I awoke, as I do every day thinking of M.
When I go to sleep at night, I pray that the Universe who took him from me takes me.
I awake every morning enraged that I am still here.
I am playing a waiting game now.
I can't bear this.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
I went to the cemetery yesterday with BFF.
In some ways it was anti climactic. The buildup of tension through several days in anticipation, the persistant intent to not focus on it, that a day was just a day and it didn't really matter that it was the 24th.
Forgetting that it comes in the dark of the moon. That the dark of the moon does things to me, makes me morose, creates a palpable difference in how I see the world.
often hormonal, yet not to be discounted.
I had written M a card. One of my (former) students was a an artist and had printed a number of blanks with her artwork on the front. Lovely work, as well.
I had one that had a vase with sunflowers, I thought it was appropriate.
I used to sing to M in the morning, you are my sunshine, my only sunshine...
I sang this song over and over to him as he lay dying. Making sure that he heard it, it never failed to bring a smile to his face. After he transitioned, with his soul in the room, I sang to him again, you are my sunshine, my only sunshine... until I was led from the room and away from his body.
I said many things to him.
I hate that place. i hate the site of his name on the plaque. I hate that it exists and that there is a place to go.
But having a place to go was strangely cathartic and comforting to leave his card there for him. The river stone his father had taken to him was still there, which was also comforting.
I also brought a pebble back with me from the "columbarium".
There's a fucked up word, if I've ever heard one.
After that buildup, being able to commune for a brief moment in time was comforting.
In some ways it was anti climactic. The buildup of tension through several days in anticipation, the persistant intent to not focus on it, that a day was just a day and it didn't really matter that it was the 24th.
Forgetting that it comes in the dark of the moon. That the dark of the moon does things to me, makes me morose, creates a palpable difference in how I see the world.
often hormonal, yet not to be discounted.
I had written M a card. One of my (former) students was a an artist and had printed a number of blanks with her artwork on the front. Lovely work, as well.
I had one that had a vase with sunflowers, I thought it was appropriate.
I used to sing to M in the morning, you are my sunshine, my only sunshine...
I sang this song over and over to him as he lay dying. Making sure that he heard it, it never failed to bring a smile to his face. After he transitioned, with his soul in the room, I sang to him again, you are my sunshine, my only sunshine... until I was led from the room and away from his body.
I said many things to him.
I hate that place. i hate the site of his name on the plaque. I hate that it exists and that there is a place to go.
But having a place to go was strangely cathartic and comforting to leave his card there for him. The river stone his father had taken to him was still there, which was also comforting.
I also brought a pebble back with me from the "columbarium".
There's a fucked up word, if I've ever heard one.
After that buildup, being able to commune for a brief moment in time was comforting.
Monday, February 23, 2009
6 months - taking stock
I posted on a widow/widower site last night about my sister asking me whether i wanted to heal...
I'm not sick.
I am not ill, although I am symptomatic.
I am not injured, although I've been crippled.
I am not contagious, although apparently people have trouble being around me.
The pain is... different.
There are moments where it feels as if he is right there, next to me. I can feel his breath, hear his heart near me.
I turn, with his name on my lips...
I awaken, feeling the weight of his arm on my waist...
I grab my phone, to tell him something funny...
I am bereft without him. The pain is not as immediate. Not as sharp. It aches, it burns, it deepens every minute, but goes deeper.
Hard to explain. Don't know how to get this across...
I'm not sick.
I am not ill, although I am symptomatic.
I am not injured, although I've been crippled.
I am not contagious, although apparently people have trouble being around me.
The pain is... different.
There are moments where it feels as if he is right there, next to me. I can feel his breath, hear his heart near me.
I turn, with his name on my lips...
I awaken, feeling the weight of his arm on my waist...
I grab my phone, to tell him something funny...
I am bereft without him. The pain is not as immediate. Not as sharp. It aches, it burns, it deepens every minute, but goes deeper.
Hard to explain. Don't know how to get this across...
6 months
half of a year.
It feels as if it's been an eternity since I felt his arms around me. Since I've felt him holding me. Since I ran my hand over his back, hitting all the spots that made him melt.
It's been over 6 months since I've heard him say my name, any of them. Since he said he loved me.
Since I've smelt that peculiar mix of scents that made him up to me.
It's been 6 months since I've bought him something to wear. Since I combed his hair, cleaned his face.
It's been six months since I gave him a sip of water, making sure that it went into his mouth.
It's been six months since I told him and knew he heard me that I love him. Since I heard him say in response "I know" a phrase he only started using days before he left me.
It's been six months.
And it's been forever.
How has it been six months? How is it possible that I still breathe? That I imitate life successfully enough that people around me are fooled?
How can I go on?
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Occidental Tourist
So I bought this the other day:
The Middle East in Cambridge was an important spot for M and I.
When we first started seeing each other, I had told M I danced there. So M went to see me dance...
Of course he went on a Monday. Dancing was reserved for Wednesdays and Sundays.
Mondays apparently were for "angry lesbian poetry night".
M went, and sat through it... very uncomfortably... eventually he asked a waitress when was the dancing supposed to start. She told him the nights it was scheduled for.
M eventually made it on the right night (and left a family celebration in which to do) where he saw me dance for the first time.
The Middle East was HUGE in our relationship, and many of the people there became like family.
we went very frequently, even when I wasn't performing just to spend time "where everybody knew our name"
Soooo, I see the etsy add (etsy is an auction site for artists, everything on there is made by the sellers www.etsy.com) and see the poster for sale. I fall in love with the poster, think about how wonderful the colors are, it's original art, it makes me smile, and M will love it.
I buy it and go to let M know...
Yeah.
No one to tell.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Valentine's Day
I'm invariably drawn to thoughts of M.
Today, last year, he was recovering from the persistent discomfort (and i now know) fear that haunted him January. He was preparing for his annual physical, which was to occur on the 11th.
We talked about what he would bring up. My concerns that his diet had deteriorated. My concern over his cholesterol, blood pressure and diabetes... his concerns over what was happening with him, symptoms that he hadn't shared with me.
Every day is sinking deeper into the morass that was last year, at this time.
I keep thinking, so, while we were going to the movies, or I was working on a choreography, the cancer was this big.
And Valentines Day is looming.
As with so many other couples, it mattered to us. Different than in both of our previous relationships, we strove to make it so special for either.
I would cook for him, taking extra special care that the house looked nice (which I normally could care less about) making his favorite meal, setting the table, flowers, a card for him...
One of his favorite gifts from me is a pink muppet, that sings the manamana song, lights up, jaws move, and has movable arms that go with the song.
it was a very silly gift, but he lit up when he opened it.
It made him so happy, his words to me were that he had never felt as "special" to anyone as I made him feel.
It was a joy to do special things for him, to see his face light up, watch his shoulders shimmy (totally unconscious for him) when he was especially happy.
It's been a tough weekend.
And I have people around me who love me, who want to help me.
My sister heard me crying, great gasping sobs. She came upstairs with her partner and they bracketed me, holding and rocking me until I quieted.
I later watched them dancing, in the kitchen, just sharing a loving moment.
And I remember him.
Today, last year, he was recovering from the persistent discomfort (and i now know) fear that haunted him January. He was preparing for his annual physical, which was to occur on the 11th.
We talked about what he would bring up. My concerns that his diet had deteriorated. My concern over his cholesterol, blood pressure and diabetes... his concerns over what was happening with him, symptoms that he hadn't shared with me.
Every day is sinking deeper into the morass that was last year, at this time.
I keep thinking, so, while we were going to the movies, or I was working on a choreography, the cancer was this big.
And Valentines Day is looming.
As with so many other couples, it mattered to us. Different than in both of our previous relationships, we strove to make it so special for either.
I would cook for him, taking extra special care that the house looked nice (which I normally could care less about) making his favorite meal, setting the table, flowers, a card for him...
One of his favorite gifts from me is a pink muppet, that sings the manamana song, lights up, jaws move, and has movable arms that go with the song.
it was a very silly gift, but he lit up when he opened it.
It made him so happy, his words to me were that he had never felt as "special" to anyone as I made him feel.
It was a joy to do special things for him, to see his face light up, watch his shoulders shimmy (totally unconscious for him) when he was especially happy.
It's been a tough weekend.
And I have people around me who love me, who want to help me.
My sister heard me crying, great gasping sobs. She came upstairs with her partner and they bracketed me, holding and rocking me until I quieted.
I later watched them dancing, in the kitchen, just sharing a loving moment.
And I remember him.
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