A Widower's Thoughts

Today was a good day. I visited Laura’s grave for our anniversary, and left her some stargazer lilies, and while sad it was a good thing to do. I drove a few hours, practicing songs on the drive. I went to a concert, and a couple of clubs. I texted with a newer friend for a while. A lot of relatively good things happened today, and while the world remains a quieter, darker place without Laura in it, I should recognize the good days for what they are and appreciate them.

It was our engagement anniversary today. I worked, though I phased out now and then. I went to the dentist. I got a haircut. I ordered dinner from an Italian place in the next town, that really wasn't our main place, because I was too lazy to go pick it up. I was kind of looking to be down, I realize. I was busy at work until I stopped and killed time and thought about Laura. I was helping a friend just fine this evening until I found an opportunity to mention that I was having a bad day. Then I went to brooding for a while. But I wasn't just looking either. I got an antipasto plate, and ate part of it while thinking about just how much Laura would have loved it. And how much Laura would have gone completely crazy for a pianist I watch online as he showed of his new theme music, and connection to Glee. She would've loved the people and music that I've found. We could've sat together and watched. We could've eaten Italian meats and cheeses. We could've gone to Portland together. We could've been happy just staying home together. I choked up for a while during all of that tonight. I brooded more. I'm still here, lonely and missing her.

A headline today noted that loneliness and isolation have similar effects on life expectancy as smoking fifteen cigarettes a day. I don't know how I feel about that. First of all, fuck you, loneliness and isolation. Like you weren't bad enough on your own. But then, why should I worry? Option one. I run out and try to fill a gap by force, in which case I'm likely to be lonely anyway, despite some physical presence of someone else around. Option two. I eventually stumble into something, and I'm not lonely anymore, and so it improves. Option three. I remain lonely, lose some life expectancy, but don't mind much because I'm lonely and in a meaningless world anyway. That was supposed to come out lighter than that.

I'm also preemptively guilty at the idea of someone else. I'm sad at not being with Laura. I'm not keen to fill the void, because the void is still shaped like her.

Finally getting back to form, and I was able to work in the garden for quite a while, stopping basically only when it started pouring or I got dizzy. I almost finished the pit for the raspberry bushes. Finally. I'm proud of what I'm doing, putting manual labor in by the bucket to create the garden that Laura would have loved. It's surprising how much something dumb like digging a hole and working roots with a hatchet can change my mood, just by being tied to Laura. When I get to make some sort of tribute to her, even dumb ones like this, it makes me feel remarkably better.

I understand that I don't get to go back to what I had. I don't get to go back to who I was either. They were connected. What I don't understand is what I do get to become, or be. I'm an empty vessel in some ways, though vessel implies a willingness to be filled. I'm an empty set of pot sherds I suppose. A relic of some former era that can be used to try to piece together a civilization that once was.

I've been saying for the last few days essentially that I'm tired of just surviving. I am. But I'm not. As I think more about it, I am tired of just surviving in that the dead end that I'm kind of in is, well, a dead end. I have career growth and whatever, but not personal growth or the kind of things that I used to look forward to. But the idea of expanding beyond the dead end remains unappealing. I don't really desire personal growth. I don't really desire replacements for the things lost. I desire the things lost themselves, but that's neither growth nor stasis. It's repair, in the literal sense.

So, today I spent nearly the whole day in a mix of sleep and semi conscious staring at the laptop, half dozing. Today was effectively a wash. It's now the 28th, since it's past midnight. That makes it two and a half years since Laura died. I'm surprised it's been that long. It feels so much more recent. I'm surprised it's only been that long. It's been forever. I remember the last nights at the hospital. I remember how it felt. I remember how she felt. I remember how it felt to be without her. I have that one with me all the time still, though the daily experience differs from those first nights. I want to go to the cemetery in the morning. It's been two weeks anyway, but I want to go because of the milestone. To make official note of or respect her absence. I also want to avoid it because I still have this idea that maybe I can diminish the power of her absence by ignoring the markers attached to it, like the date of her death. I don't actually know what I'll do. It may depend on how sick I feel in the morning. I know what I really want, but of course that's not what I can choose. That's the root problem.

I'm nearing another milestone. It's almost two and a half years now. I'd like to say I'm moving forward with my life. But I wouldn't actually like to say that. I prefer not just to be known as brooding, when I think about it, but prefer to actually be brooding. I've gotten to a point where my constant desire isn't specifically to brood, but I still prefer it to progress. I don't understand progress. The world stopped when Laura died. I've come to terms with the idea that the rest of the people in the world don't know that, but it doesn't mean that it ever really restarted for me. I'm still here, noting how long it's been since the last time I remember it spinning. It's been almost two and a half years.

I spent the day alternately super busy and asleep and sick. I dreamed of Laura. I don't remember much of anything of it at this point. I didn't even think about it when I woke up. But I remember, or more properly feel, that I've talked with her or experienced her recently. Within the last few hours. It's calming to some degree. Not because it makes me believe in something particular, or validate the kind of things that I want to be true, but because even the experience of a connection with her feels meaningful. Even a connection with a symbol of her or a memory of her.

I'm talking to a friend from work all of a sudden. She needs a release and someone to talk to pretty badly. She's been nothing but stressed for a long time. I probably need a similar release. We're teasing each other all of a sudden. Here's the thing though. We're not flirting. I'm not, anyway. She's not, by any ability that I have to tell. But just the banter and teasing has bits and pieces that feel like flirting does, and something in my reptilian brain recognizes that. And suddenly I find myself excited, energized, and guilty all at the same time, even though I'm neither doing anything nor trying to do anything with her. It's just been so long that my systems are desperate it seems.

I went to the cemetery earlier with my mom. I didn't exactly want to go with anyone, but we were nearby and I didn't want to not go. She has a habit of saying things that don't need to be said. As we drove in, she told me that she'd been thinking about the gravestone a lot lately, and how my name wouldn't fit on there properly. Whatever. But when we were standing at the grave, she blurted out that she was glad that Laura and I had each other. There's a sweet thought in there, but it falls flat when I'm literally standing at the grave. We don't have each other. That's the problem.

I haven't written any new material about Laura through her objects for a while now. I just kind of hit a patch where it was hard to write, and never got back to it. I had a couple hundred entries, so part of it is that I don't want to be redundant. She was too colorful to retell stories. Part of me feels like I used up all the best ones early in the blog. I'm sure there are still good ones, realistically. There were more than 250 good things about Laura. But I haven't figured out how to write them. Maybe I should again.

My mom is worried about acting like a burden to me. I have to reassure her more often than I'd like to. But she also is a burden. Not because I don't care, and not because she asks too much of me, exactly. She's a burden because she needs emotional support, and I've got so little support to give. I'm tired, but really I'm emotionally tired. My tank has been empty for a long time, and it's not exactly filling back up. I also know, because I care, that telling her that would make her feel terrible. I don't want to do that. I also know, because I pay attention, that making her feel terrible would only make it worse for me as well on a practical level. It would lead to more of a need for support. This is a dumb thing maybe, but it was nice to be able to offload some of the emotional needs to Laura to take care of.

I find myself torn when it comes to Laura's stuff. Still. Nearly two and a half years since she died. I cleared out a whole massive amount of her clothes a couple of weeks ago, and feel fine about it. I got on a little spree and pulled out half of our board games to donate or sell with effectively no guilt earlier tonight. I bumped her pillows off the bed a few minutes ago and immediately had to pick them up and get them back into place. I don't leave her pillows there because of magical thinking. I'm not trying to preserve the scene so that it's ready for her to come back. I'm preserving it because I'm uncomfortable with the visible emptiness I'd see without the pillows there. I kept a few of her shirts in the closet so that I don't have to see an empty wall there too. I know that the items themselves in many cases aren't what I'm trying to preserve. I'm holding onto things because they come with memories attached, and I feel better holding those memories close. But it seems like I can reduce the number of items sometimes as long as I keep a category there. I can get rid of some of her clothes, because I'm keeping some of her clothes. I can get rid of some of the games, because I'm keeping the games that were more important. The pictures of everything help, but they're not enough maybe. Maybe they're just not enough yet. Maybe they'll never be enough. I don't really know, it's hard to tell. I can say, though, that I missed Laura severely over and over again today. Nothing dramatic or bad happened, but the little instances of loneliness just kept appearing, and her absence just kept continuing.

I managed to shame myself into action on my dying friend. I signed up to help bring her meals now and then. Because that's the support that I can provide, apparently. I'm not proud of myself being so weak willed here, but I don't seem to have much in the tank to work with. It's a quandary. The one piece of advice I give new widows and widowers is to be kind to themselves. To forgive themselves for weakness and bad decisions. I do that. But now I come up against a moment where my weakness could impact someone else, and I'm not sure how to respond. I actually want to be weak, I think. It's much easier, much less troubling, much less responsible. But I've been burned by working so hard to be strong in the past, so. There's that. I kind of hope to at least bring her a couple of meals. Remind myself that it's a good thing to do things for others. Remind myself of some of the ideals that I like to think that I care about.

A good friend from grad school may be dying. I don't know what to do for her. I'm not the best friend around, clearly. I catch myself neglecting to post anything on Facebook after her post about hospice because, what? Plausible deniability? The problem is twofold: I literally don't know how to help in a meaningful way, and it seems hard for me to put myself in that situation. I don't think I'm scared. I don't think I'm worried about flashbacks or anything. I just don't seem to want to invest myself, perhaps emotionally. I want an easy way to make things better, even though I know that easy ways are rarely provided. I don't entirely understand this flaw in me. I can talk down the problems, point out that they don't worry me, and then sit here and continue to do nothing. Am I really broken enough that I'd indulge in reclusion to the detriment of someone else?