Love Hurts
Most days … 95% of the time … I do okay. Then
there are days like yesterday & today where grief comes out of nowhere and
slams my chest like a sucker punch making my heart hurt and I suddenly burst
into tears that makes me gasp for air.
Love hurts.
A lot.
And while all my time with my husband was good and he never gave me reason to be grief-stricken; ever: not even when he was dying while I held his hand … love sure hurts right now. In a different way than the lyrics this song portrays – but I like the music: always have. And I am feeling the music right now. Mournful. Blue. Agonized.
Yes, I am most definitely feeling this song right now.
It started yesterday when I had to go into town to get copies of his last Social Security payout and then over to the Financial Advisor we had until November, to get a copy of the last payout from the IRA we cashed out to pay off the car, Visa, and funeral expenses. Stopping by the Financial Advisor’s office wasn’t the tear jerker – it was the Social Security Office where I had to deal with the same bullying tarter I had to deal with in December before my husband died. She tries to shame me every time I go in there, like I am trying to look inside my husband’s wallet and steal his money. In 44 years I never once looked in his wallet until he was dead and I had to to get his social security number for something; even when he would ask me to get it and retrieve either papers or money for him – I always brought it to him and had him get whatever he wanted. That was MY personal preference. And he never looked in my purse or my wallet either. His choice. But I had to deal with her because I needed the printout to settle a medical bill. I told her that my husband had died since the last time I had talked to her in December. The woman doesn’t remember me and she literally looks into my eyes over her eyeglass lens down her nose, and asked me if I was his wife and she “needs to see” proof that I am who say I am; so I assure her that I am indeed his wife and show her my driver’s license and tell her that the Office copied off a copy of our Marriage License and Death Certificate, December 20th, 2018 following his death when I notified them of his passing. She grunts and hunts for it in the system until she is satisfied then says, “I don’t know why you need a printout”, and I say, “Because that is what I was asked to get and mail to them.” So she gets up and stomps over to the printer, grabs the printed sheet and slaps it down in front of me, saying, “Your phone consultation won’t happen until February 5th and you will not receive the amount shown on this paper. You will not receive anything until March.” I take the paper and tell her that I already know that; she told me that already when I was in there talking to her a week before my husband died. And the sudden pain of loss – of my husband, of our life together, of income, of dignity beneath her hard and cutting eyes – hit me like a fist slamming fast and hard into my chest and I had to leave before I burst into tears in front of everyone. The woman is a bullying tarter. I cried while driving all the way across town to the Financial Advisor’s Office where it was impossible to hide the swollen eyes and blotchy face.
At home, later on, I cried some more while filling out forms and gathering the necessary papers that needed to be mailed with the filled out forms. I cried because continually reliving the death of my husband hurts my heart. I love him and love hurts right now because disrespectful people are degrading that love and belittling my husband’s death to mean nothing more than a business transaction. I also had to scan & print off 3 Death Certificate copies and mail them off to various businesses: I have to keep reliving his death over and over.
It was a rough night.
At home, later on, I cried some more while filling out forms and gathering the necessary papers that needed to be mailed with the filled out forms. I cried because continually reliving the death of my husband hurts my heart. I love him and love hurts right now because disrespectful people are degrading that love and belittling my husband’s death to mean nothing more than a business transaction. I also had to scan & print off 3 Death Certificate copies and mail them off to various businesses: I have to keep reliving his death over and over.
It was a rough night.
This morning I had to deal with Candy a.g.a.i.n. Early. The coffee was not strong enough after I hung up the phone. But I washed my hair and was getting ready to go to Keenager’s, running a Q-tip around my ear hole to wick up some water that got into my ears … and THE TIP CAME OFF IN MY EAR! There was a brief moment of real concern before I was able to carefully extract it with fingertips. Thank God it hadn’t gone in deep or I would have had to go to ER to have it removed:
Already the day is not looking good and it is only 8:30 a.m.
Keenager’s was great; the hurt began after I got home. Everything was fine UNTIL I was walking from the kitchen to the livingroom and saw Ron walking past our side window. Again I felt that hard and fast slam of pain hit my chest with a sudden fury that I was powerless to stop, and the tears ran down my face in hot and steamy rivulets while I tried to choke them back. Gasping for air, all I could think was how unfair it was that Ron and Candy are still breathing and going on with their lives – destroying others’ lives –while my gentle giant who never went out of his way to hurt anyone, is not. My husband who was the most gentle man and the kindest person anyone ever had the pleasure of meeting, is not. The sharp and stabbing pain of loss buckled my knees. It came out of nowhere. Swift and paralyzing. I was filled with molten righteous fury at the unfairness of it all. I was close to hating those 2 killers. I knew then that I had reached that “falling apart” stage everyone had been waiting with baited breath for me to hit. And I knew I had to get past it or I would fly apart and never be whole again. I remembered that on the back of the Keenager’s bulletin itinerary there was a notation of an upcoming Grief Support Group … I ran and got the bulletin, tore off the notice, and called the number listed; the kind man who answered gently gave me the information I was asking about and calmly talked me down from my tearful anguish:
It is a night time meet and I don’t like to do night driving anymore; I will if I have to – like when my husband was in the local hospital and I stayed long hours with him – but generally, I will beg off on night driving. But I think I should go to these meets … at least a few; and I hope it is not going to be where everyone gets together for a 2 hour crying ordeal: I do not want/believe in that … so the organizer is going to try to arrange a pickup/drop-off drive for me for a while. These meets will go until May 2019 sometime, and as the days lighten up and stay lighter longer I will drive myself.
It is late and I can’t sleep because the pain of loss is still coming in continual and unrelenting waves. And scalding tears are still falling. I hate crying because I feel so weak and helpless when I am reduced to tears. I rarely cry. About anything. But the senselessness of the petty egomania that caused my husband’s death is overwhelming tonight. And I don’t want to hate: I am a Christian, and Christians are forbidden to hate. It would be so easy to go there. It would be justifiable. It hurts to stifle it: I feel like I have a steel band squeezing my chest. Elohim! Help me! I do not want to unleash this hate that presses so heavy on my heart. I miss my husband. So much. He was my passionate and gentle lover. Constant companion. Unconditional best friend. Trusted confidant. Staunch support. Steady guide. Enthusiastic encourager. Dependable cheerleader. Comedian when needed. Wise critiquer. Human calculator. My husband.
Now, more than ever before, I want to be the woman Elohei knows I can be. I want to be a good Christian testimony/witness. And I want to be a wife that honors her husband’s name.
There is no place for hate in my life. I will not give in to it.
It is hard to be a widow.
Love hurts.
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