Sometimes (not often) I briefly
forget that she’s dead. It happens when I’m falling asleep, or barely awake in
the morning or in the middle of the night. In my hazy mind, Stephanie and I are
talking, or laughing, or on our way somewhere in the car, and for just a moment
she’s there with me. I hear her voice, and the sound of it is beautiful and
wonderful. It makes my spirits soar, I’m suddenly so relieved, so joyous … but
then I’m awake and the truth kicks me in the face. I’m not sure whether that
moment of false happiness is a fair exchange for the repeated catastrophe of
knowing in the next moment that she’s gone.
There are times when I’m OK for a
few hours at a time, at work, mostly. It’s just a normal day at the office, no
worries, I’m doing my work and then … and then I remember, and I need to scream
louder, more horrified than any man has ever screamed. Screaming is not
workplace-appropriate, though, so I just sit at my desk and try to keep my eyes
dry. I scream inside, my brain winces, my world evaporates, and I need the
refuge of the men’s room, or I step outside.
It also hits me especially hard when
I’m on my way home from work. The end of the workday was something I always
looked forward to, because it meant I’d be coming home to Stephanie. But now,
when I get to our apartment there won’t be anyone to talk to except the cat.
There’s nobody I can do something nice for, fetch a beer for, nobody who’ll
listen as I explain what some stupid co-worker did today. No-one I can help,
and no-one who can help me. Stephanie is not going to give me a hug when I walk
in. She’s not going to be happy to see me. She’s not going to see me, ever
again.
I haven’t told anyone at the office
about her death, except my boss. He needed to know, so I could stay away for a
few days of round-the-clock crying. He knows that I’m a private person, so when
I called to tell him, he offered his condolences and said he’d keep it quiet in the
office. That’s probably the wrong thing to say to most people, but it’s exactly
the right thing to say to me. The last thing I’d want is for co-workers to stop
at my desk all day and tell me they’re sorry for my loss.
Work, then, is something of a
refuge, at least while nobody knows. On good days, the humdrum duties of the
office block out most of the agony. But then there are moments when I can’t
shut out the memories.
Thursday was the first weekly office
meeting I’ve attended since Stephanie’s death. As meetings go, our departmental
hubbubs are better than most, but still, my mind tends to wander. In the past,
when my mind wandered, I was thinking, What can Steph and I do this weekend
that might be fun? At Thursday’s meeting, of course, that’s not where my
mind wandered. There will be no joy in Mudville this weekend, or any time soon.
In hindsight, everything was optimistic
when my wife was alive. Even with the worst things in life – her illness, our
bankruptcy a few years back, the Trump administration – there was something
deep down under the surface that said, “Things will get better.” If I was at
work or running errands, just out and about doing humdrum tasks with or without
her, there was always optimism in my footsteps. Always I knew, When I’m done
buying these groceries or returning this library book, I'm going home to
Stephanie! And she’ll be happy to see me!
Man, you can’t top that feeling. We
weren’t rich, I knew I’m not getting a promotion any time soon, and we had
problems, sure — enormous problems, actually. But almost any time I was doing
anything, that feeling of just plain optimism
was either at the surface or a few layers under. Stephanie felt that way too,
at least on days she wasn’t sick in bed or seeing a doctor.
That feeling is gone now. Completely
gone. Everything has changed from vaguely
optimistic to explicitly
craptastic. You will see me smiling sometimes, at work or at the credit
union or anywhere I'm required to interact with humans, but the smile is
completely fake. There’s nothing at the surface or underneath, nothing at all
except Pain, and What’s the point?