I've Got a King-Sized Bed and a Ph.D. in the Way It Used to Be

It was a really difficult day here.

Maybe you’re smarter than me and know why already, but once again, it didn’t occur to me. I tossed and turned all night last night, and woke up feeling bad to begin with.

Getting it out of the way: today is four months. I have officially survived four months since Kellie died, and I don’t feel good or proud of that. It’s a pretty low bar to survive a thing.

One time, we were meeting with a doctor before Kellie had a surgery, and when he came in, she said, "The biggest thing I'm concerned about is, are you going to keep me alive? Anything to keep me alive." And he said, "I think that's a pretty low bar, but I will promise you that I will try my very best to keep you alive."

So I think about that conversation whenever anyone says, "Oh, she was tired. She wanted to go to heaven. She was ready to give up and move on from this world. She’s in a better place." Nope. I only ever heard my wife saying, to me, to doctors, to anybody who would listen, "Anything to keep me alive. I love life. I don't want to be dead, I don't want to be gone, and I don't want to leave Matt and the dogs."

But I've survived four months. 16 weeks, but who's counting?

(I'm counting.)

It's a little bit like a baby—at what point do I stop counting weeks and revert to months, or even just years? I don't know. There are people out there who say their kid is 96 weeks old, so who knows.

So I’ve survived without Kellie for 112 days. And I did not have a good day. I tossed and turned all night. The dogs were restless. I was restless. I woke up feeling pretty groggy. I kind of just moped around, couldn't get myself motivated to take a shower, couldn't get myself motivated to eat breakfast for a while, and I was still trying to get myself motivated to take out the trash when the trash truck drove by without my trash. That was my first failure of the day.

From then on, I saw clients. I did work. But I was really kind of floating through my day, not really feeling like I was present, not really feeling entirely like myself. And at some point, I made the ridiculous decision that it would make me feel better to look through some old photos. Of course, it did not do that. So that made me feel even worse. I’m pretty sure I was dissociating a bit, just trying to not be here in the moment, and couldn't figure out why until I was texting a couple people this afternoon and went, "Oh, shit. It's been four months. It's a Wednesday."

It didn't even occur to me until 2:00 this afternoon (to my conscious mind, that is). My body sure knew it though. It also didn't occur to me until 2:00 this afternoon that I hadn't eaten since 8 this morning, and that probably also contributed to me feeling floaty and out of it and not myself at all.

For most of my day, my brain and body were trying to keep me protected and safe and, yes, alive, even though I wasn't consciously aware that any of that was happening. I just know I didn't feel like I was here entirely, didn't feel like myself. And that's why.

It's such a funny thing! When I pass 4:17 in the afternoon, the point at which she died, I usually feel a sense of peace and calm. But in the period of time working up to it, I feel anything but calm and peaceful. I feel upset, and I feel scared, and I feel like things are out of control, and I feel like I'm not entirely here. The single worst thing of my life happened at 4:17 in the afternoon.

As I approach that time, I tend to feel pretty awful. When I realize what's happening, I feel a little bit better because then it's not unconscious anymore. And then after 4:17 happens, I feel a pretty big sense of calm come over me. Maybe it's because I made it through another one? Another week or month or whatever unit I’m currently measuring this life in?

I absolutely followed that same pattern today. I hit 4:17 and I thought, "It's that time." And then, "Okay. I did it. I made it. I can manage the rest of my day."

It almost makes me wish that it had happened in the morning so I could just get it over with, instead of having my unconscious mope around on Wednesdays. You always hear it called Hump Day, but for me, it’s Slump Day. On Wednesdays, I’m in a continuous slump. I don’t remember whether I’ve had any good Wednesdays over these past sixteen weeks, but I’m pretty sure I haven’t.

I really missed her today. I really, really did.

Thanks for being here as I keep trying to be happy in this entirely new version of my life which I didn’t choose, don’t want, and keep rebelling against.

Love ya.

Matt