You try. You try to get through the death of your wife. You got through the death of two brothers and your son. Why is it so hard to get through this?
For one thing, your wife helped you get through those deaths, especially the death of your son. That was a tough one. You went crazy. You wanted to kill yourself. Your wife stopped you.
You can’t do that. It won’t help Will. And I need you.
You went on. You lived through the nightmare. Years passed. Your wife was always there for you.
And then she fell ill. Ambulances wailing in the night. Emergency vehicles flashed their lights. Medics worked frantically at her bedside, their faces taut with urgency.
And then the night ride to emergency. A grim scenario played out before, but this night they could not save her.
And now you live alone. You join a bereavement group. You volunteer at the local library. You go back to the empty house. You have no immediate family left. You’ve stopped waiting for the phone to ring. You read a lot. You drink a lot. Gin is a lifesaver. Until it isn’t. But Xanax is, every time.
You put seemingly hopeful posts on your blog (obviously this is not one of them). You try to get off the subject of death. But you know you’re kidding yourself. All you know is, you want your wife back. And the rest of what you know is, she’s never coming back.
Your wife was a believer. She believed in something after death. But you can’t wrap your head around that. You are twice bereft — of your wife, and of belief.
Hell of a place to be in an empty house on County Road 9.