Resilient.

 I heard it again tonight.

A ding off the wrist that would have likely gone into the net.

Vein swelling, wrist blue.

"I would have gone off to the bench and said, 'See ya b'ys!'"

Resilient.

I've heard that word a lot over the years.

And I wish to never hear that word again.

Resilient.

I've worked so hard.

I've done nothing but and yet, this.

This is my life now.

This, though not to this magnitude, has always been my life.

Nothing I touch turns to gold.

Everything I touch turns to shit.

And no matter how hard I work and no matter how hard I try the reward is this.

I never wish to hear that word again.

Resilient.

For once in my life I would like to be known for something other than how well I take a hit.

Tomorrow, Wendy.

Tomorrow.

It's 8:30 pm. That means I turn on the hockey game until I fall asleep but not before I think about tomorrow.

Every day becomes a task of how to spend tomorrow.

I never used to worry about tomorrow and always tried to live in the now. We were planners but today was always the most important day.

"It is what it is, Dwan," if tomorrow felt like a day where the other shoe would drop.

I thought I had worries then.

Never worry about tomorrow, we had said.

Worry about what today brings.

But that all changed when the Sergeant came to the door and the chasm in my chest got ripped open.

"It is complete now,
Two ends of time are neatly tied.
A one way street,
She's walking to the end of the line.
And there she meets
Faces she keeps in her heart and mind
They say,
Goodbye..."

Now tomorrow has become the biggest worry.

Will I be able to sleep to noon so at least those hours are taken up and aren't more hours and minutes and seconds of the fire in my chest that feels like it is trying to burn this house down but no matter how many matches and how much fuel get thrown on it my body just won't burn down?

Everyone means well.

I wound up on a Zoom call the other night with 14 other widows.

And they talked about faith, heaven and god.

I don't know why all of that is so triggering for me now.

I'm not religious, nor have I ever been.

I know there is no god.

Yet the simple mention sets me into a rage.

"I told the priest,
Don't count on any second coming.
God got his ass kicked the first time
He came down here slumming.
He had the balls to come,
The gall to die and then forgive us.
No, I don't wonder why,
I wonder what he thought it would get us?"

I've seen enough suffering and loss in the world that no concept of a higher power would ever let it happen with a conscience.

Oh, but that's not god, right? That's the devil.

Your concept of god can't even take accountability.

That doesn't fly here, anymore.

No pun intended.

Religion has become yet another trigger to throw on the list that never affected me in the least and I could let folks carry on and have their faith while going on about my day.

No more.

"Only god says jump,
But I set the time,
'cause if he ever saw it
It was through these eyes of mine.
And if he ever suffered,
It was me who did his crying..."

And I hate that.

I hate that I can't help but be enraged now by anyone who holds on to their faith and the belief that anything good happens in this life or after it.

There's not much of a happening scene in the cold, cold ground.

So, tomorrow.

"Tomorrow isn't promised to anyone."

No shit.

Every day now becomes a day of looking to tomorrow - not because it holds some promise or anything even hopeful; tomorrow is now just another day to go through the motions until it's time to shovel prescriptions into my mouth to bring sleep and wake up in another pile of sweat.

The only looking forward I do now is to try and get to things to distract me.

A haircut on Wednesday.

A hockey tournament starting Wednesday.

A meeting on Thursday.

Hockey until Saturday.

The after party of our tournament.

Then...what?

Group therapy on Monday.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

Life is happening but it isn't living.

I spent Friday to Sunday at a cabin with a few of my best guy friends.

We fished, drank beer, talked, laughed and I felt like 15 year old me. She's the last version of me before Brad who I remember being happy. It was nostalgia, it was friendship and it was simple.

Tonight I spent the last day of the long weekend with two amazing widows and their friend.

"The Soulless Sisters."

I love them already and know we are going to be great friends.

I feel we are great friends.

I hate that we had to meet like this.

It's so hard to see any beauty in any part of the day now, even when weekends are long and bring what should be joyful, beautiful times.

I guess, as Tom Petty said, "Some days are diamonds, some days are rocks."

It's too bad every day has lost its shine now.

So, I'll go watch hockey.

I'll wait for medicated sleep.

And wake up tomorrow.

And miss how the shimmer on every day was buffed off the day his heart stopped beating.

Because mine did too.

Four Days

For four days things almost felt normal.

While there were some initial hugs and sentiments, things almost felt normal.

"I'm not going to say anything to you, just hug you."

And it was comforting to not be greeted with eyes of pity or platitudes of, "You'll get through it," "He's in a better place," or, a personal favourite, "I'm sorry for your loss."

Instead, it was like any other hockey tournament. 

This one was special, though.

The largest women's tournament and an arena full of the faces I've gotten to know since I laced up my hockey skates for the first time 6 years ago.

For four days we played hockey, laughed and joked in the dressing room, cheered each other on.

But when my eyes went to the stands I could see spouses, kids and families of other players roaring and hollering, rushing down to meet them after the game or giving an encouraging hug or kiss before they hit the ice.

And he wasn't there.

Those were the moments when I knew not a damn thing was normal.

The garage door wasn't open when I got home, waiting for my hockey equipment to be thrown in.

Brad wasn't sitting at the table on a late meeting giving me his smile and little wave as he chatted away on Zoom.

There was no waving Hello Fresh cards to let him choose what I should cook.

And no laying in the bathtub to soak sore muscles after the game and hear him start to strum his guitar in the kitchen.

"Let me take you down 'cause I'm going to..."

No texting him from the tub to tell him how my favourite part of a bath is hearing him play while I just close my eyes and lay back.

Instead the garage door was down, the lights were off and the house was silent.

No Vinny running to meet me at the door

And I remembered again that nothing is normal.

So I would just get in my (his) comfy clothes and sit in my corner of the couch while his stays vacant.

6 weeks.

How in the hell has it been 6 weeks?

6 weeks and I still expect to hear him call from somewhere else in the house or the yard asking if I know where something is and of course I know, so I grab it and walk to where he is, hand it to him and he always says, "That's my girl. Keeps me straight."

I can't even keep myself straight anymore.

I stay up all night wishing I could sleep and when sleep finally happens I just wish I wouldn't wake up and this would all go away.

I spend nights now on online support groups, Zoom calls with others who have lost their loves and I listen as people talk about their preparations and goodbyes while watching someone fade away.

I didn't get that.

He didn't fade; he was snuffed out.

Gone.

Stolen.

We were robbed.

I've found a house I like.

And I fully expect it will not work out because why would it?

Why would that work out when my entire life has always been periods of hope and ruin?

It just feels so wrong that the world continues and people keep strolling around Walmart doing their thing while I'm frozen in an aisle trying not to break down because he loved those spicy pistachios.

The visits have stopped.

My friends are all buying houses and getting engaged or married and adopting pets and going to events and galas.

I'm just here.

Don't get me wrong - I have an extensive support system and more people behind me than I ever thought possible.

But I've never felt so alone.

People say to let them know if I need anything but there's one thing I need and he was stolen violently.

When I stand outside the garage now I realize that if I had been standing in that spot that night I would have heard the crash.

It's so quiet out here.

I wonder how many people were out looking at the stars in the quiet of this neighbourhood like we often did in the nighttime and heard him die?

How many heard the sound of impact and wondered what it was before going back in to continue their night while our night and world came to a crashing halt?

I had counseling again today.

And while crying and going on and on to an independent third party without skin in the game releases the pressure the rot at the bottom of the tank is still there.

My counselor asked if I had tried meditation.

How can I try meditation when my brain has never stopped going 200 mph since the day I was born and is constantly in overdrive?

Brad was like that and we understood each other.

It took me so long to love and find myself.

I had never been truly happy until he walked into my life and someone understood me, I understood him and we knew exactly how to make all of the broken parts in both of us fit together.

We just worked.

I was happy.

And now I don't know who I am anymore.

I have to re-invent whatever and whoever I am to match the hell of these circumstances.

My partner is dead.

My dogs are dead.

I'm still just here and the vessel I call a body is so empty and vacant now.

The only thing that lives inside is that burning in my chest that feels like any day it will just rip open but it's okay, there's nothing inside to spill out.

There's nothing left.

And I just keep asking why he had to be taken like that.

One swift second.

No time to even tell him how happy he made me, how I appreciated every little thing, how I loved every part of him, even the parts he would say he didn't love himself.

I will always feel like I didn't tell him those things enough as we hustled through work days and board meetings and errands and groceries and all of those little things you do just to try and play your part in this world.

And in all of those things and in between there was love.

So much love.

He used to tell me he knew.

I knew too.

But I'll always wish I had that one last moment to make sure he knew the extent and depth of it all.

I'm so tired.

The sun will soon go down again and I'll go curl up on my end of the couch as always and his will be empty again.

Maybe I'll throw on that Growlers scarf I gave him for Xmas that he loved so much and watch the game.

I don't know much anymore.

But I do know with confidence that this living is hell, this pain feels like it could just consume from the inside out.

For four days things almost felt normal.

And then I was reminded that nothing will ever be that normal I knew, ever again.

The Ditch

 "'Cause I shake shake shake shake alone,
I'm shaking every night and day.
Will my shake, shake, shaking ever go away?"

Lawyers and house showings and appointments and waiting and waiting and waiting.

Every day now feels like the one before where I wake up and talk myself through the simplest tasks.

"Drink some water.

Brush your teeth.

You need your mouse at the office.

Put on deoderant.

Change your shirt.

The pants can stay because they're his and comfy.

Now:

Write that email.

Send in that document.

Call Dr. Parsons and tell him the prescription didn't work.

Counseling is at 5.

Check to make sure the door is shut behind you.

Check again."

And off we go.

The housing market is crazy.

Right on time.

Today I looked at a house.

Not our house on Wells Crescent with the hot tub and pool and all of those rooms we said had to be painted new colours to make it our home.

Nope, this one is in Kilbride.

Slanted floor, scratched cabinets, flooring needing replaced, two decks needing replacement.

I don't know whether to cry or laugh but both seem to come at the same time.

We were so happy and had everything laid out.

The new bedroom set would come first and then we'd move it into the new house.

We're both planners.

But life doesn't give a fuck about your plans or lists or timelines.

It's easier for it to step in and burn it all to the ground in one split second.

What can you even do when you're doing as much or more than is physically and mentally possible but the ditch keeps getting deeper?

"If I can't make it out of this ditch,
I better make a home of it.
If I can't get down off this ledge,
I better make a home of it..."

Thanks for the advice, Dave Hause.

Don't mind if I do.

Psychosomatic.

Isn't it utterly amazing what the human body can endure and keep functioning?

Laboured, sporadic, medicated sleep.

Existing on water.

The mind going 250 km/h.

Heart rate so high you can watch the pulsating in your wrist.

As you sit and pour over every minute and every thought since on loop and repeat to the grief counselor who looks at you with the same pity as the gas station clerk.

It's been 5 weeks and one day.

12:05 as I type.

24 more hours gone without you.

Crosby scored again tonight.

They won 7-2.

I don't believe in anything now, the world just a collection of pages to flip through until you expire, then into the cold ground with you.

But you always said Crosby scored when you watched and he did.

So my brain latched on to that little tidbit of irrational hope.

Isn't that pathetic?

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, right?

But I try to believe in anything.

Your mom and I talked about faith tonight. And how we've lost it all. How we wish something in us believed you were there strumming your guitar with your dad, aunt Elaine cheering you on with Sid and Claude asleep on a blanket.

But I stopped believing fairy tales when I was 6.

And every day there is a new pain that is deeper than the new one from the day prior.

Every day a new prescription to try and make the pain go away and make my body rest.

My body just doesn't understand that my heart figuratively stopped beating when yours did but somehow continues on physiologically.

My hip hurts.

My hair is falling out.

My stomach won't tolerate anything but water.

But the body continues on.

Isn't it amazing what the body can endure and continue surviving?

Except a head-on collision with an F-150 on a dark road.

The strongest body I knew couldn't survive that.

Agony

I keep the bedroom door closed now.

I have barely slept in our bed but like the room cool.

And tonight I had to open the door to get ready for hockey.

The whole room smells like you. I know it's because of your clothes and the blankets I won't wash and maybe from my teddy bear you so gently washed in the same detergent back when I told you how special she was because my nan gave her to me when I was 7.

I sleep with your pillow every night because it smells like you.

And last night I dropped mustard on the couch and waited to hear you say you told me o and I should always put a blanket down when it's hockey and food on the couch time.

But you didn't.

I managed to go to hockey again.

And every second on the ice my legs felt like they were about to give out.

I remembered I had forgotten to eat.

Me.

I had forgotten to eat and I can hear you now every time I came home and told you I had forgotten to eat.

BBQ nachos and wings delivered stat.

With a side of a little concern because you worry about me.

Now that big teal couch, the one we bought because I plopped into the "cuddler" (what the furniture guy called it) and told you I could read there forever.

"What my lady wants, my lady gets."

You said that so much.

Though all I ever wanted was you.

Okay, and that couch.

It's so big now without you, me and Colton on it watching Batman and him asking us who we would think would win out of two random superheroes and we would all hit Google.

Now I just look at the other end and wish you were on it, telling me to come curl up with you.

Agony.

This living without you is agony.

And I keep waiting for you to stroll through the door and tonight I pulled in the driveway and waited for the garage door to come up like you always did when I came home after hockey if you weren't playing too.

But it didn't.

Parts of me hurt I never knew existed.

Every time the clock hits 12:05 am I know it has been another full day without you.

And I miss you more than any words can ever express.

Old Haunts

Everything is so heavy and dark now.

Tomorrow is Mother's Day. I didn't even have cards. I was the one who always bought the cards, kept track of every occasion and made sure we were good. Brad always joked that I was the memory and list keeper in the relationship.

I had to go get cards.

So I went to Shopper's Drug Mart and every fucking card I picked up said, "from the both of us!"

And I started to sweat. I stood in line, sweat running down my whole body like a shower, my heart rate at about 190.

I got the car and cried.

I forgot a card for his nan.

I couldn't go back.

I needed gas.

Of course the receipt at the pump didn't print so I had to go inside and dropped everything I picked up until I had a panic attack and had to run to the car.

Every time I leave the house now I have to pass by where he died.

I can see the remnants of a tarp that is still there.

A post marking the scene.

And it's like he dies every single day.

That night comes flooding back and I'm back to standing in the arrivals area of the airport telling his mom something is wrong because Brad is not here and he has always been here.

And he's not here.

Just a tarp and post the only reminders of his last moments breathing.

I sit in the car, look at the hood and dash and think about how it all caved around him.

And broke him.

And I can barely breathe.

The houses we were looking at all have SOLD signs now.

And I have to do those things we looked forward to, so much, alone.

I hate this.

And it's really hard to believe in anything right now but if anything outside of this life exists that aligned this, just know I hate it too.

I've thought a lot.

I was never truly happy in life until he walked into my life at that arena.

And he made me smile every day after, even when we would have minor arguments we talked it out and it ended in smiles.

Our life together was full of smiles.

I love his smile.

And now there is no "Hi there!" where I come home.

No impromptu dinners downtown just because he felt like it.

"We should have a nice dinner before you go," he had said.

So we threw on hoodies and jeans and ate messy burgers not knowing it would be the last time for everything.

No crawling into bed and hearing him get cozy as I tell him, "No one on earth loves getting into bed more than you."

No middle of the night kiss when we'd both wake up because we're shit sleepers.

Sleep is even rarer now.

And when I do the dreams are convoluted and I can't find Colton's jacket and I look for you to find it but you're gone there too.

Sometimes you're there.

And when I wake up I hate every second because I just wanted to stay there with you for one more minute and hear your voice talking mundane day-to-day things everyone takes for granted.

I feel like I'm haunted now.

Everything keeps moving and moving on.

Except me.

I choose to think my life stopped when your heart did.

"Instantly," the report says.

The dashboard against your big heart and it having the power I thought nothing did - the power to make your love of this life end.

I knew something was wrong.

I just didn't know the whole world had crashed and burned.

And now we're all collateral damage.

Wish That You Were Here...

I don't know how to do this.

I don't know how to breathe.

Everything is like a weight crushing my chest while simultaneously ripping it apart from the inside.

And I swear if one more person tries to tell me time heals my brain might break.

A month.

A whole month without you.

Without your smile.

Your laugh.

Your jokes.

Your touch.

Your "nite nite."

A month.

Well, a month and two days, actually.

There are endless annals of quotes on love and grief that keep a steady stream on my timeline now yet nothing seems to even touch on the actual feeling of it all.

Not even groups and anecdotes from those who have also lost.

I cannot see how a grief counselor can help other than rehashing over and over the pain and screaming and crying while just wanting to know what in the actual hell could have ever aligned in the universe for all of this to happen.

Five seconds.

Five seconds earlier leaving the house.

Five seconds later.

Five seconds to grab a coat.

Five seconds to forget your keys.

And all would have been okay.

This living is agony.

It is hell.

And we always promised each other than when life got difficult we would help pull each other through.

Until someone stole you.

You didn't break that promise.

Someone else did.

Swept in like a cloud of tar that blackened everything.

You would always say, "It is what it is, Dwan."

But this should never be what it is.

I miss you.

And I love you.

And I wish that you were here.

Welcome to the Club

 I guess now is the point in time where this blog takes a turn.

"Welcome to the club none of us want to be in," someone said on a Facebook support group the other evening.

What a fucking club to belong to.

We meet every Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday at every second of the day.

No need to bring anything, especially since you have nothing left.

There is never really an agenda, just rehashing that night over and over and over and wondering why the universe aligned in every tragically perfect way for this to happen.

There is screaming sometimes.

Crying is a perpetual state now.

What is the end goal here?

Survival, really.

So, welcome to the club.

Sit, observers.

Admission is free.

Yet it cost me everything.