It is surreal how the world goes on. I read the news, eat a meal occasionally, and pet the cat, pretty much the same as before, but with no meaning whatsoever. I’m impersonating myself, acting as if every day is a normal day and I’m not flailing helplessly. Alone at home I’ve bashed my head against the wall, literally, dozens of times. I’ve also smashed my fist into the wall and done enough screaming that I worry the neighbors might call the cops.
It’s flabbergasting that I can go to
work, but I say good morning to my co-workers when I get to the office, and
good night when I leave. I do hope they’re having better mornings and nights
than I am. Everything is awful, but I’m surprised how quickly I’ve been able to
appear to be back at the ordinary push and shove. I sit at my desk all
day and do my work, answer emails, requisition more envelopes, whatever, all as
if I give a rat’s rectum when I absolutely do not.
I catch myself frowning perpetually.
It’s my new natural expression. Try picturing Humphrey Bogart at the train
station, in Casablanca. When I notice the frown, I try to rejigger my
face into a more neutral look, but most of the time I don’t notice, so I
probably look like the grouchiest man in the world. Which is an accurate
assessment.
Often, I’m in an impatient,
semi-grumpy mood. Everything seems so tedious, unimportant, and generally
stupid. It’s entirely subconscious, but I hear myself sighing, loudly, every
ten or fifteen minutes. It’s surprising that I haven’t hollered at anybody or
gotten into any loud arguments, and it seems unwise that people are allowed to
sign checks or drive a car in this mental state.
I wonder how long I can go, telling
nobody at work that my wife is dead? For as long as I’ve worked there, I’ve
talked about Stephanie at work – not a lot, just now and then when co-workers
are discussing their weekends or whatever. Everyone at work knows the name of
everyone else’s spouse and kids and pets, so eventually someone will ask how
Stephanie’s doing. Actually, one co-worker has already asked, but she asked in
an e-mail, so I just didn’t respond. When someone asks and I can’t avoid the
question, I will crumple into a ball of weeping widowhood. I’d like to put that
day off for as long as possible, but short of sending a memo that says, “Don’t
ask about my wife,” there’s not much I can do.
And then I come home, which is not
really home any more. It’s the same address, same furniture, same cat, but now
it’s just the place where I eat, sleep, and poop. That ain’t home. I watch Doctor
Who and read The New Yorker and fart around on Reddit, and there’s
no joy in any of it. Something smells funky in the kitchen, but I don't yet have
any interest in finding out what. Probably it's time to take out the trash.
To some extent, Madison isn’t home
any more, either. There are places in this town that Stephanie and I went to
over and over again, and I’ll never go without her. I can go to the grocery store,
sure, but the places we went to, together, all the time? Nope, can’t do it.
Can’t go to the coffee shop down the street, where we sometimes spent hours
reading and chatting and sipping tea (Steph) or iced coffee (me). Can’t go to
Ogden’s Diner for breakfast, her favorite place, where we're well-known
regulars. Too many memories, and the waitress will ask “Where’s Stephanie?,”
and my face will explode with tears all over some stranger’s breakfast.
Binge-eating would have been my
predicted response, because over the years that’s usually been how I’ve handled
bad news – “Three giant cheeseburgers with a bucket of fries and a strawberry
malted, please, and later I’ll be back for seconds.” But I’ve been eating
healthier and losing weight for more than a year, and I’m sticking with the
diet, because I’m still a fat guy who needs to lose weight, but especially
because Stephanie so often told me “I’m proud of you for all the weight you’ve
lost.” There’s no way on Heaven, Hell, or Earth that I’m going to double-cross
that.
Before she got sick, we would often
go for a walk on a whim. Within a couple of miles of our apartment, there’s no
sidewalk we haven’t walked. Those were good times, good walks.
After walking became difficult, we
still went for walks – she was weak on her legs, but she would slowly struggle
and conquer any trail. She was not one for giving up. When we bought a
wheelchair, she said she could have the joy of a walk even without the walking.
The footsteps weren’t what mattered, she said; it was more about the pace and
the scenery than the exercise. But whatever she said, of course she missed
walking.
Now I walk alone, and many thoughts
and moods take turns in my head. Mostly, the recurring thought is just that
she’s gone. Forever. Her life has ended. It’s not a complicated thought, I
suppose, but it floors me every time I realize it all over again. If I hold the
thought for more than a few seconds, I’m crying.
Some days I almost think I have my
crap together, But I really, really don’t. What fools me is, I might go a few
hours without crying about Stephanie, because I live alone and have no friends
to speak of, so I’m not talking about her. But the moment I mention her name
out loud, to anyone else or to myself, in person or on the phone or even in an
email, I lose it – my voice cracks, my eyes leak, and I can’t carry on.