I have survived another month without Wife, though I am NOT relieved by that fact. I still "enjoy" my minutes - well, hours - actually, of overwhelming waves of grief. Songs on the radio continue to swamp the windshield as I drive. Bobby Goldsboro's "Honey"; the Chi-lites' "Have You Seen Her?"; and strangely enough, Kenny Rogers' "The Gambler", as well as MANY others.
Along the way, however, I seem to have developed a few coping skills. I have her side of the bed piled high and heavy so that when I climb into bed, or awake in the night, I can slide my arm or foot - or whole leg - under the heavy-ness of her surrogate, and gain some comfort in that.
I still greet Her each time I walk into the house with, "Honey, I"m home" - hoping-against-hope that she will answer - just ONE more time. (Yes, I am, on occasion, STILL in denial). I visit her grave at every opportunity, and talk to her there, though she does not respond. I still hope. (See, there again, I am in . . you know.) I have resolved to, on each visit, remove a bouquet and place it in the trash. I have kicked not a few rocks, and broken up innumerable clay clods. I have ordered her tombstone, and await its arrival. I leave the cemetery somewhat assuaged. (Okay, THEN I move onto another stage of grieving - for the moment.)
In the final analysis of each evening, I eventually conclude that while NOTHING will take Wife's place - in our house, my heart, our bed, our vehicle, or at the dinner table, I am improving. Each night when I begin to hear the music of a self-pity party tuning up, I reach for the switch-to-another-channel button which will substitute one of my favorite memories of her. (Yes, I stay- for a moment - in the final stage of mourning - acceptance.) Then, somewhere in the night, I wander once more onto the now-well-worn and familiar mourning path which, once more escorts me into and through another day's somehow-soothing sorrow swamp.
