I still think you should call my cell when I can’t find it…but you don’t.
I’ve written a few posts to George. No place is George more present than on Nantucket. The house.
Kita and I hear you in the house. We pause. We tense.
The beach. I see you on the crests of the waves. Riding. Kita smells you in the sand. The beach is littered with dead birds. She chooses them.
In Town. At dinner. In the car. On walks. In the coffee. In the dog treats.
We had the same toothbrush. Still.
You know Crazy Larry next door. He died soon after you died. It’s crazy that I miss Crazy Larry. I think he’s off with you. Partying. Trading stories of women and good times.
And I’m trying not to tell stories of pain and loss.
I think I have been here before…but it’s been many years since I celebrated having a good 7 hours in a row. That’s it – 7 hours – yesterday. 7 hours in a place that I own…that used to be the center of my peace…that I cherished. And then along came George – and he loved this place as much – maybe more – than I did. It became the center of his peace. He moved in here body and heart and soul. He couldn’t be here enough. And then he died – spending his last weekend here with me just over 13 months ago. He inhabited every bit of this place – and then he died. And in the last 13 months I could hardly stand to be here. This place that I loved – where my heart and soul had lived for so long. Where I often spent time alone. I made it through 7 hours peacefully – even in the midst of a family crisis – before it got hard. And then I thought of George – my George – who would hug me and plan with me and walk with me and sit with me and talk to me and listen to me and smile at me and rough up Kita and make her crazy and make me a little crazy too – and then the 7 hour streak was done. Then I could feel George missing – and the loss happened over and over – in rolling waves – endless waves – it is almost like he rolls in and rolls out – gone again – wrenching – until I find a distraction…sometimes that distraction is elusive…
I know exactly what I did two years ago every day for 10 days starting yesterday. Writing it all out is exhausting but I feel compelled to chronicle the time. We went to Nantucket for Patriots Day weekend and missed the Marathon. Tim called us before the Marathon bombing news broke. Panicked. His roommates were at the finish line. He told us about the bombings before the news broke. We rushed home. George was thrown into a PTSD swirl but didn’t tell me at first. My Nancy had recently died and he didn’t want to upset me further. Chris joined us in Boston and in driving Chris home to Cambridge, George and Chris got caught in the maelstrom of the shooting of Sean Collier and the related robbing. George came home rattled – not even aware of what had happened. Then we were ordered to shelter in place. We left. First for lunch and then back to Nantucket.
I have absolutely no recollection of last year’s Marathon. George had died a month before. Now it was my turn for PTSD. I don’t remember April 8 until Mothers Day. I don’t remember Mothers Day until June. I remember little of June. And really so on.
In two days we will mark the two year anniversary of the Marathon bombing. I missed the first anniversary. And I miss George so much.
Not sure I can go away tomorrow as planned. Frozen in place.
My George died 13 months ago today. In the last few months I have tried to figure out my life and how to live. How to move forward.
I’m away for a few days by myself. Beautiful setting. Idyllic.
I brought you with me Georgie. When I sat at the pool and breathed you were sitting next to me. When I took a walk on the beach you walked with me. When I stopped to appreciate the beauty you joined me.
It’s hard to describe. Simultaneously comforting and wrenching.
When I walk Kita at night – especially late at night – she looks for George. Almost thirteen months after he died Kita comes to alert at the glimpse of a man on a bike. A certain walk. Body language. The look of a baseball hat…
Thirteen months. By the rule of 7, more than 7 years, and she still looks, tugs, turns back.
Yesterday – last night – I wrote a post about Easter – but it got lost in cyberspace. It was not an exceptional post – and losing it did not upset me. I don’t get upset by much – or maybe I’m upset all the time and the small things are inconsequential – I’m actually not sure which. I’m getting used to not being sure in general.
My Easter post was about how Easter – Palm Sunday – was my introduction to George’s family. Aunts, cousins, second cousins, hockey, homework and lots of food. I missed them this Easter – a lot. I don’t remember last Easter. It was April 20, 2014 – I looked it up. This was about 5 weeks after George died – I just don’t remember it at all. I don’t remember much about the first 6 months after George died – not much at all – a few highlights and a few low lights…
It’s later than I thought – so yesterday – not today – marks the one year anniversary of the memorial we did in NYC on April 6, 2014 – 24 days after George died. I remember some of it – not all. I remember the love and the tributes and the humor and the tears. I remember a team of people who got me through the days before, the day of, and the days after – and then I remember nothing for about a month.
I memorialize my George every day. What I miss about him – what he brought to my life – and to so many others. I talk about him some. It makes other people uncomfortable when I bring him up. He’s still the lead in my life – even in absentia. Funny – I hadn’t thought of it that way. I’m trying to live without him – but it’s not the same quality of life.
Tonight I was thinking about my belief that George and I were “meant” to be together – but that would also mean he was “meant” to die…and I was meant to be alone and sad…wondering what’s meant to be next…wondering about the meaning of “meant”…