My normal routines are on hold. Wayne died on Wednesday afternoon at home, in his bed, surrounded by his three children, Shannon, and some close friends. My hand on his chest, I felt him breathe for the last time.
As you can probably imagine, I’m a bit off-kilter, discombobulated, jittery. After days of being on call for Shannon, storing a sleeping bag and pillow in the van, passing off the kids to Mr. Handsome, my sister-in-law, my mother, sleeping on Shannon’s sofa, sitting for hours on the floor of their bedroom, watching Wayne’s chest rise and fall, rise and fall, waiting, waiting, waiting… I feel raw.
The funeral is Monday. After that, life will get back to normal, I suppose, though I’m not sure what that means. Maybe I’ll cook again. Maybe we’ll finish up the kids’ schooling…or maybe not. Maybe I’ll have the emotional wherewithal to sift through my experiences and organize them into coherent thoughts. Maybe I’ll fly sky-high with relief. Maybe I’ll crash. I don’t know.
In the meantime, I’m shopping for funeral clothes with Shannon, accompanying her (with a couple other friends) to the funeral home, the graveside, the church. In between times, we hang out at her house, make plans, chit-chat, joke, cry. It’s a special time. Not easy, but special. I’m honored to be included.