Friday, June 24th is getting closer and that date represents six months to the day that Dennis died. It does not seem possible that six months have elapsed, but the calendar doesn't lie. His last day is still so fresh in my mind it's like it was yesterday. Not a day goes by, hell, not an hour goes by without my thinking of him in some respect. I used to listen to the classic rock station on the audio channels of the cable connection, but I now find myself saying, "Want to listen to some blues, dear?" and I turn to the blues channel instead. It makes me feel like he's there listening with me. I still turn to his chair to say something to him but catch myself before the words get out...sometimes.
One of the topics we discussed at my grief group was "getting stuck" on something, and I think that's a stage I'm at currently. I keep reliving the last week Dennis was alive; I can't get past it. I know there wasn't anything further I could have done at that time except what I did—helping him get into and out of the bathroom, in and out of his chair, making him meals, making sure he took his medicine at the appropriate time. I kept giving him the cough syrup that he wanted, though I knew it wasn't really doing him any good—other than it kept his mind off the fact that his lungs were failing—the placebo effect. Which was fine by me. I certainly didn't want to face that fact either, so I can only imagine what he was feeling.
I still have two sessions of individual grief counseling available through the hospice and I'm going to go at least one more time. I went last week, starting again after the group counseling was over. We agreed that the next session would be after I get back from my Michigan trip, as I will have lots to talk about—his memorial, my grieving with the Healys and with my old friends Jerry and Judy, how I managed to survive both a memorial and a wedding in the same week—at least I'm pretty sure I'll survive.
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