One Hundred And Fifty Four Days

According to the interwebs, the battle of Guadalcanal lasted 154 days.  The Siege of Paris during the Franco-Prussian war lasted 154 days.  There were 154 days between the election of Boris Yeltsin and the collapse of the Soviet Union.  And by 154 days after D-day, the outcome of World War II was no longer really in doubt.  Apparently 154 days is enough time to win wars, lose empires, reshape nations and change the course of human history.  It is also enough time to form a habit, and enough time to break one.   

Apparently 154 days is also enough time for the life you thought you were living to disappear.  One hundred and fifty four days ago, I lost my Beautiful Bride.  Today is my first wedding anniversary without her.  And if I am being honest, I don’t know what the fuck to do with that.

Thirty six years ago, on September 22^nd, I married the one and only love of my life.  Well, actually that’s not completely true.  We lived together for a couple of years before that, so depending on how you’re counting, we were committed to each other for thirty eight years.  Thirty eight years is a long time to share with someone.  At some point we crossed a line where we’d spent more time with each other than we had without each other.  I don’t think either of us ever imagined crossing back.  That was a strange thing to realize.  Part of who I understood myself to be disappeared with her.  I never imagined I’d have to learn how to be me again without her.  That is a long time to build routines.  A long time to collect private jokes and inside stories.  A long time to finish each other’s sentences.  A long time to just assume there would be another anniversary. 

And that is where I keep getting stuck.  Not that she died, she did.  I know she did.  Finding her was the worst moment in all of my life.  The calendar keeps telling me days, it says today is 154.  My heart still thinks I am waiting for her to come home.  Every fiber of my being says I should be celebrating today with my Honey.   And here we are, not celebrating, just me, myself and I, pecking away on my keyboard about her. 

And I hate that.  There, I fucking said it.  I hate that she died.  I hate that I know where her ashes are.  I hate that I can tell you about all the paperwork that needs doing following a death.  I hate that I know what it feels like to throw away her toothbrush.  I hate that there are people reading this who know exactly what I’m talking about.  I hate that there are people reading this who will find all this out someday. 

My brain bargaining with itself is an especially cruel part of this grief journey.  Because my mind keeps trying to negotiate contracts that reality has already voided.  I sometimes wonder what we’d have done differently if we’d known we only had a year left.  Or a month, or a day.  Or maybe even one minute.  Maybe then our last words to each other would have been something other than “love ya damn it”.  Then again, maybe they wouldn’t have.  The worst part is I honestly don’t know.  We’ve been saying “Love ya damn it” for years.  Truth is, “Love ya damn it” was a pretty good way to say goodbye.  This time though, we just didn’t know it was goodbye.  For a while, I thought that’s what was keeping me stuck.  The more I think about it though, the more I realize it isn’t.  

The problem isn’t that I don’t know she’s gone.  The problem is some part of me refuses to believe it.  I know exactly what happened.  I know how many certified copies of a death certificate ya need.  I know what it feels like to throw away a favorite pair of slippers.  And I know how to remove someone from the voter rolls.  I know all of these things, and more.  And somehow there is still a part of me that thinks she’s coming home.  The calendar says 154 days.  My heart refuses to admit anything other than she is running late. 

I keep looking for the version of the universe where I ask the right question, notice the right thing, make the right decision, and she comes home.  I haven’t found it, because it does not exist.  And I just keep looking for it anyway.  That’s the trap in all of this.  Every question leads me to the same place, and I don’t want to be in that place.  There is no version of this story where she comes home.  There is no hidden answer.  No loophole I can exploit.  No reset button.  No do over button to mash.  No miracle tucked away in the fine print.  Just the same harsh truth waiting for me.  Every.  Single.  Time.

The thing nobody tells ya about anniversaries is there is no place to put them.  A birthday belongs to one person.  An anniversary belongs to two.  When one of those people is gone, the day still shows up anyway.  Evidently September 22^nd did not receive the memo.  It arrived right on schedule, regardless of whether I wanted it to or not.

Today is our anniversary.  For all these years there was never any question about what that meant.  We’d go do something.  Maybe we’d head for the coast.  Maybe we’d stay somewhere nice.  We’d get dinner, and we’d laugh about stupid things.  I’d tell her I loved her, and she’d tell me she loved me.  It wasn’t complicated.  And now instead of that, I am sitting here writing something I never even considered I would be writing.    

This morning I did something that made perfect sense and absolutely no sense at all.  I went to a place called Cooks Café, Brides’ favorite breakfast joint here in Lincoln.  Claudia took my order.  Actually, she took two orders.  Mine and hers.  I ordered exactly what she would have ordered, three over medium eggs, hashbrowns, bacon, biscuits and gravy and a coffee. 

So, there I was, eating my breakfast while hers sat across from me getting cold.   I laughed at the twisted humor of that, she would have been pissed if her breakfast was cold.  I think I alternated between crying and silently laughing about the absurdity of what I was doing.  And there I was, in the middle of the restaurant.  I suspect I was making those around me uncomfortable, but I didn’t really care.  I finished my breakfast and asked for the check.  She asked if I wanted a to go box.  Then she asked if I was ok.  It’s a long story I almost said, instead I just said yes and the truth is no, I am not OK.  Somewhere between breakfast and lunch I realized I wasn’t feeding Bride.  I was feeding the part of me that still hasn’t accepted she isn’t coming home.

And then I did the same thing at lunch.  That played out pretty much the same way, except we both got the same thing, burnt ends lunch platter with Jalapeno cream corn. She loved the burnt ends at Mulberry's BBQ.  I got the same thing.  It seemed weird to dump that whole lunch platter in the trash on my way out.  I was going to cook a filet on the grill tonight but decided I would get the makings for a baloney sandwich.  At least once a year we’d eat those, shredded lettuce and mayo for me, and hot mustard for her.  I’ll have one of each later.  I hope this is not what our anniversary turns into because every bit of the day has fucking sucked.

In this moment, I honestly can’t decide what hurts more, that she’s gone or that this is what our anniversary looks like now.  The intellectual part of my brain understands every bit of this.  I understand that she died.  I understand that she’s not coming home.  I understand there won’t be another anniversary like the ones we had.  I understand why my side of the bed is the only side that gets slept on now.  I understand every single shitty fact about my new reality.

My heart though, it does not understand a fucking lick of it.  It just keeps arguing with the reality that will not change, no matter how hard I will it to change.   Understanding it and accepting it are two very different things.  So maybe that’s what all of this really comes down to.  Maybe it comes down to the fact that after thirty eight years together, I still have things I want to tell her.  On my recent trip to LA I saw some completely ridiculous shit and spent a half a second reaching for my phone to tell Bride about it.  I still catch myself turning towards a person who isn’t there anymore.  And just for a second, before reality catches up, everything feels normal again.  Then reality catches up.  One hundred and fifty four days later, grief still has a thousand faces.  Mostly it all boils right down to the same unavoidable truth.  I just really miss my Beautiful Bride.