I think about you and miss you every day. In some ways writing about it has lost its catharsis and therapeutic value. It just reminds me of the pain. Although, I would rather be in pain every day than to not think about you. I want to make sure our boys remember you, but it’s also very difficult to go through pictures or watch videos right now. They still talk about you though, especially Desi. He asks about you now and then, unprompted. Or he’ll see that I look sad and ask if I miss Grammy.
The holidays were hard of course. Michelle and I tried to focus on making Christmas special for the boys, but I couldn’t help thinking about you all the time, how you loved Christmas and always made it special for me. There were only a handful of Christmases that we didn’t spend together, so it was hard for Dad and I to enjoy the day without you. We couldn’t help thinking, of course, about how you were missing out with the boys. They really enjoyed the day. I know you would have loved being there, watching them open presents and having sweet moments where they would actually hug each other. Then it just really hit home for me after Christmas and New Years. I was distracted by the activity and trying to make it special for our kids, then afterward all the pain just came flooding in.
It’s hard going to family events without you. Everything is different now and it just doesn’t feel the same. I can’t help thinking you should be there and missing your voice. That’s probably one of the things I miss the most and I knew I would, just being able to talk to you. We’ve obviously spent months apart before, but I could always pick up the phone and call you, hear your voice.
I’m still haunted by your last weeks. One doesn’t realize while going through those moments the trauma that is accumulating. Dad and I did what we had to do to take care of you and to make you as comfortable as possible while honoring your wishes. I often see you in those last few days and it hurts so much. I don’t regret being there at all, but I also hated seeing you like that and some of those images are just burned into my brain. Dad told me I was the last person to actually speak to you. I’ll never forget having to call the hospice nurse in the middle of the night because you seemed distressed, uncomfortable, though not in pain. She was there for a couple hours and that’s when we found out you really didn’t have much time left at all. What we were witnessing was terminal agitation. She changed your medications and you just faded away from there. While I don’t think you were in a lot of pain, you were obviously suffering – your body was failing you and there was nothing we could do except be there and offer medications. Maybe one day those images will fade. I don’t know.
No responses yet