March 23, 2019: Two Months

10:42am.
March 23, 2019.
Two months now.

It’s not any easier.

Some people still check-in, which I appreciate greatly, even if it takes me awhile to respond. A lot of people stopped, I think because my answer never changes. I don’t see how it could. You’re still gone.

It’s never better.
It’s never easier.

During the day I may seem okay, and even may seem happy.
And, yes, I’m capable of having a nice time with the friends who have come to see me.

But I’m sad 100% of the time.
But I’m depressed 100% of the time.

I am bone-achingly, heart wrenchingly LONELY 100% of the time.

I miss you ALL the time.

I try to hide my tears until I am alone at night and no one can see or hear me cry.

I want you back so badly I cannot bear it.

You were my sunshine. You could always make me smile and laugh.

It still doesn’t seem real that you aren’t here. You should still be sitting on my parent’s grey leather couch when Dad and I play cards; or napping there when Mom and I watch reruns of Designing Women or Dallas late at night.

You should still be there to cuddle with and hold me and tell me you’re going to be one of the people who lives with stage 4 leiomyosarcoma for YEARS, not just 1 year. And be there when there’s cure.

If only one surgeon would have given you a chance.

How can I be planning a Celebration of Life for you instead of our 6th wedding anniversary? Instead of a 51st birthday for you?

This January marked the start of our 10th year together, and the end of everything good.

Everything is a struggle.

I just want you back to hold and to love and to be held in your wonderfully safe, comforting hugs which were like no others. I wear our wedding bands on a necklace, and I wear your clothes nowadays. They’re the closest I can get to you holding me, except when you visit me in my dreams just before I wake, healthy and cancer free. Your hair has all grown back. So beautiful. You were always beautiful. Every single day.

I wish I could use your shampoo. Remember how it smelled exactly the same on me as it did on you? We were so similar, even in body chemistry. How likely was that? Nothing ever smells the same on one person as it does on another! But I don’t dare try … I had such a terrible allergic reaction to it.

So I tried your deodorant instead. It’s. The. Exact. Same. On. Me.

I despaired because nothing smelled like you anymore. I was always so efficient with the laundry, that I had nothing left but the shirt you went in the hospital with, and it’s fading, even with me sealing it in a bag to try preserve it. But with this uncanny sameness in body chemistry, I smell like you, and it is so comforting. I think it’s helped your Flash-kitty too. He became so much more cuddly after I made that change.

When I sleep, for the few hours or so I can get at a time, I sleep with the giant orange octopus that you got me, and the large, soft sea turtle I got you to cuddle in the hospital. I named him Sasquatch, because. You know why.

My beloved Teresa.
I love you so.
Always and Forever and Ever.

(Please, no prayers.)


Teresa - 17 Days Before First Chemo
Teresa – 17 Days Before First Ever Chemo

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