I Remember


I have plunged back into the cold, dark, hopeless place I felt buried in the first few weeks/months after Dave died. I've been struggling to eat, sleep, clean up after myself, and find comfort in anything. Everything feels like sandpaper against raw nerve endings. I can't stand to be alone. I need help. I've reached out. I've especially sought out the hugs and love of the women in my life who are best at sitting with me in my pain. They make me feel safe to let go entirely. They've saved me. And they have their own lives, so I return again and again to my own empty home to try to ease my own pain. 

The other day I felt so desperate for help and healing that I booked a session with a Reiki healer/medium. As I talked with her on the phone to schedule an appointment, she said "Are you OK?" and I broke down and sobbed "No". She said "I can see you today at 4:00". 


She sat down with me and began to do her medium thing. She wasn't able to come up with Dave's name on her own or say anything about me losing my husband, but once I told her his name, she began to say things that did make some sense (I still don't know if I believe any of this stuff I just take any comfort any way I can get it).

She said she smelled hospital all around me. She said he was surprised by how fast it all happened and said he still wasn't sure what happened. He wanted to know what had happened. This makes sense. There were mistakes made by the medical professionals and he crashed so fast no one could have anticipated his dying that suddenly. 


She said he was calling me "babe". She said he kept apologizing for leaving me and that he knew how hard it'd been for me these last few years. He said he'd like for his ashes to be in the Snake River. I vaguely recollect Dave talking about this river, but it wasn't necessarily one of his favorites. 


He said he wanted his mom and me to stop crying so much over him (fat chance). 


He said he was shocked by how many people came to his memorial and he was so proud to see them there surrounding and supporting me. 

"Do you have anything to ask him?" the medium said. 

"Did I make you happy?" I asked (choked out between messy, wet sobs). 

"Oh silly, those were the best years of my life," she said he said. 

At this, I bent over at my waist and sobbed as hard as I can remember ever sobbing. It felt like I'd rip into a million pieces. She held me. 


Then she said that he wanted me to start thinking more about the happy times and less about the times when he was sick or sad times in general. This part is something I've been thinking a lot about lately. A coping strategy I've had is to turn away from happy memories because they hurt too much. Far too much. 


It doesn't make any sense to focus on the bad memories or the sadness, but it's not a logical decision. It's what my subconscious does to survive. In order to heal, though, I know I'll have to start to look back at all the joyful memories and let that love and happiness wash over me. I'm just not there yet. I find it hard to even go there in my mind. It tears me apart. But I'm moving in that direction. 


 I remember the time he pulled a camping folding chair down from a hook in the garage and a chipmunk who'd been living inside it jumped out, landed on Dave's neck and rebounded off of him with his little claws. I could hear Dave's girlish scream all the way across the yard and ran to find my manly husband running around in circles, hands flapping in terror, screaming at a pitch only certain dogs can hear. "IT WAS A BAT!" He screamed. "A BAT CLAWED MY NECK!". 

"Oh, this bat?" I asked, peering behind the woodpile to find a chipmunk cowering in fear.


I remember the time he ate a fiber one bar before bed and told me the next morning that he was amazed that I'd slept through the incredibly loud and bountiful farts he'd trumpeted all night. He never ate a fiber one bar again.


I remember our beautiful trip to Italy. Our incredible Hawaii adventure. I remember how when he was around, I slept like a baby. I remember how when he came into my life, his presence helped me be the best person I could be.


I remember that I was loved. Dearly and truly and deeply. I remember that I made his life better and he made my life lovely.

I remember Dave.


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