Six months (plus another month) (#1346)

Topics/tags: Michelle

[I tried to write this on April 8. I failed. I had trouble writing anything about anything for the month since then. This musing represents an attempt to update the few things I got down that day.]

Six months.

Six fucking months.

Michelle died six months ago today.

It feels like a moment ago. Maybe a bit more than a day. Or a week. But less than a month.

I suppose my traditional rhetorical gesture would be to write something like forever. But it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like she was just with me. That’s good. I think. On the other hand, it means that I keep feeling like she’ll be back soon. She won’t.

So there is a forever. It’s how long from now that she’ll be gone.

I’d been increasingly sensitive in the week leading up to the six-month mark. The Thursday before, someone said, Say hi to your wife. They didn’t know. I had to tell them. I broke down. I think I cried for the next ten minutes. Maybeonger.

That’s all I managed to write last month, slightly edited. It still feels the same way; like she’s gone on a short trip and will be back soon. And, while I know she won’t, my mind refuses to accept that. So every day, I get reminded of her, and I remember she won’t be back, and I cry. Every day undercounts. Multiple times a day is more accurate. I drive her car and think of her. I take a shower, use a washcloth, and think about how much she laughed at the episode of The Neighborhood that talked about washcloths. She’s so much a part of my world. Our time together informs almost everything.

I sleep on her side of the bed. It makes things easier. That way, I don’t have to feel like she’s missing from the bed. It wasn’t a conscious decision. Still, I think it helps. Her side of the bed is also closer to the bathroom. But that has problems, too. I woke up in the middle of the night yesterday. I thought I heard her in the bathroom, so I waited. Then I realized that it wasn’t possible that she was there. You can guess the rest.

Returning to a month ago, after I’d written the text above (or at least part of the text above) I said to myself, Damn. I’d promised to visit her today. And so I did. There’s not a lot to visit. We still need to order a gravestone. That may mean getting the kids together. My temptation is to order a bench. I don’t know what they call benches that serve as gravestones (or is it gravestones that serve as benches). But it seems to be the right thing. The kids talked to her about it. At least I think they did.

So much reminds me of her. I think that’s good. She was so central to my life. She is so central to my life.

I talk to her every night, recapping the day. I share my worries about the kids. About the world. I tell her that I miss her. I tell her how much I miss her. I cry. I wish I could talk with her, rather than to her. I wish I had the faith and understanding to know that she hears me. At least I try to believe that she hears me. I can’t work out the logic. She doesn’t sit around, waiting for me to say, Good night, love. At least she shouldn’t. So why would she show up when I say that? And does she need me to tell her things? Can’t she just observe them? As I said, the logic eludes me.

These days, I’ve also been apologizing a lot. I’m sorry the house is a mess. I’m sorry that we never took that trip to Greece. I’m sorry that we never made it white-water rafting. I realize that once she got multiple myeloma, that was no longer a possibility, but it’s something she’d really wanted to do. I’m sorry that we didn’t make it back to water, somewhere. I hope the Gregg-Jolly’s pool counted. I’m sorry that I didn’t help her stay healthier.

I’m sorry. So sorry.

Looking out front at our garden and thinking about weeding it is hard. All I can think about is that little bit of mold in her lungs that put her in the hospital.

Sometimes I do better than others. Sometimes I do worse. As I noted, a small thing can set me off. Say hi to your wife. Boom; I’m in tears. Today, someone said You’re Dr. Rebelsky’s husband, aren’t you? She’s was so wonderful to me. No tears, perhaps because I’d steeled myself for today. I managed to accept the compliment and listen to the story. Life is complicated. Death is more so.

I’ve found a response I’m comfortable with to How are you? I say I get by. That suffices. Or it should.

Seven months.

Seven fucking months.

Michelle died seven months ago today.

It feels like a moment ago. Maybe a bit more than a day. Or a week. Much less than a month.

I’ll keep moving forward. She may not be physically present, but she’s with me.

Version 1.0 of 2025-05-08.