But, to continue writing here, now, feels like I'm living with one foot in a past that will never become present. No matter how much I cry, how I barter, beg, pray or toss fistfuls of pixie dust, scream, threaten or whimper, Bob is physically gone from this earth, as we knew him. As much as I hate to acknowledge this, I am slowly coming to accept this truth, in my head and in my heart. I can't say I have fully embraced this truth, can't say I'm "a-okay" with his dying, can't say that there aren't days that I'm hit with sucker punches that literally, physically drop me . . . I still am so lost without my very best friend, trying so hard to come to grips with his horrific ordeal, but slowly, ever so slowly, I feel I have at least a few glimmers of hope, of understanding . . .
Because of these glimmers of hope, I have decided this format, this Sofa King blog, no longer serves Bob and no longer serves me. Bob is now in the most beautiful place that we could never begin to imagine; that place that one day, we all will be. I am blessed with continuing signs that Bob is alive and well in a place we call Heaven. Nirvana. Happy Hunting Grounds. Paradise. The Great Beyond. The Other World. Pure Love. Call it what you want, semantics no longer matter where Bob now is. Words are those horribly inept things that we earthly creatures have created to feebly try to define, to cling to, corral, control the things over which we really have no control. . . where Bob is, words are no longer necessary.
At some point, I know I will find complete peace knowing that Bob is free, but it's gonna take a little more time and a helluva lotta work on my behalf to reach that place. The cliches don't fit, don't work for me, a blind acceptance of "what is" doesn't help me, but I am finding other ways to help me make sense of the horrors of the 19 months of Bob's ordeal . . . working toward the true comfort of knowing that he is beautiful, healthy, whole, and in a place where we all will be one day, surrounded with pure love, emanating pure love. . . the bitch is, this stuff just doesn't happen overnight, much to my impatient dismay. (I know, I know . . . for all the ethereal talk, I still have the mouth of a trucker . . .small comfort, knowing some things never change, huh?)
Bob is with us, this I know is true, and he continues to guide us from a place of pure love. Life doesn't end with death; rather, it is a new beginning. This, right now, is my job: learning to let go. To so many things that I once thought were true. To things that are keeping me in a place of pain and stagnancy. To open myself to new possibilities. Let go. Surrender. . . It's a new way of life for me, this letting go shit, being in "fight mode" for the past two years. . . my first big step in letting go is letting go of this blog.
I have decided to start another blog, called Widow (w)rites . . . and I invite you to follow me on this next journey in life, if you wish. Right now, I'm not really sure what it will be, other than a new "home" in which to write about life without the best person I have ever had the honor to know . . . I might write frequently, I might never write. Every day is an adventure in Widowland . . . I do know that death and dying are not a "normal" topic of conversation in our everyday life, but the reality is, we will all die one day. We work so hard to try to avoid this fact of life, and the tragic, unfortunate side effect of this affliction is that we are so often denied a truly respectable, dignified death, and it is a subject that so many avoid, literally run from, and when it's too late, the wrong people end up making the decisions. . . Bob was denied this right, this option—a dignified, respectable choice in how he would die—by the very people we put so much trust and power in, to care for him. . . maybe that is what my new blog will address—that's a loaded issue with endless layers, and it's far too early to know . . .maybe it'll be just a bunch of inane drivel, which we all know I'm really good at . . . whatever the direction I take, if you chose not to continue this journey with me, I'm super-okay with that. Huge part of me doesn't blame you one bit, for not wanting to buy a ticket on this Krazy Train . . .
Endless love to all of you, who loved my beloved Bob so very dearly, who love me immensely, who held us so close to your hearts, who cried with us, fought with us, prayed for us, did so much for us, who continue to do all of that, and more, holding me up, as I walk alone. . .