Here is one of the latest blog postings by the woman who writes about losing her husband and the father of their 6 kids:
Bandages and Wounds
She is fortunate that she has identified (somehow) a group of widows up in her area (the Woodlands, which is about a 1-hour drive north of where I live). And I know what she means by this "same sucky club" that no one wants to join.
Like she expressed: I am sure that people look at me and hear me and think (or tell each other) that I am doing so well. NOT. It is a facade, folks. Smoke and mirrors. You should see the house and how neglected everything is. Not really dirty. But just kinda, why bother? Who else will see it? It's just me, the bills, the tv and the empty house. Every time Greg's watch beeps (on the hour, EVERY hour) and I am there to hear it, I'll make a remark to him (as though he could even hear that remark). But it's the only "person" that I have to talk with. Try going an entire day without speaking to another living person. Not so great, eh? And that's my day, if I don't go to work or shopping or some other place where folks probably think that I am way too chatty. If they only knew.
That beeping watch. Greg brought it back with him from Phoenix. It had been his dad's, and good ol' Bob, an engineer to the end, had obviously set this Timex to do that (beeping on the hour) and then descended into the hell that is Alzheimer's, leaving his watch beeping on. I complained to Greg - he, who needed the hearing aid, after damaging his hearing over years of playing live music next to amps - and told him that I could hear it when I was in the kitchen and it beeped in the bedroom. I could, I really could. Annoying. And now it is a measure of comfort to me. Strange, eh? It reminds me that another hour has passed or that a new day is starting, or that another day is drawing to a close.
Next week it will be 3 months since Greg died. I can go up those stairs now, but I always think about how I found him there that day, after his life had ebbed away. Poor baby - all alone, and all I can hope is that it was quick and that he didn't linger there.
I know that I am not the only woman (or person) who has gone through this, or who will go through this. It is just so personal to each of us, and some days are tougher to get through than others. I bought a grief journal last week, and it arrived a day or two ago. I hope that, while writing in it, I can make progress in my sorrowful journey. I want to laugh again, find joy again, have dreams again.