Personal Journal

Hard Day

Whirlwind day.
The first agony came when I realized that when the mortuary took her out of the house, I was never going to see her face again.
Never.

If I say that Jean was beautiful in death, would that be morbid? I kissed her a few times, but she got colder. I had her in the house for eight hours after she died, and the nurse said to keep the room cool, which I did. I finally settled on kissing her on her hairline a lot where I didn't notice that coolness.

I'm very fond of the saying "Valle con Dios". It flows very smoothly, and having spent a lot of time, critical time in defining my identity on the Texas/Mexico border, I find certain Spanish phrases comforting. Valle con Dios is the most special of these. So I said to her many times, "Valle con Dios mi amor." It felt right. It comforts me.

So she is gone now. I saw a grief counselor and I think that she and I will have a good relationship.

I've had waves of pain. Horrible, godawful pain like I've never experienced in my lifetime, that contort my body and leave me wracked with sadness so tortured that it's as though it's from Hell itself. I shriek, but not long - it doesn't have to be long for me, just intense and completely honest.

My friend isn't here for me to tell that I'm hurting anymore.

What's a surprise, in a bad way, is how I miss having my job. I miss having the opportunity to be the caregiver.

God damn the modest side of me and the virtue of humility. I have a right to admit to myself that I was VERY GOOD as her caretaker. I wasn't a saint and I got frustrated and lost patience, but NOBODY that Jean or I know could have done this job better than I. Of that, I have no doubt.

So I'm happy that I followed through and I delievered the absolute best that I can in life, because I'm mostly a slacker who never fully tries.

I miss being the caretaker the way a mother misses being able to cook for her child once he moves away. That ritual work went right into the beloved's body, from the toil of my muscle to bloodstream of my Jean. And now it is not something I can give anymore.

It's empty in this house tonight, and Jean is not 24 hours gone. I went out tonight. Needed out. Went to the furniture store because I want to buy a headboard. But I've never been to a furniture store without Jean, and so it felt a little obviously wrong.

And I went to the game store, but there were people having fun there and stuff, and I didn't feel connected to that scene. So as I drove home, I realized I didn't want to come in here and be alone with only the memories of what my life was like 24 hours ago, and what Jean's was like.

Every 20 minutes giving her morphine and adavan. Listening to her struggle to breathe and pleading with her to let go. She wasn't in there any more, I believe. And I don't feel bad for having slept near the end yesterday. Seeing how she took her last turn after I left the room, perhaps that's what she needed - to know that I wasn't going to be there during the last turn downward, except for those last two breaths.

Jean is my love. I miss her.