Dear Mike—You’ve been dead for over three weeks now. I refuse to accept it. I think it’s a huge hoax. You’re sitting back somewhere, relaxing on an island or something and you’ve hired a private detective to observe and report back to you on how your “loved ones” have lined up. How are they coping and who misses you the most? Surely I win the missing-you-most contest by any measure. The trouble is, when I find out for sure that it’s a hoax, and that you’re not really dead, then I’m going to KILL you because you’ve put me through this hell. Damn, you’re a mean bastard, why was I duped all along to think you were a thoughtful person with a decent amount of compassion? You shithead!
When I don’t doubt that you’re dead, when I'm faced with the stark reality, I often get angry. I mutter to you aloud, sometimes shouting at you for the idiocy of dying. “You shithead!” I shout, through tears. But then I apologize because you weren’t a shithead and you didn’t want to die.
It’s incomprehensible to me that a fully-formed man with so much energy, so many interests and opinions, so many skills, could be reduced to a puddle of emaciated flesh. That puddle in the bed was not the Mike I knew and loved. That little Yoda man, mumbling an occasional brilliant observation, had replaced the big, strong, guitar-playing cowboy. It wasn’t your body any longer. Where was the real Mike and when was he coming back?
When my heart softens and I get past the anger and disbelief is when it’s really hard. Then I face the stark truth that you’re gone. Just gone. This kind of gone is not going to end while I’m on this Earth.
People say to me, “Just talk to him. He’s there. He’s everywhere around you. He can hear you.” In a sense I want to believe that but I’m not convinced and, truthfully, I’ve never had one of those moments when I felt your presence or thought I heard your voice. I don’t really know the nature of heaven. (And I do give thanks that you’re in heaven.) But do you bother to hang out here in spirit when you can be in heaven talking to Jesus? Why would you do that? Go back to heaven, don’t listen to my whining. I’ll be fine. Sort of fine. Other than the missing you part.
Just so you know, I cried at Home Depot yesterday because I was frustrated. I needed to get a piece of plywood cut to replace a seat in a chair I’m doing. You shithead! Where are you with your power tools when I need you? Okay, I’m over that. I’ll be fine, I swear. I’ll pull myself together and I’ll be fine. Still, I’ll miss you. Oh, and I bought a circular saw and protective eye goggles. Just imagine the dangerous potential of a grieving old woman with a circular saw, the eye googles notwithstanding. Trust me, you’re much safer where you are.
Miss you. . . love you. . . . Donna
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