I stormed out before security was called and much to my surprise, blowing off some steam felt good. I had gotten into my car in the parking lot and banged my fists on the steering wheel until my hands ached. I gritted my teeth hard and growled under my breath until the rage didn’t feel so much bigger than me.
So maybe the group therapy wasn’t a total fail after all, though it may have fueled my rage a tad. Acting like an irrational ass and screaming at people gave me a little relief. My entire body had been feeling like a pressurized holding tank of fury. Bleeding off a bit of that steam felt nice, addictive even. I started doing it more frequently. I’ve been an inconsolable loose cannon for the better part of two years and I can’t even say with any amount of sincerity that I feel guilty for it. I lost my husband. The man who shot both of us was never caught. Excuse the hell out of me if I’m a smidge on the bitchy side.
My individual therapy is just kind of…whatever. The only reason I keep on going is to make sure that my prescription for my anxiety meds is kept up to date. The doctor says that I’m the one hindering my progress. I disagree, so we usually spend our weekly visit staring at the clock and passing time exchanging mild civilized conversation. It’s a Good Will Hunting scenario, except I’m no genius and he’s not from Boston. He’s a balding sixty-something man with an annoying habit of flicking his index finger at the tip of his nose like it’s always itchy or something. Most of the time I spend our hour together daydreaming about throwing some allergy medication and a box of tissues at him. We almost never discuss much of anything in depth. He’s holding out for me to give in. He’s holding out for me to open up. He’s holding out for me to tell him all about what I’m feeling. He’ll have to keep waiting and chatting about nothing relevant. Even if I wanted to, I could never articulate the magnitude of loss that resides deep down in every cell of my body. Loss is what I’m made up of. Talking about his morning commute is a whole lot better than him asking how much I’ve been crying, or how much sleep I’m getting, or if I’ve forgiven the rest of the family for backing me into a corner and basically forcing me into turning off life support.
I wanted to hold on. I had hope that maybe a miracle would happen and his brain function would return. Mostly, I wasn’t ready.
I wasn’t ready to choose flowers. I wasn’t even sure what Jake’s favorite flower was. We’d never discussed death flowers.
I wasn’t ready to decide on cremation or traditional burial. We never really said much about what our final wishes were. We thought we had time for that business.
I wasn’t ready to walk through burial plots in search of Jake’s final resting place. Under a tree? No tree?
I wasn’t ready to sort through swatches of casket liners. Silk versus velvet and satin in every color under the wretched sun. Midnight blue or royal blue?
I wasn’t ready to thumb through a catalog at the florist for the perfect floral spray to adorn Jake’s casket. Simple and elegant? Extravagant?
I wasn’t ready to choose whether or not I wanted a post-burial reception or not. Memorial dinner? Memorial lunch? Brunch? What time of day is a good time to bury the love of your life? Skip on the memorial altogether? Chicken or beef?
I wasn’t ready to pack up his side of the closet. I wasn’t ready to move to the middle of the bed so I wouldn’t feel as if I was sleeping on some giant-sized mattress.
I wasn’t ready for the sympathetic stares, encouraging words, or loving pats on the back.
I just wasn’t ready and I don’t think I ever would’ve been ready. I’m still not ready. A girl like me doesn’t lose a husband like Jake and recover from it. Especially not the way I lost him.
Church prayer groups didn’t help either. I couldn’t or just wouldn’t bow my head to pray earnestly. A few of the old biddies leading the group ended up calling Mom asking if I had turned atheist and made it a point to express their worry for my “eternal soul.” Is it really that hard to believe that I’m just not in the mood for church, or praying, or pretending to revere the God who had squashed me beneath his thumb like the ant that I am? I still believe in God. I just don’t believe in me, the stupid ant.
So sue me.
Over the last two years, I’ve managed to find a few things that do help. They’re small and usually fleeting moments of respite, but each one is a tiny victory for my aching soul. Getting pissed helps. Breaking something feels pretty damn good. The occasional cigarette helps. A bottle of wine really helps. Sleep helped at first but now I’m haunted with dreams of Jacob that leave me breathless and just as broken as the day they told me he was brain dead.
I’ve resigned myself to what I’ve become. I’m bitter, and angry, and lonely, and confused. But most importantly, I am utterly and completely heartbroken that I had a fairytale life and in a split second it was stolen from me. I’m the stupid ant who sometimes thinks that I may have been better off never knowing the love I had with Jake. The crushing guilt I feel right after I think those thoughts is my punishment.
Stupid, stupid, ant.
Chapter Two
The Only Expectation