LIFE WITHOUT DAVID, Chapter 2

     It's now been two months since David died.  "Two months" does not feel like a real measure of time.  It could be two days, or two years...almost like I'm moving in a kind of time warp.  It's just a very odd,  indescribable feeling.  Some days I feel my usual joy of life, as if everything is normal; other days, just sort of lost somewhere.  I find that I do a lot of staring into space, but I'm not sure why I'm doing that.
     Actually, there are a lot of changes going on inside of me that I'm not sure about.  Of course, I have changed in many ways through my life; I am no longer the same person as I was in my 20's, my 30's, my 40's, or my 50's.   I can look back and think of those Carols in the third person, as entirely different people than my 60's self.  I feel like I have changed that much over the years.  But this is not quite the same.  I have to think about this some more before I can put it into words.  My sister, Paula, sent me a wonderful book called "The Dance" which says that writing is a way of searching, of opening to possible wisdom.  So I need to think about these changes for a while, then later write about them, so that maybe I will find some understanding.
     It's very hard to stop thinking "our" and just think "me."
     I realized the other day that this is the first time in my whole life that I am single.  That I now make all of my decisions about my life by myself.  That I am entirely responsible for me.  That the only discussion about exactly what to do tomorrow, or next week, or next month is in my head.  It's a bit unsettling.  Major decisions give me no problem--it's those everyday things that bother me.  Which is odd because I made those daily decisions on my own throughout my whole marriage with David.  For most of my life I have been strong, self-reliant, independent.   My forever friend JoAnn told me the other day that she was so proud of me for the way I handled trading in two of our cars for a new one. I didn't quite know how to respond because I never doubted that I could take care of that, never second-guessed anything about that procedure. Yet it broke my heart to lose those two vehicles.  David loved his Yukon and the little Jeep.  I cried and cried the next day because a few more pieces of him were gone.
       I think I just miss talking to him about things.  I could talk to him about anything.  I could share my ideas, my worries, my personal thoughts, and he listened.  He usually went along with whatever I wanted to do, but it was a sharing, nevertheless.   When he did have an objection, it quite often turned into an argument with no resolution. We were both too stubborn to give in, so we both just gave up because we hated the conflict.  (I don't believe I miss that.)  Since he died, I have tried talking to him out loud but it just makes me feel ridiculous; talking to him in my head is almost as bad.  The first few weeks, I felt like he was still here, but that feeling has dwindled away.  I know that he is not here anymore.
     I trusted David with my thoughts.  He always respected what I had to say, even though I know he had selective hearing.  But we had a telepathic connection that always amazed us.  I would be having a random thought, and a minute later, he would start talking about that very same thing.  I often wondered if I was a strong sender or if he was a strong receiver.  It very rarely worked in the other direction. 
     Every night when I go to bed, I make myself shut my eyes and picture kissing him and telling him goodnight, telling him that I love him, feeling his sweet kisses, hearing him tell me goodnight, that he loves me.  I am SO afraid that I will forget his kisses, his voice, his face, his touch, that it will all fade away with time, like it has with all those others I loved dearly...my mother, grandpa, grandma.  I can handle anything but that.
     I am doing better every day.  Developing routines.  Taking better care of myself.  Eating.  Sleeping.  Keeping busy.  But that hole in my heart just stays raw and open and keeps the tears just under my eyes, ready to come out at every moment. 
     Spring has been very slow this year, but the signs of new growth are happening.  I think it got tired of waiting for me; my winter is not quite over yet.