Preparing to sleep alone (#1314)

Topics/tags: Autobiographical

A little more than a month ago, I was sitting in our bedroom and thinking, yet again, that I would never again sleep with Michelle in that room. It wasn’t the first time I’d thought that. Once she’d come home this summer, we’d moved into a newly created downstairs bedroom, and it seemed like that would be our permanent bedroom. By that time a little more than a month ago, it was clear she’d never be home again.

At the time, I thought I could write a jaunty little musing on how Michelle had prepared me to sleep alone. I think I thought it would go something like this.

I sleep alone these days. Surprisingly, sleeping alone doesn’t make me that sad. While I loved sleeping beside Michelle, and I’ll particularly treasure our last month sleeping side by side, I’m doing okay [1,2]. Perhaps Michelle intentionally prepared me to sleep alone. How did she achieve this amazing feat?

No, not by having me sleep on the couch every night. If we were in the same place, we slept together. Always. But she found strategies.

For the first twenty-plus years of our time in Grinnell, she had call every three or four nights (plus a few more nights each month for her OB patients). So I was used to going to bed with her working in the hospital or waking up in the middle of the night or the morning with a space in the bed, a space where she’d been earlier in the evening.

Then, a few years ago, she moved to Audubon. And I got used to sleeping alone on most weeknights. We texted and even had remote date nights, but we slept in separate locations. I wasn’t great at that; on one of her first nights in Audubon, I called to ask her if I might be having a heart attack. But after I recovered, I got better at sleeping alone at home.

Just to make sure I was ready, she spent two months in the hospital in Des Moines this summer. I slept at home and counted on seeing her each day after making the hour-long drive. Sometimes, I regretted not spending the night with her; I always felt like she got better care when I was there. But I generally got used to sleeping at home at night and seeing her at the hospital during the day.

All that prepared me for my new life of sleeping alone every night.

Thanks Micki! I’m glad you thought ahead.

Strangely enough, I was somewhat right. I hate that I can’t roll over and touch her when I wake up in the middle of the night. When I’m tired enough, I can pretend that the pillows are her sleeping body and feel a modicum of comfort. Despite her absence, nighttime is rarely a bad time, at least if we ignore the nightly bedtime chats I have with her memory. Perhaps I was right in my predication.

Unfortunately, I was also very very wrong. All the things that got me used to having her away from the house often lead my subconscious to believe that she’s somewhere (a hospital somewhere, I suppose) when she’s not here. So I sit somewhere, doing what I’d normally do, and everything feels normal. Michelle’s not here with me? That’s okay, she’s at the hospital and will be home in a few hours, or by the weekend, or once she gets better.

Then something happens, and reality intrudes. Suddenly, I feel the huge gap in my life. She’ll never be home again. I’ll never get to hear her voice, feel her touch, argue about something, play a game, feel comfort in each others’ presence, celebrate each others’ successes, support the kids together, make plans for the future. Nothing.

I have a huge gaping wound in my life. It hurts. The pain is indescribable. And I break down. I sob. I moan. I scream. I make noises that seem inhuman. I fill endless tissues with tears, snot, and pain. Surprisingly, I don’t rend my clothes.

Eventually it stops. Things don’t go back to normal, at least not for a few hours. It’s probably better that way. The transition from not normal to she’s not here is much easier to bear than the transition from normal.

I should have been able to predict last night’s breakdown. I’d finished preparing class for today. I’d read a bit of email. Then I had to get her wheelchair ready for pickup. So I put the feet back on the chair and started to remove the OT hack that permitted her to put her feet on the footrests. (Few medical devices are designed for not-quite-five-feet-tall women.) All I could think about was how much she’d loved that they’d been able to customize the wheelchair for her by adding towels and ace wrap, how happy it made her. I’ll miss that joy. That smile. The sparkle in her eye when she talked about it. And I’ll miss knowing that the wheelchair let me support her in doing things [3]. I ended up taking a picture of the empty wheelchair just to help myself remember.

Being able to sleep at night? A big plus. Feeling a gaping wound cut into my heart, soul, and psyche about once per day? Not so good.

However, all the preparation may not be the true cause of the abrupt mental and emotional shifts. Perhaps everyone who has lost their life’s partner has that screaming transition from life feels normal to I’ve been violently ripped apart. I’m sure others have gotten though this kind of pain. I’ll get through it, too.

I hope.

[1] Yeah, I was an optimist.

[2] Surprisingly, though, sleeping alone isn’t close to the worst part.

[3] Note to future self: Muse about the joy of doing things for someone you love. But only do so when you’re ready to cry.

Version 1.0 of 2024-10-29.