Nine months without Michelle (#1356)

Topics/tags: Michelle

Warning! Sadness abounds within.

Michelle passed away nine months ago today. Nine months. Three quarters of a year. It still feels like a moment. It still feels like I could see her again tomorrow. I still cry every day.

A friend who lost her husband about a decade ago tells me that it took her about a year and a half before the fog lifted. I guess I’m halfway there. I’m not sure whether she said fog or cloud or something else. But there was a point at which she realized that she hadn’t been thinking well and that she was on the path to recovery. I know that I’m not thinking well. I know that I’m not on top of things. However, I’ve never been entirely on top of things; Michelle helped take care of that.

My friend also tells me that it’s not that the grief gets any smaller. Rather, we grow to better encompass the grief. It’s an interesting metaphor. I certainly don’t feel the grief shrinking. On the other hand, I’m not sure that I feel myself growing to handle it, either. I make it through each day, which is good. I’m also not sure that grief suffices for the feeling. There’s an enormous hole in my life, in my soul. Can I plug that hole? Perhaps not. And I’m not sure what grows to make the hole feel smaller.

Last night, I couldn’t fall asleep, even though I was exhausted. All I could do was think about her last night on earth. We knew the end was near; at least I did. I woke up every hour to see if she was still breathing. Eventually, she wasn’t. Was it three thirty in the morning? Four thirty? Somewhere in between? I don’t remember. All I know was that she was with us, and then she wasn’t. Those last hours are hard to remember. That is, they are easy to recall, but it hurts to do so. In any case, once the nine months had fully passed, I was able to fall asleep, perhaps at five-thirty.

It’s also easy to think of her no matter where I am and no matter what I’m doing. She comes to mind, unbidden, anywhere I am in the house. After all, we lived here together for about 26 years, over two-thirds of our time together. I wash dishes in the kitchen, and I think about debates on how best to wash dishes, her recent desire to replace the countertop (it is getting old), our differences with respect to glasses and such. She recently got fed up with the large 16 oz glasses I preferred (mostly because the water was etching them) and substituted smaller ones. I guess recently is no longer correct. Opening any cabinet makes me think of her, not least because she was the one who ensured that we re-organized cabinets regularly.

Parking in the garage also raises a host of emotions. It always takes me a bit longer to get out of the car because I get sad. Why? In part, it’s that I’m driving her car. In part, it’s that parking in the garage is something I got from her (or her family); the Rebelsky family parked in the driveway or on the street. In part, it’s because I know I need to clean out the garage and I need to call people to jack up the garage; she’d make sure I did both. Plus, she’s not in the car with me anymore, at least not physically.

My shower’s broken [1]. So I’ve been showering in the bathroom in which she took baths. And I’ve been using washcloths. Every time, I think about watching an episode of The Neighborhood that had a small aside about washcloths that she loved. I don’t cry. But I think of her. I should eventually get around to cleaning out the cabinets in that bathroom. Someday.

One of the hardest parts is a feeling that comes to me unbidden, from time to time. How could she leave me? How could she leave us? I know she wouldn’t have done so if she could have avoided it. And we all told her that it would be okay, that we’d get along. Her body had lost the war against its rebel cells. The chemicals no longer worked. She had to leave. It just hurts.

I miss so many things about her. I miss the casual chatter. I miss the history together. I miss having her run the family. I miss having her fill in the gaps when my memory failed, which was much too often. I miss the casual touches. I think about the many times that I’d be sitting in a chair and she’d come up and stand by me. I’d grab her waist, and she’d lean into me. That was such an amazing feeling of love, of connection, of care. There were also many others, both physical and emotional.

I also miss celebrating together. And there’s a lot to celebrate these days, even without her. One of our best friends got married. Our kids are doing well and have new accomplishments. Her brother has some great successes. Her cousin is better. So much to celebrate! I’d love to share those joys with her. I share the joy with others, but it’s not the same.

At least I have the memories. And the love will last as long as I do.

Postscript: In case you haven’t figured it out, I treat these monthly musings as an opportunity to grieve appropriately. That’s not to say that I don’t grieve daily. Rather, I use the musings to engage my grief more deeply, as she well deserves.

See you in a month!

[1] Hey Micki, we figured out why the water was coming through the kitchen ceiling.

Version 1.0 of 2025-07-08.