he squeezed my hand back to say, "I love you, too."

Seven days of pretending to be a functional competent adult.  Seven nights of sleeping alone in my full-sized bed that suddenly seems way too big.  Seven days of pushing down panic and staying calm so my kids stay calm.  Seven days of not going through the stacks of mail and papers on my desk to find out what OTHER bills didn't get paid.

Seven days of missing my best friend, the person I tell everything first, seven days of wanting to tell THO something, or ask him something, or just wanting to see him, just because.

Seven days of missing his Facebook Messenger icon being constantly up on my phone, because we sent jokes, memes, or photos we'd just taken of something interesting to each other.

Seven days.  And I will never, ever be the same again.

Fuck.  Cancer.

The Blank Page...

You know, it's tough enough being a writer, but right now?  Being a writer is almost impossible.  It's so hard to focus.  I'm still working on the flu story... at least the research end.  The working title is still "The Pestilential Adventures of Mrs. Osgood Peabody," but when it comes to thinking of what the actual title should be, I'm kind of at a loss.  Originally, I intended to have zombies in it... well... not real zombies, more like people having an weird interaction with high fevers and a new antiviral medication but... I can't make that work, so... I think I'll just play up the "return of the 1918 pandemic but worse" angle. 

Still, it's difficult to find the energy to work on it.  I spend so much time worried over the Husbandly One, trying to get him to eat, or trying to help him over the next hurdle, that I have very little left over for writing.  Even fanfiction is difficult right now.

I spent a great deal of last night crying, but that's basically my emotional settings rebooting, you know?  I cry, and cry, and get it out of my system, and then I feel better.  I absolutely hate crying, though. 

But writing.  I need to be writing.  I really, really, really need to be writing.  Because writing is what I do and what I love and... I need to do this, for me and for him.  To show him that his faith in me has not been in vain.  I need to do this. 

I need to do this.

So... get over yourself and JUST FUCKING WRITE!

I'm Trying Not To Be A Wuss, But I Don't Think It's Working...

He's so damn thin.  I don't even want to speculate with how much he weighs.  His appetite is almost nonexistent, and warring with that is the  "don't waste food" mentality we were brought up with by our Depression era parents.

He thinks, "I can't eat an entire chicken pot pie, even though I want one.  And if I don't eat it, it will go to waste.  Therefore, I will not eat a chicken pot pie, so I won't waste the food."

He hasn't said that, but I'm pretty sure that's part of what's wandering through his head somewhere.

I had to change that mentality myself, especially over the last year.  And most especially where he's concerned.  So he can't eat an entire chicken pot pie, I'm just thrilled he ate some of it, you know?  Maybe I should do what I did with my mom when her appetite was decreasing.  You know, instead of cajoling her to eat, I would make a sandwich and say, "Oh, you know what, Mom?  I can't eat this whole sandwich by myself.  You want half?"

And because she grew up during the Depression, there was no way she was going to let that half of a sandwich go to waste, so she'd shrug and say, "Might as well."  And we'd sit there and eat our half of a sandwich and smile, and inside, I was cheering because hot damn, I got calories in her!

I just need to be even sneakier than usual, because he's always on to me.

Maybe that will take my mind off the thought of losing the love of my life way before I'm ready.  I'm really scared.  We go see the oncologist on Monday, and we'll see what we see.

I should probably go back to the doctor myself.  My ear is still bothering me.  It's kind of hard to focus on me right now, though.

I'm tired.  I'm hungry.  I'm scared.  And... I feel pretty alone right now.