February. I've been using it as a kind of "marker" for about a year now. February, twelve months ago, was when things got so hard for Bob, and for me, that I finally put out a call for more help. First, to our next door friend, Donna, and then to Bob's sister Barb who came as soon as she could get a flight and stayed with us a full month. And then I wrote about it in this blog, and my youngest sister Ginny rallied my siblings and friends. The next thing I knew, Bob and I had almost nonstop live-in help through the middle of May.
Now it's February again, and I've been overtaken by "this time last year" thoughts and memories. In those memories Bob was still here. He still laughed with us, ate with us, was glad to get out for walks with us. He still went shopping with us and enjoyed ice cream for dessert every night. He could still play with and enjoy the grand kids. In those memories he was still here, but this February he is not. The memories are filled with so many ways we were blessed with love and kindness, and with support that we needed more than we'd realized. At the same time, those memories are stark reminders of how different my life is now without Bob, and how much I miss him.
In the early days after Bob died, I read in some book about grief that "it gets worse before it gets better." The past few days, I've been wondering if the "worse" is upon me. I had two weeks of respite being with family in Florida. In that time, I was blessedly distracted by many contrasts to my usual days at home. There was a long weekend of partying with family as we celebrated a nephew's wedding. That was followed by visiting my Bournique and Risen sisters and some of their families. We walked through lush botanical gardens, enjoyed sand and sun and ocean, and the antics of younger family members. I loved it all and am grateful for the "infusion" of family, as one sister put it.
Yet since I've been home, my heart has felt again the depth of my loss. It crept up on me first driving home from Santa Fe, as I traveled through the beautiful canyon where Bob always delighted in spotting the rafters cruising on the Rio Grande River. It burst upon me as I turned onto the road to our home, and continued to break over me in waves as I unloaded the car, put away groceries, and unpacked. I couldn't have named what triggered these feelings, there was nothing specific, other than what Hope once said when I commented I didn't know why I was feeling the way I did: "Grandpa died." Simply put, that is the reason for so much of my emotion: Bob died.
Since my return from Florida, it feels as if I had two weeks off from those feelings being at the forefront of my awareness and so they've had a chance to accumulate. The accumulation spilled over briefly in the midst of yoga class today, as it had on Saturday when I was having coffee with a friend. It washed over me on Sunday when I spent some time re-reading this blog and was stunned by how much I'd forgotten of Bob's struggles, and my own. Later that day, more than once, it spilled out during a catch-up phone conversation with another good friend.
I'm not complaining about these experiences, only being aware of them, observing them, maybe learning from them. I think I am also somewhat surprised by them. This grief is unlike any other I have known. It is all-encompassing and ever-present, even when I am not aware of it. I've lost my "Other Half" which very literally means I've lost a big part of myself. Just as one has to adapt after losing a limb, I am adapting to living without Bob, the part of me I will never have again, except in precious memories.
