The things I want to talk about are flying around my head like fireflies, busy and uncatchable

This is one of those “I don’t even know where to start” posts.

One year ago tomorrow is the day they called me back after visiting hours had ended, and said that it would probably be a comfort to Tim if I came back to the hospital. Which I immediately knew was code for “he’s probably going to die tonight.”

The thing is… I’m not sad for the me who is now. I’m sad for the me who was then. I did everything I could for Tim, and I don’t have any regrets about how I advocated for him or cared for him at the end. I mean, obviously I didn’t want him to die – I never would have wanted that in a hundred thousand million years. And I’ll always have questions about things we were going through, things he felt about me, things he felt towards the end. But I have no … no sadness, no regrets, no embarrassment, about how I carried myself then.

But if I could go back in time and give myself a big Mama Bear hug? Tell myself that hey, love, it’s going to suck really big balls, emotionally, for quite a while, but you don’t have anything to be scared about and things are actually going to turn out pretty well for you. Things are going to be hella different, and the “you” that was a wife, a partner, a being who is connected to another being, is going to die with him. You won’t be those things any more. But that’s going to make space for you to be a lot of other things – a strong woman, a friend, a person soloing through life, a being who is connected differently to many other wonderful, giving, caring beings… that person is going to be born.

Is that weird? That I’m more sad right now for who I was, for how my heart was hurting, 364 days ago, than I am sad about the anniversary of my husband’s death? That seems a lot more heartless than I mean it to, which means I’m probably not explaining it very well.

Right now I’m trying to get Barbara’s house ready to sell, and I swear on a stack of Anarchist’s Cookbooks that it’s a gabillion times more frustrating than I thought it would be. I mean… house. House with nothing structurally wrong. House with only cosmetic things that need to be done. The fact that every single cosmetic thing has had about six roadblocks come up in front of them is FUCKING HILARIOUS. And by FUCKING HILARIOUS I mean it makes me want to THROW HANDS. How hard can it be to empty a house, paint a few walls in a house, replace some screens in a house, and put that fucker up for sale?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA AAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHA sob

I feel like I have seventeen people to talk to about everything, and none of those people are in the same place at the same time, and so many things are coming in like “hey did so-and-so tell you that so-and-so wants whatever” but then there are three different things called a “whatever” nobody seems to know which “whatever” so-and-so wanted, they just wanted a “whatever” and files and files of old receipts that might or might not be something important so everything needs to be gone through because everything is labeled as if it is important so and oh my god, I can see why people turn to arson because at this point I’m ‘bout ready to toss a book of matches in it and then walk out into the sea.

It’s also very, very much making me want to pitch that box of birthday cards and things I’ve saved because ain’t nobody gonna care that I have a birthday card from when I was three years old when I die. I mean, I won’t pitch them… but I’ll probably put a note on them that says “these are all just old birthday cards and there’s no cash inside, I checked, so if you don’t want to use them in an art project just toss them.”

All of the cats were juuuuuuust getting used to Peppa Potato falling asleep on the couch every night by about 7:30 so they felt safe coming out for laps, and now it looks like I’ve adopted a second dog? Or Peppa adopted a dog, I can’t tell. She very plainly invited it to come and play in the back yard with her and that did more to win the dog over than three days of food did. She’s not microchipped… but I guess she will be on the 14th, when I also start her on her vaccinations and get her spayed (if she’s not already), and start any worm/flea/tick treatments, with my vet.

Honey Butter fits right in, as if she and Peppa Potato were littermates (not possible for a number of reasons). She only chases the cats who run from her, she seems totally fine with a dog about half her size (or less) being The Boss, she’s so housetrained that she wakes me up if she has to go potty while I’m asleep (or go outside to eat grass, she’s had tummy troubles since yesterday). All in all she’s about the perfect dog. And Peppa’s energy level has really evened out – she’s not as needy with me as she has been the last few months, and it’s only been, what, three days?

Honey Butter does need to follow me everywhere, though, and I feel so bad when she and Peppa are snuggled up and I have to go get something from the other room but know that I’m coming right back…. I try to tell her she can stay there but she still jumps up in a way that is more OH MY GOD NEW MAMA PLEASE DON’T LEAVE LITTLE BABY BEHIND and less like YO I DON’T KNOW WHAT WE’RE DOING BUT I’M ALL IN. She does immediately come back with me and then lay down with Peppa again, so… but still. You could stay, doggo. I’ll be right back.

OK, I have more to rant on about but that’s a thousand words right there so I’ll call this post done. Thanks for reading, y’all!