Sundays

I woke up this morning confused. I had been dreaming about houses and people, and wasn't quite sure where I was for a moment. Then I looked for Dennis, like I have every morning and realized I was at home, in our bedroom. Only it isn't our bedroom anymore, it's mine. And it's lonely.

I finally got out of bed and almost immediately started crying. I didn't have the energy to make my coffee. I picked up my phone and my sister had called. So I called her back.

And I cried again. I was distracted for a while while she told me about Ralph's diagnosis of diverticulitis and then I started crying again.

Then my nephew, Hamed, called. Yesterday I had asked if I could come over and watch football with him and his friends - looking for a distraction - some positive energy. But now I couldn't face leaving the house. He tried to talk with me, but I couldn't stop crying.

I had planned on going to a birthday bash for January girlfriends, but I had to cancel that, too. Who needs a birthday party with a crying widow?

I blamed it on the fact that I had picked up Dennis' ashes yesterday. I blamed it on being only a week since Dennis had died.

Finally I streamed a movie from Netflix and found my crying subsiding some. When the movie was finished, I started a new one, but there had just been a few too many minutes of being inside my head, and I started crying, hard once again.

Suddenly it occurred to me that it was Sunday. Sunday was the one day that Dennis and I were always alone, together. Oh, for a while last year we had my mom on Sundays, but for most of the 10 years that we were together, we were alone on Sundays, together.

And today I am alone on Sunday with just me (and kitty).

Ann

Spanish Coffee

Sheila, a friend who happens to be a teacher, took me out to lunch yesterday. She took the day off just for me, but I suspect her hangover from karaoke night was a bit of a factor, too.

We had a great time, just catching up, sharing our stories, laughing, lots of hugs and just being together. I am learning to socialize again!

Then I stopped at the bank to make a deposit and noticed that there were 3 or 4 bankers sitting around doing nothing. Dennis had kept this expensive account open that was costing us $25 a month, but we were no longer receiving benefits from it. He was one stubborn dude - he was even more stubborn than me - so we just kept on paying $300/year for Dennis to feel some gratification of having an account for the pretend rich.

So, unfortunately, I asked if I could speak to a banker. The minute I said it I wished I could take the words back and walk away. But I am not STRONG Ann yet, and did not have the strength in me to do anything but be compliant. So I sat down for 45 minutes and answered his mundane questions while he made some changes to our account. I was strong enough to say no to a monthly credit check, no to any fee based services and no to anything that was going to keep Wells Fargo hooks in me forever.

When I returned home I made myself myself my latest concoction to calm me down, but not drink too much. I made a Spanish coffee. It's a bit of brandy, Kahlua, cinnamon, chocolate, chilpolte and hot coffee. The caffeine sends the brandy to the blood and brain quickly, and usually one does the trick.

I was sitting and thinking about how I had not sobbed all day, and only teared up a little a couple times. I called another friend to relay a story I had promised (I will tell you all later), and then had my Spanish coffee.

Gosh, it tasted so good, and I had more coffee, so I made another. And then another.


Should not have had that third. Probably not the second, either, but definitely not the third.


I was crying, and sobbing, and petting Shiva, and talking to Dennis and then to my parents and sobbing some more.


I am guessing that I have many days ahead that will be up and down and down and up. But from now on it's one or two Spanish coffees only.


Until later,
Ann


And I changed the settings on the blog so anonymous can now post comments.