June 12, 2009

Where do I even begin . . .

Posted in Uncategorized tagged at 1:20 am by letterstoelias

. . . aside from the painfully obvious ‘I miss you’.

Hello my love,

It has now been 51 days and around 4 hrs since we last spoke, when you told me you just wanted to go to sleep.  I was so happy to see you were finally free from the pain you endured that day and were able to drift off, not realizing that in doing so you would never wake up again – though I must admit to having a bad feeling about it al.  That day has played over in my head a thousand times and I don’t know that it will ever stop.  Loosing you was my worst nightmare, only it’s one I can’t wake up from.  It is now my reality.

I believe with all my heart that you heard every word I spoke to you as you left here – I saw the tear roll down from your eye as I cried and pleaded with the doctors to try and save you.  I still don’t understand why they wouldn’t.  I saw another tear as I told you how much you were loved – how much I loved you and always would.  Again one fell as I promised I would take care of the girls, make sure they knew who you were, and promised you that we would be ok.  There were a few other times I saw your tears and I know they were not coincidence.  No one can tell me otherwise.  I saw how hard you fought to stay alive for me, for our girls, for your family.

I have no idea how I lived through that night.  But, here I am.  Somehow living without you.  Literally one day, hour, minute, second at a time.  What I wouldn’t give to speak with you just one more time and hear you speak back.  How I wish I could see your face again.  How I wish I could hold you again and feel your arms around me.  See your beautiful smile.  Hear your laugh.  Kiss you.  Hold your hand.  Argue with you.  Sit on the couch eating ice cream and watching tv with you.  Watch you with our girls.  All of this, even just one more time.  But really I know that one more time would still never be enough.  Like E does, I know I’d keep asking for ‘one more time’.  I knew I would never be ready to loose you, and I’m still not.  Though we realized our time left together was likely limited, there was so much more we had to do in our lives together, so much more we had to say to each other – but it all came to a screeching halt.

We had mortality staring us in the face for much of the past 7yrs – most of our married life – and the lessons it gave us about living were invaluable . . . but what I wouldn’t give to have found another way to learn those lessons and still have you here with me.  With our girls.  I can still hear you saying that you felt fortunate to have had this happen to you – I understand your sentiments and felt them once too, but I’m not feeling so fortunate right now.  Ignorance does sound blissful.

Why is it that only through death can we truly learn about life?

Some people wonder how I’m functioning right now – but in many ways I started grieving 7+yrs ago when you were diagnosed, and in particular for the past year.  I’m also trying to keep up some of those lessons we learned about living in the moment – it’s much, much harder now, but I try.  Still, the pain is unspeakable.  A part of me died the moment you did and I will never be the same.  I feel hollow.  I know you probably don’t want to hear that as your biggest worry was me being ‘ok’, but you would also know if I tried to hide how I was truly feeling – you always did.  I know you are watching over us and I thank you for it.  It’s a small consolation as I would rather you were here in body, but the fact that you came to me in my dream for something as simple as a reminder to clean the back ash pan in the fireplace gives me the sense that because of you, we will be ok.  I also loved to hear that you came to E’s dream the other night – she was having a nightmare about falling off an icicle mountain, but you caught her and saved her.  She told me about it with a great deal of excitement.

I have so much to tell you about the girls.  They have changed immensely in the past 51 days.  I’m trying to figure out finances and work and preschool for E – all these decisions I need to make, I never wanted to make them alone.  I hate it.  I would much rather argue with you about it.  Neither of us were ever particularly decisive people, but somehow we always managed to work together, and did a pretty great job I think.  We built a beautiful life for ourselves, with the exception of the one thing we couldn’t control and which subsequently stole that life, and our future.

I have no idea what will come of my future now, but I intend to tell you all about it here.  I sure hope your internet connection in the ‘afterlife’ is much better than our connection at home. . . . .  I really don’t know how to end this letter – I have so much more to say to you that I even hate to stop writing, but I guess I’ll leave it with I love you – with all my heart – and I’ll be back soon (you’d probably prefer I get to sleep now anyhow).


P.S. I love you


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