Hurdle Day

It’s Valentine’s Day and The Amazing Bob’s not here. Duh-huh.

We never made a big bodice ripping, Harlequin romance of the day but, yeah sure, we observed the occasion. He’d write me a poem, I’d draw him a pic, he’d bake some astounding cookies (his oatmeal/spinach/butterscotch chippers were a-MAZ-ing!!!), I’d pick up yummy-bad-for-us take-out. We’d hit the bookstore, buy each other guilty pleasures – High Times for him and Rolling Stone for me. Oh yeah and we’d pick up a big heart shaped box of assorted cream filled bonbons. OF COURSE! In the rare, flush years he’d buy me jewelry and I’d buy him stereo equipment. So yeah, I guess we did kind of do up the day – in our own silly, off-kilter, happy romance way.

And now he’s gone.

Well, I struggled through barbed wire
Felt the hail fall from above
Well, you know I even outran the hound dogs
Honey, you know I've earned your love

Look at the sun
Sinkin' like a ship
Look at the sun
Sinkin' like a ship
Ain't that just like my heart, babe
When you kissed my lips?
Meet me in the Morning – Bob Dylan

The moments when his death shocks me clean down to the molecular level are not infrequent. Still. ‘the fucking fuckety fuck?! NOT fair, how can this be!!!!! Days where I can’t stop crying happen less but aren't unusual.

I’ve been trying to get into a group therapy situation – you know, one of those bereavement dealios. I figure meeting and talking with other widows and widowers could mebbe help. Mass General runs a couple through their Palliative Care department. This’d be perfect. Medicare would cover the session cost and I can use the hospital ‘terps which makes this affordable and deaf friendly. BUT, and this is a big one, the shrinky dink who helms the upcoming group is not exactly timely with replies to my queries. I do dearly hope my pain isn't getting in the way of her coffee breaks.

Janice can find me a reasonably priced bereavement group BUT when the cost of an ASL ‘terp’s added in, it’s way outta my budget. I can talk with my friends who’ve lost their spouses (shouldn't the plural of spouse be spice?) but, ya know what? I’m afraid my questions and mondo melancholia will reignite their loss fevers. Tranquillity is hard won – I don’t wanna fuck with that.

Now then, not every moment or even each day is awful for me. I have occasional good times but this Herculean pain persists. The wound is open and très raw. I need to find fresh balm.

I asked Jen and Oni what they have on tap for tonight. Dinner out maybe?

Nope, we’re picking up Indian and watching movies WITH you.
No, no, I don’t want to get in the way of your good time. You should go have fun! Do NOT do this because you feel sorry for me, I replied.

Birds were flipped, wine glasses topped up and menus considered.

I am not alone.