LIFE WITHOUT DAVID, Chapter 4

What a weepy week this was.  I feel like I've gone backwards in this grieving process.  I've felt like crying every few minutes.  I have to keep finding things to do to keep my mind active so that it doesn't have time to think about David.  Part of the problem, I'm sure, is that I am working on our clothes.  Getting mine altogether so that I can get rid of everything except those things I really want to keep...there is only so much closet space in the motorhome.  But also getting David's clothes together, taking them out of drawers and closets, trying to decide what to do with them.  And crying and crying the whole time, remembering when I bought them for him, remembering which were his favorites, where he wore them.  The sorting process is so painful.  I know I could just put them all in a bag and take them to the senior center, but I'd rather share the better things with family and friends, if they want anything.  No, that's not correct.  I'd rather just put them all back and keep them.  Take them out sometimes just to look at them and remember.  Maybe they might still smell like him.  But that is just not practical or healthy.  I need to move on.
     Yesterday, I made the mistake of opening and smelling his favorite aftershave.  It smelled so like him that I could almost feel his face, right there, ready to kiss.  More crying.
     Another part of the problem was Easter.   He really enjoyed holidays, even if it was just the two of us celebrating.  Holiday eating was something he would look forward to for days.  I would always prepare something special for him.  So I thought if I would cook a meal that he would have enjoyed, I would feel better about today.  Wrong thought.  The food was great, the company was pathetic.  I learned some new things today.  (1) One cannot cry and eat at the same time.  It may not be physiologically impossible, but it was not something I could accomplish.  (2) Fixing and eating a full dinner for oneself is depressing.   (3) I need to find new things to do on those days that David loved to celebrate.
     Today brought back so many memories.  Memories of the Easters when the kids were little, when we had to stay up so late after they went to bed, fixing baskets, stuffing plastic eggs.  We would sit on the bed, I would put the grass in all of the baskets and dump each bag of candy and all the chocolate bunnies in their own piles.  They had to be kept separated so that David could fill the baskets (five of them) a piece of candy at a time, so that each one had exactly the same amount...even the jelly beans.  My OCD man.  Then he got the change jar and filled each plastic egg with different amounts of money, not one egg could have the same amount as the other, so he could hide it all in the morning.  It took forever to do all of that, and I was always so tired and wanted to hurry up.  But that would have spoiled it.   I'm glad now that I didn't try to get him to hurry. 
      Memories of all the special meals we had by ourselves and those with family.  Today I could hear him say, "You fix a pretty plate, momma.  Thank you for doing this."  He always thanked me for fixing his meals, even if it was just a sandwich.  And when we had family together, how he loved for me to fix these huge meals, and how he loved for everybody to eat lots and lots of food.  It would actually disappoint him if someone didn't eat as much as he thought they should.  Even these past couple of years when he felt so bad, when he spent most of his day in bed, he would always come downstairs to eat with all of us.   And if there was something in the meal that wasn't one of  his favorites, he would say, "Oh no, no, I can't eat that, I'm not allowed to eat that, it will make me fat."  That would be, of course, right before he had a huge helping of desert.
     Oh, how I need for him to hold me.  I need his big hugs so much.  I need to hear his voice.  I just need him to be here again.   
     Some days ago, I had the weirdest dream about David...he was back with me, looking much healthier.  But, in the dream, I kept wondering how he could be back again, he died.  And I felt bad because I didn't want to tell him he had died, I didn't want to tell him I had taken his "mad money" out of his money clip and counted it.  I wish that, in my dream, I would have just held him.
     Writing in this blog is supposed to be cathartic.  I've cried through the whole thing.  I'm sick of this crying.  I sure hope next week is better.