It’s been 19 days.
Every time I log on to Facebook, the first thing I see is them asking me, “What’s on your mind?” “How are you feeling today?” “What’s new?” You all have read this. You all have posted about your days, events, joys, downers, etc. I used to, as well. I can’t even tell you how excited I used to be to share about my day, however mundane it was. I couldn’t wait to post a picture of something, or just of my cats doing something silly.
Except now, I find these questions anger me. In this polite society that tends to ignore grief and misery and just accept the casual and overused “I’m fine” when asked how one is doing. No one really WANTS to hear about how you are doing, not really. No one wants to hear people’s problems. Seriously, next time a stranger, a coworker, an acquaintance asks you that question of “Hey, how are you doing?” throw some truth in there, not just the “I’m fine” that comes so automatically. Watch them start to feel awkward and back away. No one wants to talk about reality, real hurt, real issues (well, not NO ONE, because there are those friends that truly do care, but the vast majority of society does not).
So, you want to know how I’m doing, do you, Facebook? Trust me, you don’t. You won’t like what you hear. What can I tell you? My best friend, my husband, my soul mate, someone I thought I would grow old with, died. Just died. I found him. I was the person to call 911 in a panic when he wouldn’t respond to me, seeing the wound on his throat, the blood coming out of his nose, not see him respond to my voice or shakes. I was the one that had to pull him down to the floor, as the 911 operator told me to do chest compressions. I was the one that saw more blood coming out of his neck and mouth as I did what I was told. I was the one that couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not. I was the one that looked into his half opened eyes, eyes that were rolled back. It was me the police officer dragged outside, when I didn’t even get to hug or kiss my Brandon for the last time. I didn’t know that was the very last memory I would have of him. I can’t get those images out of my mind; it’s the last thing I see before I fall asleep and the first thing I see each morning. Every time I wake up each morning, for a second, just a second, I think, “Whew, that was the worst nightmare I ever had” and then, the wave crashes on me again; this is real; this is my new life. I have to get up every morning, physically MAKE myself get out of bed, go about the routine things of feeding the cats, turning on the coffee pot, showering, getting dressed, going down to the car, driving to work, working, coming home. How can anyone understand the overwhelming sadness that hugs me during each of these simple activities, hugs me like a scarf on a cold winter day, threatening to choke me? There are moments when it’s painful to breathe; there are moments that the emotional and physical ache of knowing that my Brandon is DEAD, that I will never ever see him smile again or go on one of his very long detailed explanations of how some car/computer/tool works, or how he could always get into my head and soul and know exactly what I need to hear – these moments make cry, cry with such agony, that in these moments, I wish I was dead. Because the truth is, I don’t know how to live without him. I don’t know how to survive this nightmare that has become my “normal”.
I don’t know how to do this. This is just me doing what so many doctors say to do; get your emotions out, don’t bottle them up. The result? This rant.