My bitter/sadness has taken over.
Yes, it has. This week sucks. This Saturday would be P's 32nd birthday. He would have not wanted to do anything for it. I would have made him. He would have gotten drunk. Lather, rinse, repeat.
I tend to get really emotional/hormonal/psychotic around these landmark dates:
April 3, 1972- His birthday
April 23, 1993- The first kiss/blown out tire in his mom's car/rescuing pseudo-suicidal friend day
May 11, 1993- Official going out day
August 28, 2002- Deathday*
September 25, 1999- Wedding
October 18, 1998- Engagement
December 25th- Christmas
As you can see, misery is around every corner here in the life of Ms. Layla McCabe. Now, let's talk about Deathday. Also known as Divorceday. That would be because my divorce papers were served to me about 45 minutes after I found out P was on life support. This made my divorce null, because P was incapable of making decisions for himself the few days leading up to his death. So, I am officially a "widow".
P decided that he wasn't going to mention to his friends and family that we had kept up our relationship as friends, seeing each other every other month or so, whenever I was in NY. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. His mother didn't call me when he was brought in to the hospital days before. She only called me when she admitted to the hospital staff that he was married, and they told her they needed to not only notify me, but that I had to be the one to make a decision whether to keep him alive. Or let him die. And donate his organs.
I hadn't talked to P since June at this point, almost three months prior to this. He told me how well he was doing. He was clean. Getting sober. And he told me he wanted to die. I lost my shit. I told him that I would do anything. I'd put him on my health coverage again so he could get help. He said no, he wasn't asking anyone for anything. He talked a lot about Al and his new girlfriend, who P really liked a lot. It almost looked like things were getting better.
They never even called me. Ten years wiped away. P's family threatened me, something bad would happen if I showed up at the hospital. The hospital said that because I was his wife, I could have them removed from the premises all together. No. I wouldn't do that. They needed to be there. They needed to blame. They needed to know that no matter what god or what statue or what light they prayed to, that wasn't bringing him back. I would face them for P. I got on the next plane, to hold my husbands hand while they took him off his respirator.
By the time my plane landed, he was dead.
I wasn't allowed at the funeral. Or, I was, but it would be a "me against the world" type of scenario. People told me that his friends stayed at the back, looking guilty. They weren't. Even the ones P told me had given him dope. He made his decisions. He lived his life.
I had a private viewing of the body, the body of my poor friend, before anyone else got there. I blew my nose and wiped my tears and took that wet, snotty tissue and shoved it in the pocket of my dead friend and said "fuck if you're not taking some of me with you". And he did.
And I was alone. And I am. Because no matter what people think, no one knows what it's like to lose your husband. Even if we were apart for a year. No one knows the pain I feel every fucking day. And always will.
And his picture is on my desk right in between my dog Parker, and me and Lars Frederickson from Rancid, and two over from my sweet, beautiful M, who today sent me a bouquet of flowers with the word "smile" on them because he knows that today and tomorrow and the weekend will just suck. And he knows that my sadness about P is no reflection on my love for him. And I love him more for it.