LIFE WITHOUT DAVID, Chapter 1

It has been four weeks since David died.  The first week was filled with family and friends and numbness.  The following week was continued numbness and total loss of focus.  Last week the numbness began to dissolve and emotion poured in.  And with the emotion came the words in my head...words that I feel I need to put in writing.  If I put my feelings, my thoughts, my reactions in this blog, it might help me heal.  I know there is a slight possibility that someone else will read these words, and that's okay.  That someone will then have a part of David, and David will not be quite so gone.
     There are so many things that I miss about David.  I miss the wonderful big bear hugs.  That was always the best place in the world to be...in his arms.  I miss the way he looked at me and told me I was beautiful.  Even though I knew I wasn't even within fifteen miles of being beautiful, he made me feel that way.
     I miss his silliness, the way he could get into a character and make me laugh so hard I was afraid to move for fear I would wet myself.  When he was alone with me, he was never afraid to show the real David.  I wish that others could have known that part of him.
     I miss having him calling me on our phone intercom at 1:30 in the morning, telling me to get upstairs and come to bed (even though that irritated me; I don't like being told what to do, and he knew it).  I miss laying in the dark with him and talking about important things and the most unimportant things until we fell asleep.  I miss our goodnight kiss.  I miss waking up during the night and seeing him sitting on the side of the bed.  He would sit there for long periods of time because he could breath better.  He said it relaxed him, that it was comfortable.
     I miss making plans with him about all the places we were going to go in our motorhome.  He loved making plans.  I miss that we will not be traveling to those places together.
     I miss going through cookbooks and cooking magazines with him and picking out new recipes to try.  He loved for me to cook for him.  I miss the comfort of reading with him.  Different books, different tastes, but still just doing it together.
     I miss his constant support of anything I did.  He thought I was the best at everything.  I was the best cook; the best college student; the best paralegal  in the state, that I knew the answer to any legal question; the best writer; the best painter.  He was so very proud of every accomplishment, of every picture I painted.  So what could I do but be the very best?  He gave me confidence; he made me feel that I could do anything I tried.  I know he was disappointed in my many, many UFO's (unfinished objects).  It was frustrating to him that I have so many paintings that are not quite finished or that never got started.   So I must continue to be my best.  I must finish those paintings.  I must photograph them, put them in this blog, hang them in a gallery.
     I miss holding his hand.  He loved to hold hands with me when we walked, when we sat and watched TV together, even when we drove in the car or motorhome.
     I miss being able to kiss his face all over after he shaved.  I miss the look on his face when I did that; he never wanted me to stop.  I miss him reminding me that I had not kissed him yet today (even though I had).  
      I miss most of all his love for me.  No other man could ever love me like he did.  I never understood why he loved me so much.  There is nothing special about me.  Yet, it was almost love at first sight.  Almost unconditional.   I remember our first kiss...he said he wanted to kiss me because he had read an article in a women's magazine that said you could tell what a person was like according to the way they kissed, and he wanted to see if the article was accurate.  And, of course, I had to give him that kiss; how could I refuse that logic?   How could I refuse a man that read a women's magazine?  How could I refuse this tall, lean, sexy man with beautiful, blue bedroom eyes who wanted to kiss me?   What a line.  What a kiss!   Through all of our life together, he never stopped giving me lots and lots of kisses, of telling me several times every day how much he loved me.  So yes, I miss all of that too. 
     David was not really an easy man to live with; we were opposites in most things.  Compromise was our daily practice.  But he balanced me...we balanced each other.  Now, I no longer have that balance; I feel one-sided.  I just miss him so very much. 
     My life is now full of constant change.  Nothing is routine.  I will be leaving this home we made together and moving closer to our children.  I am slowly going through all of our 40-year accumulations to throw away, give away, pack away.    I have not been able to go through his things yet.  The few things of his that I have changed or removed made me feel like I was giving up a piece of him, so it's being done piecemeal.  Smaller pangs.  Shorter crying time. 
      I feel different when I go out.  I feel like I should tell everybody that David is gone, yet I cringe inside when someone asks how my husband is doing, and I have to say that he died.  The dichotomy of feelings unsettles me.  I had my "maintenance" chemo treatment the other day, later got my nails redone, went grocery shopping.   The whole time, I felt that I was on the outside of a bubble in which everyone else existed.  That I was outside, looking in.  That I now live in a different part of the world.    I know that in time all of this will change, will settle, but for now, I am out of synch.  
     It makes people uncomfortable when they find out that I have cancer, that my husband died.  They don't know what to say.  Actually, there is nothing anyone can say at times like this.  I am also uncomfortable about what to say.  So I find myself consoling them.  I need to assure them that I am fine, that my cancer is under control, that I am not falling apart in grief, that I will be okay.  If I can make them feel better, I feel better.    With family and friends that are so close they have become family, it is easier.  I can say exactly how I feel.  I can cry when I talk to them.  I can laugh without feeling guilty.  I feel free to say this was a good day, or yesterday was a bad day.  They have been comforting.  I think writing in this blog will be comforting for me, too.