A year ago at this time, we had been back from our visit with his family in Michigan. I was beginning to notice how difficult it was getting for him to do just about anything, especially walk. Hospice did an intake and immediately ordered him a walker, mostly due to the fact that he almost fell twice while she was doing the intake. I know I'm getting used to him being gone, but it doesn't make it any easier just getting through each day. I was under the impression that it was supposed to get easier, but that's just not happening. I miss him more now than I ever have; the sadness factor just keeps hanging around like a visitor that won't leave after an extended stay. I usually read for about an hour in my car each morning when I arrive at the office. (I get in early to get the free parking that is available on some of the streets.) I opened my book this morning, like usual, but I just couldn't bring myself to read any of it. So I decided to come into the office and blog for a while. It probably won't make it an easier day, but all these thoughts just keep rolling around in my head. I have to do something to get it out.
I keep thinking of the five stages of grief, based on the five stages of death that was coined by Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross years ago. I've read about the five stages—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—but I'm not sure I've actually experienced all five of them. I was never in denial that he died; I don't remember doing any bargaining—bargain for what? I've fully accepted the fact that he is gone and is not coming back, which leaves anger and depression—two of my favorite friends lately, or so it seems. Every once in a while, usually while at home, I just shout "Shit" or "Dammit" when I'm thinking about him (which of course is all the time). I can't go 60 seconds without thinking of him. I'm driving myself crazy. Maybe I should get a chauffeur—then he can drive me crazy. I've started getting angry again at just the least little annoyance. And of course, depression is never too far from my doorstep. Is that all my life is going to be the remainder of the time I'm on this planet? I'm doing the best I can, but the loss has cut me so deeply that the light at the end of the tunnel has been reduced to a flickering candle—hardly visible at all.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn. Thought that might help—it didn't.
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