10/24/24

And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.

There are many hard things about losing a spouse, and one, for me, rises to the top of the list every night. I’m having to learn how to go to bed when I’m all alone in the house.

Some nights, Olivia is here, as she typically comes home on weekends to go to work; her job is closer to my home than to her apartment, so she saves herself a few minutes of sleep.

But mostly…I’m alone. And when it’s night, and the classes and clients are done, and I’m not reading student manuscripts which fill my mind with the world the student is creating and the student themselves, that “alone” becomes “utterly.”

When I was still attending the grief support group, there was a man on one of their videos that talked about how he’d always liked being alone, he enjoyed solitude. But since his wife died, he said, he was “utterly alone.” I completely understand that.

I’m a lifelong insomniac, so sleep has always been a challenge. Interestingly, from the day of the accident, January 17^th, until Michael’s death on June 19^th, I fell asleep within minutes of hitting the pillow and I was out like a light. What became difficult was convincing myself to go to bed. I meditate before sleep, which has always helped, but I found myself now adding things before I meditate – I began to read in bed, telling myself that this was a treat, and I watched some videos, which is a big no-no right before sleep. I kept putting sleep off, where I used to encourage it to come. Once I closed my eyes, I literally surrendered, and I was gone in seconds.

But I think I began to feel very vulnerable, while Michael was gone in the hospital, the rehab, the hospice. And the short time he was home, I was hypervigilant, in case he needed me.

And now…the vulnerability comes from having to face the unquestionable and unchangeable fact every single night that he’s gone. I can’t distract myself away from that, like I can during the day. And I can’t stop feeling alone.

Last night, I got into bed at 3:00 in the morning. Today is a day off, so I knew I could sleep to my heart’s content through the next morning, if I could just convince myself to give up and sleep. The house was dark, except for my bedside lamp, lit so I could read my book.

At 4:00, I was still there, sitting up, reading. I was probably janglier than usual – I’d had the urge, before bed, to start writing a poem. It combined phrases taken directly from the 7-page letter I’d received from a police investigator, describing second by second what the security cameras recorded of Michael’s accident. And I mean second by second: At fifteen seconds, he…At forty-two seconds, he…  I’ve steadfastly refused to watch the videos. I just can’t. But now, thanks to the police investigator’s excruciatingly detailed report, I can see it through words. So I used those words, interspersed with what was happening with me at the time, and I guess I wrote the first draft of a now excruciating poem.

So there was an awful lot I was trying to push away last night.

At a little after four, one smooth-coated orange cat jumped onto my bed. Oliver. He came to me, climbed onto my chest so he could rub his cheek against mine, then settled down at my feet. A few minutes later, a fluff-ball orange cat jumped onto the bed. Cleocatra. She also climbed onto my chest and rubbed her cheek against mine, then settled at my hip.

It should be noted that neither cat, Oliver since April, or Cleo in her three weeks here, has ever slept on the bed at night.

I patted them both and so my room filled with a raucous duet of purring.

From her loveseat near the foot of my bed, my dog Ursula shook her head, setting her ears to flapping and her collar jingling.

I had company. I wasn’t alone.

The book I’m reading is Elizabeth Strout’s My Name Is Lucy Barton. In the midst of the purring then, last night, I looked back down at my book and continued reading. And then I read:

“The thing about Kathie,” I said, “is that she was nice.”

And I laughed out loud. I mean, my name was even spelled correctly!

I closed my book, patted each cat, called goodnight to Ursula, turned off the light, and slept solidly for, according to my smart watch, 8 hours and 27 minutes.

I get it, thank you. I’m not alone. I am missing one very particular, very specific, very beloved person. Michael. But I’m not alone. I am surrounded.

And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.