I do hate to come here and whine to you - I'm sorry to make you listen to this again. But it's been six months today, and I've spent the day watching at least two television shows at the same time and feeling miserable. Grief is a physical pain as well as an emotional one, and everything has hurt today. It's been raining since noon, so the weather has been in tune with the way I've felt. I tried knitting, and can't concentrate well enough. So the TV has provided anesthesia and distraction. I can't anesthetize with food until I go to the grocery store, which is probably a good thing.
Last night I cried for the first time in a few weeks. "Cried" is a polite euphamism. I never did learn the art of ladylike weeping. When I cry, I bawl, wail, chase the birds off the feeder, and frighten small children. So I had a good cry last night, and hopefully got that out of my system for a while. I haven't had a day this hard for some time, so don't worry about me. Tomorrow I'll go to church and feel much better. Jen and Elyssa will be home tomorrow, and life will return to normal.
Nothing seems normal without you, though. Life still seems surreal. My dreams feel real and my life feels like a nightmare. By the way, the dreams have continued to change. Now, in all my dreams, you're there, but it's normal that you're there - you were never gone. My dreams are like my real life used to me - they're the only ordinary part of my life. (Hmm. Maybe I should get more sleep, since it's more fun than being awake. What do you think?) I don't dread going to sleep anymore, but I do delay going to bed as long as I can. That seems to be common among widows; I still hate going to bed alone.
Well that's my six-month check-up, and I have to conclude that I'm being normal. Nothing to see here. And there's really nothing new to say: I love you, I miss you. I'm thankful for Jen, for family, for the church, for friends, and all the good people who have been so kind to me. I'm so glad to have the dog. Most of all, I'm grateful to have had you for so many years. And I do know that I still have you, that this separation is temporary. Yesterday I thought about Monk and his wife Trudy, that her last words were, "Bread and butter." One of the bad guys (Dale the Whale) taunted him with that, as if the meaning was a mystery. But I knew what she meant. I grew up with that - if you said "bread and butter" when you were parted, it insured that you'd soon be together again.
So goodnight now. I love you so much more than life. And like Trudy said: Bread and butter!