Good Grief

Entry 1.    8:10 a.m.

Ever allusive sleep, already annoyed by the springing forward, was further taunted by the bright sunrise pouring through the living room window this morning.

I forget Jenny has passed some mornings.

I realize I am expectantly waiting for her to call to me from upstairs.  Thus, the morning routine with Jenny began each morning. I would bring  meds, help dress her, make sure she has her phone, help her down the stairs and to the couch. Once there and comfortable, I would make her a smoothie, eggs cooked "over medium," Cream of Wheat.  Then, I would head to work, and she would plan her day.

The dogs are restless. The morning quiet, broken only by the clink of the dog's tags as they shift in their crates, is the new normal. I miss the sound of her, the smell of her, needing me to help her. I miss her presence.

I have barely cried the last couple of days. I am sad, indescribably and immeasurably sad. I don't sleep--much. But the screaming loss and it's ache haven't produced much in the way of crying. Knowing that I would cut my right arm off and letting someone beat me with it until I scream uncle or until a single tear slowly rolls down my unshaven cheek to have any semblance of her back, isn't easing the sorrow.  . Grief is hiding it's long knives and readying itself to take them out for when I least expect it.

Entry 2   12:27 p.m.

I didn't draft the obit. I haven't read it. I can't. I just can't. 

https://obituaries.seattletimes.com/obituary/jennifer-gamache-1084599688/

Entry 3    4:00 p.m.

At WWU, emptying out the dorm. The oppressive weight on my chest is the knowledge that Leiney and Abby no longer have a mother. The finality of both the obituary, and the move, make it hard to pretend I am ok.

Entry 4.    7:35 p.m.

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd

Must fall the earliest prey;

Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,

The leaves must drop away:

And yet it were a greater grief

To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,

Than see it pluck'd to-day;

Since earthly eye but ill can bear

To trace the change to foul from fair. 

 

Entry 4    9:45 p.m.

 

The horror of Jenny's death can't be exaggerated. Besides all I have written about, I neglected to note her belly had swollen with blood and ascites, such that it was noticeably big, swollen more greatly than the edema in her legs and feet. She was skin and bones otherwise. Her temples sunken in nearly an inch. She suffered terribly. I tried my level best, we tried our level best, to reduce it. But a slow death from cancer, no matter how much morphine and lorazepam is given, or cool washcloths applied, no matter how many Cole Porter songs were sung to her, or hands stroking her thick hair, it was agony for her. Unabated. For days and days. I just couldn't fix it. I absorbed every ounce of her pain that I could, and it offered her no relief. I couldn't stop the pain. Which may be the more appropriate title for this journal. And that is the most painful thing I am thinking about tonight.