I cleaned my desk yesterday. To some, that might seem like a small thing, but some of you understand that for me, cleaning my desk was like climbing Mount Everest. See, I haven’t cleaned my desk or attempted to sort through the ever-growing stacks of paperwork on it in months. It seemed too hard, seeing mail addressed to my husband, reading over insurance documents, tax information, and all the other issues that you have to face when your other half dies.
I sorted through piles – yes piles (they weren’t stacks because stacks would infer that they were neatly arranged and that was not the case!) – of mail, magazines, invoices, and papers, throwing away most of it, and keeping that which I needed to keep. I was exhausted after I finished, and although it still isn’t perfect, it will do for now. I’m still exhausted today. In fact, I am exhausted at the thought of going through the mail on my stove (don’t judge, it’s not like I have cooked since May!), the kitchen counters, and the dining room table (we have places to eat, as it is only one end!).
I think of things I would like to do, and I just can’t. I can’t deal with emptying Grubby’s side of the closet or cleaning out his Jeep. I dream often that he is back, that he is looking for something (golf balls or clubs, a certain shirt, or something from the gun safe), and that he isn’t happy when he can’t find it. So, I leave it be. I know he is not coming back. The box of cremains on the bedside table is my constant reminder that he will never walk through our door again, but still, I can’t bring myself to start getting rid of his stuff.
I think of the mounds of Thank You cards that I still need to write and send out, and I know that the longer I let them sit, the closer I am to having my Southerner card pulled. Still, I am overwhelmed at the thought of doing this task.
I look at the Jeep and know that the registration is up this month, that I need to retitle and reregister it in my name, and yet, it is his Jeep. It will always be HIS Jeep. Yes, I own it now, and yes, I paid it off, but it’s still his. It’s true that the seats are covered with dog hair, but it doesn’t feel like it’s mine.
I don’t know if it is fear or sadness that makes it virtually impossible for me to handle these things. Part of me is afraid that once I do remove his stuff, he will be gone… I actually like the dreams of him coming back because for a little while, until I awaken, I am with my love, and I am whole again. If I take the physical reminders of him out of our closet, out of our room, will he still come visit in my dreams, or will it mean that I am moving on?
My dreams are the only place I get to be with him, even for a little while. Even when I awaken to that awful memory and that awful sound, I am with him. Maybe that is why sleep is so comforting to me, and I sometimes have the urge to sleep around the clock. Or perhaps it is because that the holidays are upon us, and I no longer have my person to spend them with. Whatever it is, I know I am not ready to tackle the stove or the table or the Thank You cards yet… Someday, but not today…
At least I cleaned my desk though.
This one got to me.