I sit here in a hotel room this morning “cleaning up” a mess on my laptop, and happen upon this writing of the day Bill left us, tucked away in a file folder.
April 29, 2017
I make it through the first day in small increments.
I attempt to push away his face from my mind, the moments before, and all the details that accompany the official death. But, I can’t. I feel exposed. Raw. People entering my home without invitation, as if I were a criminal. I know this is procedure, and not the people, but the police are callus to my condition, with the exception of one kindhearted woman.
I am so heartbroken I feel like I want to die. Not really die, but the weight of heaviness hurts my insides so badly I just want out of the pain before me.
The adrenaline refuses to relinquish its right to my system, I down a glass of wine in hope to numb it down. I sit in the bathtub, pulling out every kind of trick in my fall asleep bag to enter slumber to escape the hurt. Right before drifting off, I cry out a faint petetion to God,
God, give me something.
Not a couple minutes later, the door to my bathroom opens and Ky emerges. For real? (So one doesn’t have an unnecessary mental picture, there were bubbles involved to act as a partial covering to my nakedness.)
She informs me there are two women at the door who want to pray with me.
I feel my blood boil. I am near sleep and someone decides to come over today of all days?
I tell her that she should go and pray with them. She leaves. I close my eyes again. Not another minute later, Tay enters and asks who the two people are that are walking to the car.
I tell her to go fetch them before they leave, and I get out, dry off, and put my grungy attire back on. I walk out in the other room and see the familiar face of one of the ladies.
Apparently, she had no idea that Bill had passed, but had a strong sense that God wanted her to come over to pray. I tell her it was too late for that.
She wonders if they can pray with us. Of course. I ask if we can pray in the bedroom, telling them of the difficulty being in there, especially since the hospital bed sits in the corner, naked of its bedding that we disposed of in large garbage bags and tossed in the trash. The steel frame sits there, glaring at me.
They annoint us with oil and speak wonderful words into our parched spirits.
I thank her as a realization occurs: I specifically asked for something from God.
And He gave me someone.
I can breathe again.
Hours before he left us, I clipped a small part of hair at his widow’s peak. It was my favorite spot. How fitting to have a name such as this. I hold this small lock and rub it as one would a rabbit foot, and a quirky smile formulates, and I wonder, if maybe even for one moment, I will be okay.