I need a new bed

 

There, I’ve said it.

We bought the current bed in 1996 when Greg and I got engaged and we were planning our lives together.  Neither of us had a decent bed, so we bought a new one.

New lives and all.

That bed has had a lot of use in the intervening years.  …and not just for sleeping on 😉

Our first bed in our first home together.

The place where our daughter was conceived.

The place where we snuggled and read and slept and snoozed and connected every single night under a hand-stitched quilt.

The bed that I had to come home to After, and look at the indent where he should be.  The bed that I lay in each night and hold a one-sided conversation with the vacant side.

The bed that still holds his shape deep within its fibres.

Our bed.

But.

According to my chiropractor, after 17 years the bed needs to be replaced.
…and my left hip agrees with him.

My mind agrees with him too … but my heart is not so sure.  My heart thinks that I am leaving yet another part of the old life behind; leaving a little bit more of Greg behind.  A part of life that I really wouldn’t want to change … except for the recurring hip pain from sleeping on fabric stretched too tight over barely-padded springs.

…and so today, as this post goes live, I will be at the furniture store, trying to select a bed that has got half a chance of living up to its predecessor.

I never thought that buying a new bed could ever trigger quite so much grief.

Not the Same

 

OK – I have got my ranty pants on here because I am So Tired of hearing the following statement:

“You are lucky – my husband is such an arsehole – I wish He was dead”.

Usually uttered by my divorced friends who keep on telling me How Much Tougher they have it due to custody battles and financial settlements.
And I understand that at this point in time, they truly hate the person they once loved.  That they are hurting and feel betrayed by love.  That legal battles are not fun. Disputes over children are fraught with emotion and righteous indignation.   Financial hardship is hurting their lifestyle.
And I feel the hate for their husband emanating from their mouths in streams of vitriolic rage.

But.

Being widowed and being divorced are NOT the same.

I listen to all these reasons quietly, repeating in my head that the do not know what they are saying because they have not walked in my shoes……

I deeply love my husband.  Still.
I  cry myself to sleep every night.  Still.
In my darkest moments, I fine tune my exit strategy.  Still.
I look upon the compensation payout as blood money.
I am sick of the ongoing legal battle for the insurance company to pay out the full amount of compensation.
I am still trying to live day-to-day on a single wage and the entirety of ALL expenses fall on my shoulders.
I tire of being the only adult making major life decisions that affect our children.
I would dearly love to find a great bloke and fall in love again …. but   Greg set the benchmark so high that I doubt I will ever meet another soul who is so perfectly imperfect for me.  Even if I was ready.

But I don’t say anything in response to these friends who tell me that death is easier than divorce because their Dad died and they had to put up with their batty mother who went  insane and OMG life was still so much better than being divorced ….  I don’t comment that losing a father is not the same as losing a husband and I don’t point out that her mother’s insanity was probably deep grief mixed with depression and terror.
But perhaps I should.

Perhaps I should say the one thing I know to be true:

Death and Divorce are NOT the same. 

Hell Week

So this week of the third sadiversary was always going to be bad.
But it  was BAD.

I think we would have been OK but for the weather.  We have been drenched in over 200mm of rainfall (8 inches) in the past week.
Roads were flooded (not ours) and the problem of ground water seeping into my house (that I spent thousands fixing two years ago) resurfaced.

The day itself was sombre – my 8yo son H sobbed all the way to the cemetery then didn’t want to leave.  K (10yo) flew into hysterics at the drop of a hat.  I bossed everyone around.

My head went back to that first day of knowing.  I NEEDED to be at the cemetery at the exact time of his death….. but  after a rough night and waking late, I knew it wasn’t going to happen.  So I stressed.  So everybody else fed on the stress.

We had planned a lunch at a local cafe.  I wasn’t hungry and ordered food I couldn’t eat when I should have caved to the day and ordered hot, salty chips with tomato sauce instead of the salad I ordered.   With a chocolate milk.  Or had pancakes and hot chocolate like the kids.

Then it started raining.
and raining.
And it didn’t stop.

…and the water came in.

…and I swept and swept and swept and then swept some more.

….and I broke.

…and then a 10 year old girl told me she loved me.

….and she picked up a broom and started sweeping out water.

….and I knew we would be OK.  ….together.

Three years

Three years
1096 days.

I thought I would be better this year.  I really did.

But I’m still falling down the rabbit hole.

 

An now today, I wake from little sleep.

I vomit.

I try to sleep more, but can’t.

I am flustered because I want to be at the cemetery at the exact time you died, and know I won’t make it.

It is still raining (has it stopped at all in 3 years?  is this the same rain that killed you?)

The kids are sad.

I am sad.

and tired.

The flooded garage during the week didn’t help.

We meet Mum for lunch.

I don’t know what to eat.

I choose poorly and gag on my food.

The kids whinge.

I come home.

I eat far too much chocolate.

I visit Mum and Dad.

Our son decides its time to have a tantrum that we haven’t seen in years.

I come home.

I distract myself on the internet.

I manage to bait a troll who wants to debate me on half-facts and semantics ( trolls are sad when they can’t understand the information they’ve cut and pasted from elsewhere and then try to defend their misunderstanding.)

I opt out of the debate (there isn’t one in my head, nor in the science and I don’t need the agro today of all days).

I try to sleep.

I can’t.

I ask you to talk to me.

You don’t.

I read a book that my lovely friend sent me…..

…..and it makes me think….

….and then I remember that flowers arrived right at the time you died.

more flowers arrived right when I was feeling really low.

…and then my friend arrived just because and we chatted.

….and I sleep.

Fitfully, but I sleep.