August 10, 2016

So Much Processing

Rupert once told me, “You’ve got some mad skills, baby, but sleep ain’t one of them.” It always took me an extra hour or two to fall asleep. He didn’t mind having the extra quiet time in the house in the morning. I’d wake up, and he’d be caught up on the news and whatever else was pressing on his laptop, and he’d jump up, give me a smile, and make me a cup of coffee. He knew exactly how I took it.

Sometimes, I even process what life will look like in the future, soon, when time starts again, and I need to go on living.

Now I can barely keep my eyes open. I’m in my jammies at 4 o’clock in the afternoon. I fall asleep immediately. I’m often up very early from the eternal road work on my street and a few really annoying birds.

Waking up is one of the hardest parts of my day. I’ve had a long break, and suddenly I’m conscious, and I’m in that awful waking place where Rupert is dead. I lie in bed for an hour or two thinking about what that means, until the pull of coffee is too strong and I have to get up.

I process how hard it is to grasp that the future I thought was coming will never happen. I process that I’d found my life partner, or rather realized who he was after knowing him on and off for nearly 30 years, and we only had a year and a week together. I think about his accident and wonder why he didn’t stop the bike before hitting the tree; why the cops found no brake marks. I consider the others that are grieving his death, and the stories they’ve told me about how they heard the news. Sometimes, I even process what life will look like in the future, soon, when time starts again, and I need to go on living.

That time is coming soon, with a big wedding out of town this weekend, my kids returning from camp, getting my daughter packed for boarding school and traveling 3,000 miles to move her in, coming home and going straight to Burning Man, and starting business school with one kid living with me 80% of the time. The time to start time again is coming.

It’s a lot to process.

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