I wish that I could get some kind of perspective on all of this. I know that in some ways, it’s too soon. Or maybe impossible, because there’s been so much. But I sit here, and I can’t bring anything into focus. I can’t feel the bad; I can’t feel the good. I can’t imagine how we got here. I’m trying to remember the times that were happy and hopeful, but it’s so, so hard.
Things were best when it was just the two of us. That’s the ultimate truth. When it was just us, there were fewer problems, and, in a way, we were the best we could ever be together. And maybe if the illness hadn’t taken over… illness and age and blood sugar and the long-term effects of carrying that kind of weight around. Maybe, just maybe, we could have made things work. But the deck was so stacked against him, against both of us. I can’t get in touch with the anger, but it’s there. Anger at fate, at karma, at my own stupidity, at Michael for not being able to make positive change, for not being willing to accept any advice from anyone when he could have, and then blaming me for not being able to help him. I say that, and it breaks my heart, because it seems so unfair to him.
Oh, Michael. I am so sad for you. And so angry for you. And so sad and angry for me. And Jonathan and Caitlin and my mother and for everyone touched by this.
It will be three weeks tomorrow.
He used to say, when I would worry about things between us, “it’s not that fragile.” And it never was. And it isn’t now. It’s a depth of love that is beyond all the awful things that happened, all the ways in which things didn’t work, all the ways in which we hurt each other, all the ways in which we let each other down. It’s there, that cool, still river, and my hope is that somewhere that Michael-consciousness is understanding this. Because if there’s somewhere to be going later, I’ll be looking for him.
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