He was just here.
That’s what we keep saying. Six weeks ago he was on the couch. Uncomfortable, and in pain, but very much alive. They said it was osteoporosis. At 51. From prednisone. They were wrong.
It was multiple myeloma. Diagnosed and dead in two weeks.
That sounds so harsh. It is harsh. But it’s the only way I can process it, feel it, really understand it.
I think about talking to Dad about it, briefly.
Then I remember. Dad is dead, too.
I didn’t ‘lose’ him. I know exactly where he is. He’s just not living.
And then I realize it’s September, nearly October.
And at the end of October it will have been one year since Julie fell down her staircase and died.
It’s been a horrible fucking year.
I started writing again today. I’m hoping it will help me push some of the pain out. Because the pain is huddled in my head and my tummy and I can’t think and I can’t sleep and I can’t cry. I just ache.
I ache terribly.
(Does anyone care…)