Me. Today. At the Gynocologist’s office.
Dr. Handsome Gyno: enters the room with his handsome smile, sits his whole handsome body down in front of me and with his handsome mouth he asks “how are you?”
Me: thinks to self “how the Hell do you think I am, you handsome man? What kind of a stupid assed question is that to spew out of your handsome mouth? You are really handsome.”
In reality, my eyes spontaneously filled with tears like a two year old who had her soother ripped out of her hands.
Dr. Handsome Gyno: “you look upset. Is something bothering you?”
Me: “Well … my husband died. So there’s that.”
That’s actually what I said.
Dr. Handsome Gyno looked equal parts horrified and embarrassed as that little piece of information hung out there awkwardly between myself and his handsome self.
Apparently I can’t just shut my mouth, smile and say “All is well with me, Dr. Handsome Gyno. How are YOU?” Nope. I’ve just got to open my mouth and vomit out whatever comes to mind. And since The Love Of My Life is always on my mind, that is what tends to come out.
This is the continually awkward story of my life. One minute I’m fine and the next I am sad, frustrated, angry, annoyed, short tempered or fine again. Pick one. If you pick the wrong one you can rest assured that within two or three minutes you will be right. The emotions are random, unplanned and embarrassing. And awkward.
Here’s one of Wendy’s truths … when someone passes me in the hall at work, smiles happily and says “Hey, how’re ya doin’?!” I want to punch them in the face. Hard. Sometimes I feel badly about those nasty innermost feelings of mine, and I try to remind myself that not everyone else’s world permanently imploded on January 13, 2016. But most of the time I don’t bother reminding myself that they are good people trying to be nice, and that they don’t really understand. That they couldn’t possibly understand, and that I’m actually glad they haven’t personally experienced this Hell themselves. Usually I just choose to go with the moment and secretly hate them. I’m a terrible person at times. It’s not you, it’s me.
I do my best to shake it off, but sometimes (like now) that just isn’t happening. However, on the ‘shake it off’ note, I did again stumble across this text from early January where Ben was carrying on a very serious conversation and still managed to have a sense of humour. I cut out the majority of the private conversation, but left in the funny part. (I’m not actually sure that he meant to be funny, but he was. Ben’s part is in blue.) Read on:
Lol. “Shake it off like Taylor Swift does” he says. Haha. If only Taylor Swift knew how the Big Bad Titan loved her! If only he could have shaken off that fucking cancer. With a small fucking ‘c’.
After my visit with Dr. Handsome Gyno I found myself thinking of fifty things that needed doing, but was completely unable to decide which one to do. I can’t make a decision to save my life. Lets hope I don’t really need to any time soon. I think I made enough decisions trying to save Ben’s life, and since we all know how that turned out, my mind has apparently decided ‘no more’ since it didn’t work anyway.
One of the items on my “To Do” list was to go buy new vent covers to go with my new hardwood floors. I stopped at Rona on the way home and wandered. And wandered. And mulled over sprinkler timers for some reason. And wandered. And glanced at the pendant lights which I also need. And wandered. You get the picture. I bought nothing. At this rate my home reno will never be done. I am relying on my friends with good taste and decision making abilities to choose for me. The other day I brought a throw rug home and then returned it.
Today I made an appointment for Friday with the people who will show me the map of the cemetery where we will have Ben’s ashes interred. WTF. Last year I was just barely getting used to the most recent diagnosis, and now I sit here typing about having My Sweetheart’s ashes interred? No wonder I’m fucking cranky.
I want this again. I want my hideous beast back again.
I will update after I have information about where Ben’s ashes will be spending the rest of eternity. Or at least most of them. I plan on keeping some myself, as I believe I mentioned in an earlier post. (And speaking of indecisive …. the funeral director did ask me several times back in January if I wanted to keep some ashes aside and I said “no, no, never, absolutely not, stop asking me.” Now I have changed my mind. Naturally.) Apparently I will also be deciding where my own ashes will be interred, because otherwise I will buy a single plot and then change my mind down the road. Likely I would then try to buy out the owner of the plot next to Ben, and when they say “No” I would have to resort to grave robbing. Not good for the career. So I’ll buy my own resting place at the same time and save our kids the trouble down the road.
Besides, where else would I want my ashes to be for all eternity but snuggled beside Ben?
The other night I dreamed that Ben was walking beside me and laughing. It was so sweet to be beside him again, until my twisted brain then turned that pleasant moment into a nightmare where he had a heart attack walking alongside me. Again … WTF? While I was screaming “Call 911” he turned his head towards me and gave me a mischievous smile. Not even kidding. Then I woke up.
After all these months of silently begging him to come back, that’s what he does? Undoubtedly his idea of a joke, since his sense of humour was “unique,” to put it delicately.
This song is our song. I always thought we’d dance on the beach to this song in our old age.
I love you Ben. I miss you every minute. I wish you had told me how I was supposed to manage life without you.
PS. Raegan made dinner tonight. Potato soup. From scratch. So that was nice. Thanks for teaching her how to cook