I went to Home Depot today and then Olive Garden. I didn’t plan it so I wouldn’t back out and disappoint myself. I just got the urge and went. It’s better that way. Anything planned feels like pressure on me and I can’t bear pressure these days. 

It was a good day. As good as a day can be with you missing. I bought flowers to plant at the hill. And a few for here at the camper. I hope they attract butterflies or hummingbirds. Something to let my eyes light on while my mind reverts to the hamster wheel of grief. 

I’m still struggling with how Marciana handled things. I’m angry, frustrated, and saddened by what might have been if she’d done something different. If she’d taken you to the hospital when you were incoherent and throwing up, could they have saved you? Why wouldn’t she call 911 when she realized how sick you were? That’s the part I don’t understand. I just don’t and never will. Responsible adults don’t watch somebody die. Yet she did. She watched you die. She cradled you as you died. Soothed you as you died. And only reacted once you’d stopped breathing. WHY?????? 

If she’d said “I fell asleep and only realized he wasn’t breathing when I woke, I would understand that. It was late at night. That’s a human thing to do. But to be awake, aware, and cognizant of your last struggles for breath. You must have had Cheyne-Stokes breathing, all people do at the end. How could she not recognize that as a problem?! And where was the roommate nurse?!?!? It’s just all too awful Ben. 

Did you know my life would be shattered without you? Shattered into a zillion unrecoverable pieces. How do I live without you? The pieces… they’re just too small to put back together. And the reward at the end… more life, without you. I’m not sure I can do it. I’m certain I don’t want to. It’s so pointless. 

What is life? What is it really? Its not the stuff we pile into the four walls we call home. We hoard stuff like rats. Stuff we don’t need. Stuff we don’t use. But it’s stuff. And it’s ours. And it means less than nothing when you died. I wouldn’t care if the house burned to the ground with everything in it. I don’t think I’d even blink. Without you it has no meaning. It is not my home. It’s where you used to be, but aren’t anymore. It’s a mausoleum. A monument to the black moment when I heard you were gone. The moment I couldn’t absorb. The moment I didn’t absorb at all until Cynthia and Perry walked through the door. Then it became real. And from that moment forward, for three days I have no memory at all. As if my brain is a hard drive and someone waved a strong magnet over it. Erased in entirety. 

People have told me snippets and tidbits, that I’ve borrowed for my own, so I can pretend to myself I know what happened. But I don’t, not really. Jeorgia told me today that Mama and Daddy came over about daybreak. Mama cooked breakfast. Biscuits and tomato gravy of course. 

Then it was decided that I should go to their house, but I don’t know who made that decision. I rode with them in the truck, hugging  the orange pillow from your bed. It was Cynthia who helped me pack a bag and asked if I’d like to take anything of yours with me. I stood in the doorway of your room for a moment and then grabbed your orange pillow. I don’t know why. Jus something to hold onto. 

I didn’t grab a t-shirt, or shorts, or anything that might have meant more. The quilt from your bed. The tomato quilt you were so proud of. 

My brain wasn’t working then and it still isn’t now. I walk through each day worrying about the mundane… do the flowers Mama planted need water? Is it cool enough yet to ride to the hill? Do I have enough drinks stocked in the fridge? Did I feed the Miracle Kitty. Did I tell you about Miracle?  Well, she showed up on Mama & Daddy’s drive. A starved looking little thing meowing loud. She felt as desperate as I do. I was walking to the barn with Jen, Claire, and Beau, and she followed us and continued to cry for her Mama. Just a wee thing. So I got her a plate of milk and she purred and drank. She’s been with me since that day. 

She’s gaining weight and eating soft food now. She does crazy antics that make me want I smile. I try to smile. 

Twelve weeks ago at this very moment you were struggling to breathe and I was sleeping peacefully. If anybody had told me that was possible I would not have believed them. Everybody tells me to be thankful I wasn’t there for your last breath but I can’t be. I wish with everything in me that I had been. 

The moment you first breathed was the best moment of my life and I never had another one like it. Every moment you were on this earth was precious to me. The worst day with you was better than the best day without you. 

I don’t know how to keep going. I wish I could just stop breathing. Let my eyes close peacefully and fix on yours. The crinkles at the outside edges when you smiled. 

My brain cannot yet absorb the world without you in it. It does not adjust and give me any peace. It just keeps pounding me with memories and what if’s and how’s and whys and then treats me to a vision of a scorched earth future. There is no you. 

I’m having trouble turning to God. Again. I guess the anger I thought I’d resolved is back, or maybe it’s more a lack of trust. How can I ever trust him again? That’s not rhetorical, btw. It’s a serious question: how? 

I’m supposed to find peace and comfort in his grace. Reassurance. The strength to go on. 

Am I finding it? I am upright, for the most part. I have laughed a few times. I’m able to work. Maybe he is carrying me and I don’t know it. But if this is it with his help, I can’t imagine what it would be like without. Because I’m absolutely certain this is the worst thing that can ever happen to a human being. There is nothing beyond this. All else survivable. I’m not sure this is. 

I pulled into the Home Depot parking lot today and gasped at the memories that flooded me. You in your orange vest. Proud that you worked so hard and frustrated when it went unnoticed. The two of us using white glitter paint to decorate your vest for Christmas. You wore it so proudly. It did look good. 

Christmas was always your favorite time of year. You were always SO excited, you never lost that childlike delight at trees, lights, and decorations. You loved Christmas Carols more than anyone I’ve ever known. You weren’t the best singer, but you belted out carols with such joy. You would have loved it if Christmas started in July. You never got tired of carols. And January was always a little sad for you. You didn’t want to let go of the tree. You didn’t want to put away the red kitchen towels and the little ceramic houses we painted. One year you bought a Home Depot house to go with our other houses and some little green Christmas trees and people. you liked to set them all up on cotton on the dining room table. A happy little village. Maybe you overdid Christmas because you somehow felt you’d have so few. Or maybe you caught it from me.