When we started looking at a house to buy, we were like all other couples with a must have list. Of course my list was longer than franks.
- Garage with automatic door
- Space for a fire pit
- Garden style bath tub
- His and her sinks
- Kitchen island
- Open floor plan with lots of wall space
- Lots of Natural lighting
I found the style of house that fit all our needs and we got lucky and got a huge backyard too. Unfortunately it was two stories but I put my foot down and got to hear him complain about the stairs each time he had to go upstairs for anything. Small sacrifices I thought.
The master and guest bathrooms both have his and her sinks. They are wonderful because I have so much stuff that it always overflowed on sink. We had it parted right down the middle and all my mess stayed on my half.
3 different lotions, 2 different perfumes, jewelry everywhere, 5 different hair products, tooth paste and brush, candles and so much more. His only has the few items he used. Tooth paste, toothbrush, beard brush with those damn grey hairs stuck in it, comb, beard oil, hair gel and medication. The only item that could breach the centerline was Q-tips. The one item we shared, besides an economy style bottle of men’s body wash in the shower.
Every time I go into our bathroom, I look at his things and I haven’t moved them an inch since he put them down for the last time.
I spent most of the day deep cleaning the downstairs and kept delaying going upstairs to clean our bathroom. Making excuses to myself, then I realized why that was. When I clean the sinks, I take everything off then place them back on later. Now I’m faced with the dilemma. What do I do about his things? Do I put them back in the position they were? Do I throw stuff away that I can’t use? Is this the first step towards accepting that he won’t ever be coming home?
I know that I have been partitioning my mind to protect myself even though I know he is gone. I’ve been avoiding throwing anything away or separating his clothes. I have his picture on the bar counter downstairs with two electronic tea lights that I leave on 24/7. I don’t want him in the dark. I also leave a strong shot of whiskey there. It’s the first thing I see when I walk through the front door and I kiss my finger tips and press them to his picture when I tell him “I love you”, when I leave the house.
I know it’s depressing. I know it’s a memorial that I won’t keep there all the time. I will eventually take it upstairs to the loft. To be in my library. My sanctuary space. So other people don’t have to feel uncomfortable when they see it.
But I need it. I need to see him and remember his face, his eyes, his smile. I miss him almost more than I can bear.
Most days, I’m barely holding on by the skin of my fingernails. I’m one hug or kind word away from breaking down. I’ve been keeping a journal, reading books on grief, talking with a select few and today I asked my primary care doctor to set me up an appointment with a therapist at the VA. I’m doing everything I can to keep moving forward. To heal, to stay open and leave my heart vulnerable.
I still have to put everything back on the counter before I go to bed tonight. I still don’t know what I will do.
Those stupid fucking his and her sinks.