If you need me, I’ll be hiding in the pool.

My mother has been having “issues” the last few months. Random pains, indigestion, nausea, etc. At first, she chalked it up to age and the start of a new exercise class she has joined. As it persisted, she decided to see her doctor, who sent her for an ultrasound, and as of today, a diagnosis of gallstones and a gallbladder that needs to come out NOW. Now as in tomorrow. She called me earlier, all in a tizzy, worried about me taking off work and taking care of her and all of the other random things one worries over when having any type of surgical procedure. I told her to quit worrying. For only the second time in 2.5 years I called in to work, the first being when Gregory was on life support, and told them I needed off.

Lathroscopic outpatient surgery. No big deal, right? I am telling myself and her that she’ll be alright, that we’ll go up there tomorrow, she’ll have the surgery, and we’ll come home and I’ll play nurse for a few days.

I hope it’s that easy. I am a little wary. I try not to be, I try to be positive, but out of the corner of my eye, I almost see him peeking around the corner. Losing my husband,my father and the subsequent actions (or inactions ) of some friends and family members has instilled some alert in my head that screams ONE MORE AND YOU’RE ALL ALONE ! ALONE ! ALONE ! I hate the damn sign in my head, and I still haven’t found the off switch. I also understand my mother is worried, but fretting about life insurance and then hoping that the weather will be nice Sunday “in case you have to bury me that day”  is NOT helpful. Not helpful because it makes it harder for me to disguise my worry.

And you know what I am worried about? Besides the obvious that she might die and I will damn sure be all alone then ?

I’m worried about what I’m going to wear to the hospital.

Yea, that.

I know you are thinking that I am a vain, shallow bitch. Go ahead, it’s ok. I would too.

But it’s not that. It’s something in my grief addled brain that popped into my head while I was getting my clothes ready for tomorrow. And I know why.

I remember exactly what I was wearing when Gregory took his last breath as I held his body, begging him not to leave me. A green sweater and khaki corduroys. I remember exactly what I was wearing when I heard my mother screaming at 0430 am, four days before Christmas, and ran upstairs to find my father, dead in his bed from the fucking cancer. (Excuse the language, but that is cancer’s technical name. Ask anyone who’s had it or lost someone because of it.)  I was wearing a Festivus t-shirt and Hello Kitty pajama bottoms. It’s odd how clearly I remembered these two outfits, in succession, as I reached in my closet for a pair of jeans a few moments ago. Odd that after not having thought about them for awhile, they popped into my head like one of those colorful, annoying Old Navy ads.

I still have those clothes. I don’t know why, I just do. They are folded up together in a plastic bin in the back of my closet. They sit in that bin with the towel my dad was holding when he died, his blanket, and the t-shirt and shorts Gregory had on when they took him to the hospital.

I don’t know why I keep them all. I just know I do. And I don’t want to get rid of them. Not just yet. Maybe never.

I’m sure some psychiatrist would have an absolute field day with me about this one, and yea I know there’s some deep-rooted reason I cling to these things and blah blah blah ….. but right now, I don’t care.

Right now, I just want to pick out some damn clothes that I can wear again, get my mom fixed and come home. And not be left alone.

Again.

An observant friend of mine gently asked me how I handled yesterday. Yesterday being the 20th of the month. If you are new here, I am not fond of the 20th of the month. The 20th is the day of the month my husband died. The 20th of one particular month is also my birthday, which leaves me in quite the pickle.

Yesterday marked 22 months since Gregory’s death. I used to mark each month with a post, but recently, I stopped doing that. It was just something I didn’t feel the need to do. Not that I don’t think about it on the 20th. I think about it every day, every minute, with each breath I take. Even my sleep is flooded with the thoughts and dreams of my husband and the day of his death. It’s like an endless loop in my brain. Dr. Lecter still visits, but not as often as before. I find myself hoping it’s because he has decided to have some mercy on me, not because he has found fresh prey.

When I answered my friend, I used the word “carefully”. Navigating that day, and frankly, every other day, is a gentle dance I do with myself on a moment by moment basis. I am getting better. I am feeling better. But I am still heartbroken, hurting, and probably affected more than I am willing to admit to myself. Most days I am fine, and I find myself not getting washed in grief not nearly as much as before. But it still happens. At night, when the shadows deepen, when I’m driving home in the dark, I usually feel it well up inside me and I try to stay between the lines as I wipe my tears. And it’s not just for G, it’s for my daddy too. For me, because I want to be selfish and whine and ask why they are not here with me.

I’ve always heard the second year of grief is the hardest. I never believed it until I slogged through it. And now, with the two year death-aversary looming ?

What will year three bring ?

I’m both excited and terrified to find out.