A Turn of the Wheel

by Zoe
(Maryland)

Whether I like it or not, life forces me forward. John and I were going to move into our home, then, he died, eleven days after his cancer diagnosis he was ripped from my life. I could not move into the house we had picked out. I could not walk in rooms we had planned, knowing he would never be there with me. I could not be there without him.

So, I had our things packed up. I have stayed with a friend, but I could not live there forever, although the thought of being able to go into my room alone and hold his memory is all I really want. I have purchased a home and in a week, I will settle and begin moving. Those around me applaud the fact that I am moving forward. They do not understand, I am merely going to another place to grasp onto the memory of him. I waive off the congratulations on the new house, there is no joy, there is nothing. He is not here.

We were supposed to be doing this, in our home, with our plans and our love. Instead, I am faced with a hollow replica of the life I was supposed to have with him. I hate this. I despise the thought of putting the house together. I hate that the wheel turns and pushes me further away from the time I was in his arms.

It is amazing to me what the people around me must see. How easy it is to fool the people around you into thinking everything is ok. See I do not want them to stop and talk, I do not want the scrutiny of what I am doing or how I feel. They would not be able to handle how I really feel. That is ok, I do not expect someone else to fix me or help me.

I have a therapist, and I dutifully go and talk, it makes the others happy. However, I can take our sessions and in a matter of minutes have it turned so that the therapist is talking about his life, not mine. A skill of my profession. Not even, he looks deeply any longer. By controlling this I can keep everyone at bay, so they do not see the real me. I do not want a group to tell me about their grief. I do not care about their grief; I do not want to know their grief. There are times I get posts from this site that I cannot read they hurt so badly. Can you cry too much? Can you cry yourself out? I do not think so, I have cried a river, and yet every night, in the quiet when it should be he and I talking, it is just me crying.

Everything is dark; there is no joy or beauty. I found a card from the doctor who treated John. It was very kind, but it ripped me apart. She called him brave. He was, and strong and my light. The nurses told me the night before he went into the coma he pulled himself out of bed and walked into the room they were in with a patient who was hitting them.

John told him that if he wanted to hit someone to hit him, then he would hit him back. He stood there, standing guard until they were done to make sure the patient did no harm to the nurses. They then got him back in bed, and that night he went into decline. The nurses told me the story to tell me what kind of man he was.

I knew what kind of man he was, and he was the love of my life. We were a couple, we were one. If you lose that, then are you a half? What half of me is left? I died with him, I may still breathe, and walk, but I am dead. The pain is unbearable, and it gets worse by the day.

I find I try to stay as far away from people as I can. I do not want them to look; I do not want to explain. I cannot keep explaining how it feels. The desperation of my loss, that manic how can I survive this, has been replaced by a quiet, a stillness. Because I know that, I cannot. I cannot do this without him.