Every Day Life

I wasn't able to sell the car. The notary told me that we had to wait until 30 days after Rick's death. The concept of time is no longer understandable for me. It feels like he's been gone for so long, but at the same time, it feels like this is all so terribly new and raw. There seems to be a snag with everything I try to tackle. I called the funeral home and told them that I have every intention of paying the funeral bill ASAP, but that my capacity to pay is contingent upon the sale of Rick's car. I explained the 30 day rule to them. One week from today, we can try again to transfer the car title. Then when the check clears, I can pay for Rick's service.

I can't wait for it all to be done. Over.

Grief is exhausting. Grief while contending with the paperwork that makes my existence possible is even more exhausting.

I find myself missing every day life. I look at the calendar and see Rick's handwriting noting appointments or reminders. I think about what would be happening each day if Rick was still alive.

Today Rick was supposed to get his hair cut. Last night, the woman who cut Rick's hair found me on Facebook. I know her, because I used to go with Rick sometimes and wait for him. "Tomorrow would have been Rick's appointment," she wrote to me in a message. "I will miss him."

A postcard with Rick's dentist appointment reminder came in the mail the other day. I asked my mom to call the office for me, because it was one less person I'd have to tell that my husband was dead. She told me that the dentist actually answered the phone himself that day. When my mom told him about Rick, he was shocked and really sad. He talked to her for a while, extending his sympathies to me.

The other day, the couple who used to live next door to us found me on Facebook. They told me they had just heard about Rick and were so sorry, wished they got to know him better, wanted to reach out to me.

The allergist he saw every two weeks for decades, the pharmacist, and of course, the dry cleaner - they all miss him. They were all part of his every day life.

It hurts to think of him in the past tense.

Tonight my mom brought me an envelope. She and my dad are going on a cruise soon and she's concerned about leaving me.

It's so nice to remember Rick. To hear what other people remember about Rick. Remembering is all we have now. 

Remembering, though, is kind of tiring. I want to so much to be able to just walk into my kitchen and see him. I want to be able to hear his voice on the other end of the phone. I want to roll over at night and push him out of the way. I want to argue with him, laugh with him, and talk to him. If he was here, I wouldn't have to remember. 

So I guess what I'm saying is I'm tired. And I just want to throw a tantrum sometimes. Instead, I'm going to wear Rick's bathrobe and go to sleep.