When The Past Attacks

Dear John,

 

It's been a tough day, and I predict the next week will not get better. A year ago today Dick died - something I have never had a chance to process since your turn was coming soon and I was focused on you. I had planned to go to his funeral, but at the last minute couldn't walk out the door. I needed to be at the hospital with you instead.

 

I've been irritable and impatient for the last couple of days, and didn't know why until today. This week has put my emotions right back where they were a year ago. The stress and anxiety are back, and I'm alternately teary and snapping at inanimate objects. And since it's still Lent, I'm fasting and can't eat comfort food. But for right now, I'm at that stage of anxiety where it's hard to eat anything at all. Dairy sits well - I can handle cheese, milk, and eggs - but I can't really face much else.

 

That's enough whining. As it has been throughout this process, I have no idea what to expect from my emotions this next week. And I'm taking Dick and Esther back to Indy on Monday and Tuesday, so there will be some added stress there, which may distract me from the rest of the stress. Then I'll be off Wednesday, work Thursday and Friday, go to Lacey's bridal shower on Saturday, and we'll have 1-year prayers for you and Dick on Sunday. Elsie and I wanted to do it on the same Sunday for moral support - it's easier if we do it together. I'll be too busy to focus on how I feel, except in the middle of the night like all widows. I'll have the windows open all night for the next week - I'll have to cry quietly so as not to alarm the neighbors!

 

I still miss you just the same. The memories are still happy - the pain is for the memories we never got to make. There are still parts of my head that won't believe that this is permanent. I was thinking about couples kissing when they've been apart, and the first thing out of my head was, "When John gets home after this separation, you'd better believe that I'm going to kiss him and not care who sees it!" Then I realized what I was thinking, and gave the wheel back to my left brain. I wonder how long it will be until I don't do that anymore.

 

I'll keep you posted as this week plays out. I'm remembering each day what was going on, what was going wrong, and how sweet you were through all of it, as I watched MRSA go to sepsis to septic shock, and knew you didn't have the reserves to fight it. I tried with all my will to fight it for you. I pointed out to God what glory it would give Him to give you total, miraculous healing at that point. I got human - I stopped praying for what He knew best, and started pleading for your healing. And my heart didn't break - not a clean, sudden fracture - but was very slowly torn in two, leaving a long ragged gaping hole where the part of my heart that went with you used to be. The wound is still open, still seeping blood. And it will be as long as I am in this body.

 

Last year, a few days before you died, I begged you to pray that I could come with you, and if not with you, then very very soon after you. Maybe now you could ask that I come home on Holy Friday, like you did. Then my third day would also be Pascha, and my funeral a Bright Week funeral like yours was. Please, please ask! Please move Heaven and earth for me - I want to come home on Holy Friday, just after noon, just like you did. To be healed - no more pain or tiredness - to be in the presence of God, in neverending day, where the sun is not needed for light, in heavenly worship - and I want to be with you. I miss my parents, my grandparents, my great-aunts and -uncles, Mary, Jeanie, Tom, Richard, Ray, Johnnie, Miriam, Annie Mae, so many people I love and have been too long separated from. Caleb and Naomi, too. Don't let me spend another year here.

 

Well, the Lord will do what is best for my soul. Pray for me this next week. And I will pray for you as always, but in peace and rest, not with the desperation of last year's prayers. It's my prayers for myself that get desperate sometimes.

 

Love you aways and forever,

Joan.