It has been three months less ten days since I last held my hubby’s hand while he died. The first two weeks I was going through the motions of living. If my friends hadn’t introduced me to Foxy at the crucial moment, I would have retreated into myself and then left as well.
The last week as my emotions have started to come back, I have screamed and raged. I have cried for days. The floodgates have opened and I have been washed down into an ocean of tears. They tell me that it is good. I need to cry and grieve so that I don’t hurt this way five years from now.
Did I tell you that I am a fighter? I am tempted to run– run into the desert and scream at the hills. Throw stones. I want to scream until all my emotions are emptied out onto the ground.
In all of this turmoil, I have been ripped out of my home (it was a rental and I couldn’t afford it). I find that without the care of family I would be out on the streets. I can’t rent and I can’t buy… not until I get a few more income streams. I am a veteran and I am ill. I am nothing. I have nothing.
I found an old friend of my hubby’s on the weekend through one of the social media sites. I had been looking for him for weeks. He told me that he knew something was wrong when my hubby, who had been a friend of his since he was a teenager, quit emailing. I felt bad that I couldn’t find him sooner. But he knows now… he was in shock.
The good thing– the thing that makes me remember my now late hubby with joy is that he was a true friend and husband. He tried to take care of me in the end. It has gone well in some considerations and not so well in others. Still it is only three months less ten days since his death.