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Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Happy Birthday, My Darling,
You should be 77 today instead of dead. There are no words to express how I miss you, your touch, your warmth, the way you cherished me, the way you made love to me, the way you sneaked up on me to kiss the back of my neck.
I spent 12 hours at work today, and every time I turned around, I was writing the date on one form or another, constant reminders of the fact that you are gone forever. You would have been proud of me, though, the way I threaded that INT into that old lady’s vein without making her cry. Up until today, I have been able to make the vein but not thread the catheter. It was a tremendous ego boost for me. You probably know that I looked to the sky and said, “Happy Birthday, Poppy,” when I finished dressing the site. It’s hard to believe that I am having to relearn skills at which I was so sharp in years past.
Your last birthday, when you turned 75, we had a party for you with a cake with your picture on it and balloons and confetti, and you got down out of your wheelchair and played with the twins on floor. The others wondered if you would be able to get back up into your chair, but I never had a moment’s doubt. You were a strong willed and stubborn old coot, and I knew we could get you up.
Oh, you should see Abbey and Drew now. They are like two weed eaters buzzing around and leaving destruction in their wake. Shannon handles them so well. You would be so proud of her and the life she is making with her family.
The last year and a half has been the longest and most painful time of my life. No therapy or medication can take from me this emptiness, this sense of being so alone. Work helps, but when it is over, you are still gone and I am still alone.
My social life is pretty much shot, but I don’t want to go into that. You don’t need to know everything. Just know that I have been injured and that I am recovering quickly. I take great strength from my memories of you. I will fix my social life when I am ready.
Under Rosemary’s excellent tutelage,I am writing better poetry these days and there is comfort is that. Sadly, many of my pieces are based on my pain from losing you. I find it hard to write about anything happy or beautiful Maybe one day I will be inspired by a flower or a tree or a smiling baby, that that day will be long in arriving, I fear.
For now, most of what I feel is still tender and sore. I do miss you so very much, so very deeply. I am straining to write this, feeling as though there is nothing to say. So, I’ll just say “Happy Birthday.”
I will love you forever,
Your Fat Girl