Another Week has Diary of Grief

It is now 7 weeks since Paul left, slipped from this world to somewhere else. ( I wish I knew where).

Am I ever going to stop counting the days, weeks?  Will I be able to say " My husband died some time ago?" Without recounting every minute, every hour? I hope so. 

Mornings are still the worse. Mornings are, in fact, terrible. Comparable only with hell itself. I hate them! Each day I wake feeling sad, sick and shaking. My body doesn't want to pull itself from comforting, forgetful sleep and emerge into the realities of the day. Oh, let me sleep and enter dreams where he is still alive...

A day on my own, a day when I shower, dress, make tea and porridge, then try to eat. I look ahead to the meaningless tasks which are self imposed. Today I have seen no other person. And I won't. The day will end and I will not have spoken to another human being.

It is Sarurday, My children all have things to do, family committments or work. My friends too, have their own families and own lives, this is how it goes. It is not intentional, it is life. You spend the day with your husband and children and enjoy "quality family time". Even couples with no children do this, trundling around garden centres, or visiting pubs for lunch. It's called "coupledom". I used to belong to it. Paul...where are you? 

In the initial days of loss people visit and console, they want to help, they are good and kind. No one becomes unkind or uncaring, they just slip back into the routine of their own lives and assume you are " getting on with it", " moving forward" and " building a new life." 

Maybe, just maybe, these things will happen, but not yet, not in seven, dark, desolate weeks, 49 days...there I go again, counting the time!

Oh Paul where are you? Where are you? Are you in the living room, sitting in your favourite spot reading the echo? NO. Are you in your beloved kitchen, cooking up some new meal copied from Saturday Kitchen, and tasting the wine to accompany it? NO. Are you in the office making your model submarine, and looking forward to the day when you and the grandkids can sail it? NO ...that will never happeniw now. New pieces have arrived in their black plastic boxes..I have placed them on the desk, but you will never open them, will anyone? The half made vessel stands there mocking me with it's unfinished hull. You were unfinished, you were too young to go. What I would give to see you sitting at that desk with tweezers and glue, carefully fitting the pieces together.

I am crying as I write. Big, fat tears run down my cheeks. 

Can you get your glue, tweezers and tiny knives and put me together? 

Can you mend me? 

I am not a complete person, I am like the submarine ready to submerge and not come back up. 

Please help me! 

My diary of grief.

it is now six weeks since my husband suddenly, unexpectedly died.

I suppose a grief diary should start as soon as you are bereaved. However, I went into a state of absolute shock, and could not do anything such as write. It was a task which was beyond my capabilities, as all I was aware of was his face as he died, with me holding his hand. 

The past weeks have been a blur that's why I'm starting at week six. 

I don't remember much. I think Christmas and New year happened, but I couldn't tell you what I did or the slightest detail about them. People came and went. I was living in some sort of opaque bubble wishing Paul was there, or wondering where he was.

I think that he is lying in bed every night, as the pillows form themselves into his shape and play tricks on me. Sometimes I hear his I mad? I don't know and I don't care. Although when I realise this is all illusionary, I feel once more the shock, the absolute unexpectedness of his death. 

I have been through a lot of the stages of grief already, up and down the ladder of pain. Denial, shock, anger, guilt, depression..then through them again. I SHOULD have saved him. By some magical thought my brain should have known what was wrong and told the doctors and saved him...even though they had no clue what it was, somehow I should have known...the tormented guilt of a bereaved spouse.

Hes NOT dead. He'll walk in any minute and ask me what's the matter..he will won't he? Won't he? Won't he? 

And so I continue trying and failing to work out what has happened to change my world. 

Facebook is difficult. Very difficult. I want to thank the fantastic support from friends I have received via their messages. Yet some days I can't bare to sign in. Other days I interact a little. Today I hid. Don't know why. Sometimes the fun and cheeriness angers DARE people be happy! Sometimes I am so jealous of ' Normal' people it eats me up inside. 

Yesterday was bad...St Valentine's Day. All those pictures of happy,ALIVE people. Oh Paul...where are you? Physically his urn of ashes are in my wardrobe awaiting scattering. I plan on having a ring made of some of them. Is this good? Macabre? I don't know. Decisions have disappeared from the medulla area of my brain..grief has taken them. 

Now, after six weeks, I have finally started working again, so I am editing and writing( a little). I am trying to find a point in life worth living. 

I visited the doctor sometime after his death telling her I felt ill. So she carried out blood tests etc. Called me back in...I have the same results as Paul had two days before he died...anaemia, no folic acid, lack of vitamin D and other abnormalities. Am I going to die too? She has ordered me an urgent colonoscopy and endoscopy...scopes up and down my orifices! Yippee torture as well as grief...I am so lucky. She reckons I have internal bleeding. 

I do...a bleeding heart.