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I have two fears, equally horrible.

The first is that I'll never forget.

The second is that I will forget.


( 4 comments — Leave a comment )
Feb. 26th, 2006 03:36 am (UTC)
If you wanted to be funny, you should have said:

I have two fears, equally horrible.

The first is that I'll forget.

The first is that I'll forget.

I hope that's not totally out of line.
Feb. 26th, 2006 04:24 am (UTC)
write it all down.
every speck of it.

smells, sounds, details, all of it.

write it all down, and if you feel like you might have forgotten, you can read it. It will also help you move forward, to purge and celebrate that part of your soul. I recommend using a journal or a notebook. I think it is important to have it in a tangible fashion that you can hold and tough and sleep on top of if you feel the urge. It won't replace her, but it will ensure that she is never far away either.
Feb. 27th, 2006 12:26 am (UTC)
You don't do either. It all works out to some middle ground, where you think about them less and less but remember them more. You see something and think 'Huh. She would have liked that.' And that's about where it ends. There are hills and valleys. You will have times she's there, more than others. Then you'll eventually realize you haven't thought about her for a week or more, and you'll feel like dogshit, but that passes, too.

This is how people stay sane.
Feb. 27th, 2006 02:54 am (UTC)
Sanity is overrated.

Penny and I would watch Monk together, and get all sniffy at the more obviously and deliberately intended episodes about his wife.

One such episode, Monk finally agreed to take medication to control his obsessiveness. It was hilarious in some respects, because the meds did nothing to give him empathy or social skills, merely blunting the obsessive behaviour and making him more comfortable. He loved it, everyone else hated it, and he completely lost that special edge which made him such a good detective.

He thought it was worth it until he realized he couldn't remember his wife's face. Then he did instant cold-turkey.

I'd like to be able to remember that clearly. I know tricks that will let me do so, for some things, but the fine details are hard to get.

I was thinking about this when talking with someone about losing relationships, and losing someone you've been married to for so long. And Scott Kurtz said something similar in his usually smug commentary on PvP Online. After a point, when a couple is married for long enough and has kept their relationship alive and healthy, you get something that's beyond what you normally think of as 'love' - you grow into one another.

When Penny had her gallbladder removed (laparascopic) the doctor screwed up and cut up the underside of her liver, which caused it to leak bile and stuff into her abdominal cavity. To catch it, he placed a 'drain tube' - a nylon tube with holes in the far end - into her body, that led out to a couple of odd little plastic bottles. The bile and blood collected in the bottles, and she would empty them every six hours.
The draining stopped, he removed the tubes... and four days later had to go in and place them again because removing the tubes resulted in more damage, and it started building up internally.
They ended up leaving them in place for two more weeks, and by back-flushing neosporin liquid into her abdomen, eventually things healed up.

Removing the tube was horrible. She lay on a table, and I held her shoulders while she gripped my wrists, and he grabbed the tube and pulled.
After about a minute, they popped out, with scar tissue having grown into the tube openings.
She said it wasn't pain in the usual sense, but that it was definitely 12 on the 1-10 scale.

Sometimes I feel like for every day that we were friends, then married, for every hour we spent together, laughing or fighting or loving or just breathing together, that a fine silk thread was gently wrapped around that part of my spirit that lives around my heart. When she died, it was like that immense rope, built up over 30 years, was suddenly yanked out at the speed of light, vaporizing the core of who we were.

I try to hold onto the vapors, to let it cool and solidify again into something bearable, and it does work over time.

But I feel like I'm losing so much of it, in the process. Like Adrian Monk, I find that I cannot easily see her face as though she were standing next to me, and I cannot hear her voice from outside me. But I can't stop taking a pill and suddenly get them back.
( 4 comments — Leave a comment )