September 4, 2021

It’s been forty-eight hours and George hasn’t stopped cleaning. My ears are still ringing from all the vacuuming. I don’t think he’s stopped in here more than a couple of times, only to ask if I’d like my water glass refilled.

I’m not sure how I should feel. Medical professionals can only aide a person so much. They’re there to offer you support – distanced help, specifically. Brochures and lists of available support groups. It’s always struck me as ironic that when doctors hand you a bundle of brochures, none of them are for marriage counseling.

Most must assume that most marriages are strong enough to take such devastating news. But is that really true? If it were, George wouldn’t be manically cleaning the house. He’d be in here, sitting in comfortable silence with me.

We could lay here together the same way we did when I was twenty-two and we suffered our first miscarriage. I remember he and I laid here in this very bed and allowed the day to pass without so much as a word spoken between us. It was exactly what I needed. I didn’t need him to say anything to me then, and I don’t need him to speak now.

I just need him to lay here beside me. But I’m afraid that he can’t. The devastation that came when we lost our son was unimaginable. Yet George never wavered. We weren’t going to have our son, but we were still going to have each other. He found solace in that. It gave him strength.

The same cannot be said this time around. It is inevitable. I am going to die and leave George here alone. So as annoyed with him as I am right now, stomping around downstairs with the mop bucket, I understand what he’s doing.

He isn’t ready yet. He’s distracting himself. He’s not emotionally prepared to look at me, knowing this time next year this bedroom will be empty. He’s protecting himself from the inevitable pain. As much as his actions are hurting me, I forgive him.

I forgive him, because I love him.

I will miss him. I’ll miss the way he burned the hotdogs on the grill, and the quiet snoring he made when he slept in his chair. I’ll miss holding his chapped hands under the sheets before falling asleep. I’ll miss going and picking out Christmas cards together at the local five and dime shop.

I’m heartbroken that we won’t make it to our forty-eighth anniversary.

Our life replays over inside my mind, each memory making me laugh, and cry. It’s bittersweet in the best way and it leaves me with only one remaining thought:

I’m going to miss my best friend terribly.