Minute by minute
Mornings are the most difficult.
I wake up and life feels right for a moment, but clues from the day before remind me life is anything but right. Clothes cover the floor because hangers are for happy people. Various pill bottles decorate the nightstand, some with the intention to help me sleep, others designed to help me stay awake. One is for digestion, as my stomach is the first to give up when I’m upset.
Everything surrounding me reminds me of her. My lamps? She helped me pick them. That book on the shelf? She loaned it to me and I just kept it. (In my defense, many of my books sit on her shelf from the same situation.) Hell, even the bed I refuse to leave reminds me of her — she loved it so much her and I conspired on how to convince her husband to spend the money on the same one (Bed twins!). I turn to face the wall to have a moment alone.
Fuck. She helped me pick the paint.
I remind myself I just have to get through the next minute, nothing more. Everything else comes later. Just get through the next minute. I get out of bed and try to make the most of it. Brushing my teeth makes me think of her smile. Washing my face with a soap she gave me somehow makes me feel dirtier. A minute finally passes.
I should have brushed my teeth longer, in hindsight. Whatever, no one can get mad at me if my breath stinks. I’m grieving, after all.
Even walking feels like a chore, so by the time I make it to the couch another minute passes. I open my phone to find an amazing amount of support, but responding to any of it feels exhausting. For most of the week my phone was nothing more than a device for receiving and sharing bad news and I want nothing to do with it. (Note: Please keep sending support.)
I step outside for my morning dog walk. I’m thankful to have a pup who can be patient, as her morning walk is hours later than usual. The sun is bright and feels warm on my skin. Prick. Can’t it read the room? Show some decency and put on some clouds. Add some rain, even.
Before long it’s time to eat something. What a joke. Nausea and hunger battle it out for my attention, and a quarter of a normal breakfast is the end prize. Coffee gets tossed in (my stomach protests) so I can be sad, but more anxious about it, too. Good enough for today.
Even though I swear the morning just started, it’s now the afternoon.
Afternoons are the most difficult.
People go about their days normally, and some even have the gall to look happy. Don’t they know that the world changed yesterday? Didn’t they get the news that we lost someone important? How dare they act normal. Show some respect.
Back to the couch.
My phone pings to let me know I have unopened Snapchats from the night she died. In the era of technology, we have years of texts, chats, and messages that date back years. Social media tries to keep us engaged with memories of our past with no regard for our present, because the algorithms are designed to get our attention and make them money, not to make us feel connected or loved. The Internet makes ghosts real.
I try to look back at photos of us only to realize there simply aren’t many. Sure, we have messages that date back decades, but our photos are sparse. When you see someone only sometimes, it’s easy to remember to take a picture to commemorate the moment. When you’ve seen each other often for 25 years, you promise you’ll take a photo — next time.
I finally make the effort to text and call some people back, and feeling loved means everything and talking to others helps. But no matter how much I focus on the love, it always loses to loneliness. It’s funny, considering the connotation of loneliness, it’s odd that the feeling brings so many friends: Sadness. Grief. Anger. Pain.
I decide to do something I enjoy, so maybe I feel human for a second.
We shared just about everything we enjoyed. We built LEGO together from the third grade to about three weeks ago. We spent our childhood blowing up TIE Fighters and playing with her epic Millennium Falcon, until right now, we texted each while watching the latest Star Wars shows and movies.
She introduced me to hiking, my favorite adult hobby of them all.
Anything I try to do makes me think of her. I settle on writing, the hobby she encouraged me on the most. I decide to write about her, and it takes me into the night.
Nights are the most difficult.
The questions begin. Why her? Why now? Why so young? Why when things were just getting good? Why when she was in love? Why when she was healthy?
Just.
Why?
The questions cycle through the night, even through the distractions. Sometimes the distraction breaks through and I genuinely laugh or smile, but immediately feel guilty for it. Happy people get to laugh, not grieving ones.
Eventually sleep comes, providing sweet relief. For now. When I wake up, that relief ends abruptly.
Mornings are the most difficult.
