This is a Really Real Widow Post. With some Really Real Mental Health mixed in.
It’s 3am. Coffee too late and a touch of hypomania means I’m still awake.
I don’t want to be awake.
I have a full day tomorrow.
This morning (yesterday morning) there was a Michael’s ad in my email, and there was a pumpkin with Parker carved into it.
Parker isn’t the kind of name I normally see in random places.
I’ve been missing her today. I’m especially missing her at 3am.
I always miss her in small ways, but sometimes that comes to the forefront. Sometimes I can feel the old pain in my chest.
“I miss her tonight.” I send the text to our son.
I wish the ball in my chest would grow big enough to let me cry. Maybe then I could get some sleep.
Lack of sleep always brings a rough day. I wish I could rewind and undrink the coffee that seemed so appealing 8 hours ago. I wish I could rewind and take those pills out of her hand.
I wish I could rewind and change things so that I stop seeing that morning play out in slow motion.
I wish I could rewind so she could see my life now. I wish I could rewind so she could still be breathing.
I just wish I could rewind.
He texts back “Yeah, I do too.”
Then he asks if I’m safe. You know, because every kid has to worry that they might lose another mom that way.
It’s totally normal.
I joke because facing the reality of our fucked up life is made easier when I add some humor.
Life isn’t all that bad now. I have the space to be annoyed when I’m awake at 3 am. I have the spoons to type this out. I have a roof over my head that isn’t going anywhere.
I’m not suicidal right now. That makes life extra good.
I miss her tonight. That ball is still in the middle of my chest. Not quite large enough to let me cry this out. I want to be held and comforted, but it’s 3am, self soothing will have to do.
There’s no real point to this, no profound realization, no life lesson for me to pass on.
I can’t remember the sound of her voice anymore. Not all of the time. I was laying with Wonder Woman the other day and the thought hit me “Will I remember your voice after you die?” I’m engaged with full knowledge that I could become a widow again.
I’ve been watching her sleep more often lately. Making sure she’s still breathing. I even watch the cat and the dog now.
It must be on my mind how fragile life is.
Watching for the slow rise and fall of her chest. Panicked if I don’t see it right away. Relieved when she makes some small noise.
We listen to The Mountain Goats sometimes.
“I hope you die.” “I hope we both die.”
We add our own line “at the same time.”
I miss her tonight. Both of them. I miss the one who isn’t breathing anymore, and I miss the one who’s hopefully still breathing in the other room.
I need to go check again.
Maybe this time, I can fall asleep beside her.