It's officially been 3 weeks since my husband was handed his walking papers. It's getting harder to remember what life was like before that, in the scramble to put the wheels back on the wagon train.
Time feels different. Yesterday I told a friend I feel like a human yo-yo. I'm up one day and down the next, trying to find my equilibrium.
Years ago in another career long ago, I worked (as a social worker) with cancer patients and their families. Much of my effort revolved around helping families find a sense of normalcy amidst loss and grief. I remember what I used to tell those who had lost loved ones. In the beginning the bad days outnumber the good ones. Over time, you reach the point where you have as many good days as bad. And then you move through enough of the grief process where finally the good days outnumber the bad ones.
In this current loss that my husband and I are experiencing, I "know" that my ups and downs have a limited shelf life. What I really miss right now - my voice. When it's not being stifled by intense emotions or a strong inner censor, ("I can't write about that on my blog . . ."), it's being crowded out of its home in my office. Out of necessity, my husband has taken over my computer ( and office) to work on his resume and visit job sites.
It's a temporary toleration. Thankfully we have a spare room currently filled with junk. I am insisting that he buy a laptop soon, and then we shall clear out the junk from the spare room and he too will have his own home base.
And then I will not feel so backed up on the inside. Some people paint; sing; garden; putter; or work Sudoku puzzles. I write. It takes me to my heart and back. Without that trip, I don't know what I don't know.