Shattered

I am staring at a blank page.  I don’t know where to begin.

I hate to make people sad . . . or worried.  But right now, I am the biggest sad sack there ever was and there is nothing I can do about it.  I am either to be silent, or I am speaking of the sadness and darkness that has befallen my heart.  So, I will speak and you, dear readers, just know that you don’t have any obligation to listen.

My life feels empty.  Once upon a (giddier) time, there was a Ron Clark.  He was magical.  He had style, pizzazz, sharp wit, and love.  He fixed a broken me.  He brought me joy.  He spoke of growing old together - showed me a future that I could actually envision unfolding.  I devoted everything to him.  Now, he is gone.  The void is huge.  Huge.  Huge.  Beyond belief, it is huge.  A giant hole. 

There are at least ten million (maybe ten billion?  maybe infinite?) pieces of Ron that I kept inside my heart:  Little looks.  Jokes.  Stories.  Hugs.  Kisses.  Moments.  Firsts.  Memories.  Gestures.  Winks.  Songs.  Foods.  Bad movies.  Good movies.  Naps.  Vacations.  Travel.  Weekends.  Special stones.  Friendships.  Board games.  Video games.  Card games.  Invented games.  Arguments.  Phone calls.  Companionship.  Photos.  Letters.  Emails.  Messages.  Journal entries.  Clothes.  Places.  Maps.  Books.  Ideas.  Plans.  Projects.  Images.  Quotes.  Lyrics.  A future.  Domestic life.  Adventures.  Car rides.  Grocery shopping.  Hospital trips.  Hospice.  Devastating news.  Hopeful news.  Routines.  Road trips.  Singing.  Sharing.  Music festivals.  Concerts.  Visits with friends.  Visits with family.  Coffee.  MST3K.  Comics.  Intimate moments of end of life physical care.  Intimate moments before physical care was needed.  Laughter.  Tears.  Shouting.  Forgiveness.  Prayers.  Hand holding.  Heart holding.  Squishing.  Spooning.  Business time.  Bare feet.  Boots.  Tables.  Basil.  Car rides.  Dares.  Double dares.  Great Lakes.  Fireworks.  Animals (wild and domestic).  Walks.  Stars.  Trees.  Plants.  Playfulness.  Silliness.  Knowledge.  Doubts.  Reassurance.  Swimming.  Sunsets.  Sunrises.  Storms.  Rain.  Difficult decisions.  Challenging conversations.  Peaceful conversations.  Falling asleep together.  Arms around each other.  Handwriting.  Texts.  Cooking.  Smells.  Heartbeats.  Hats.  Bagpipes.  Smiles.  Words.  Snacks.  Late nights.  Early mornings.  Confrontation.  Regrets.  Acceptance.  Unconditional love.

When Ron died, my heart shattered, each of these pieces (and many more) cast away from my center and scattered all over the place.  I am trying to pick them up to preserve them, but fragmented, and without the lens of Ron in my life, they make no sense.  They have sharp edges that sometimes hurt.  I use some of them as weapons against myself (not helpful, I know, but I have a wicked brain).  I cannot find a suitable container to store them in.  This heart of mine that used to hold them is broken.  I am afraid it cannot ever be mended.  Such is the devastation of losing the one human being who truly loved me just as I am and who I loved back . . . so much . . . and remain in love with. 

I try to be strong.  I try to hold it together.  I try to be hopeful, but I have got to be honest here.  The prospect of a future without Ron Clark in my life is pretty damn depressing.  I just don’t see the point.  I think this is pretty normal, feeling this way after losing my true love, but normalizing it does not make it easier or less frightening to experience.

So, sometimes I go into town to see my brother and sister-in-law and get some perspective and distraction and to reminisce about happier times.  And sometimes I (hesitantly) allow visits from persistent friends.  And sometimes I will talk on the phone.  And often I am in contact electronically with those reaching out and offering support and encouragement and condolences.  And occasionally I will reach out and ask for assistance or make contact with someone.  And in a few days, I will fly out to Texas to see my sister and avoid Alma over Memorial Day/Highland Festival Weekend, because I just am not ready to do it without Ron and I don’t want everyone asking how I am when the answer will just make them sad.  I am also hoping that a change in scenery and sharing a new adventure with my sister may cheer me up, even just a little (and even if it doesn’t, at least I will be near her while feeling so crappy).

I am pretty sure if I did not do these things . . . if I just isolated in this house where I have spent the last three months straight taking care of Ron and never leaving his side for more than a few hours . . . I am pretty sure you would not be reading this.  I don’t think Ron and I have spent a night apart since last November, and even that was just for 12 hours.  The void of having that much constant contact with someone, caring for them every second, and then not having them at all is beyond anything I could have imagined.  Pain does not even begin to describe it.  I lack words to describe it.  I know that all who knew him will miss Ron Clark.  I think I am just feeling it intensely because of how close (physically and emotionally and mentally) we had been in those last few months . . . and, of course, because he was my husband and I loved him more than anything else on this earth and don’t know what to do without him.

I try to find reminders, but I have to be careful what I discover in my digging.  I do not have Ron to reassure me.  I do not have him to tell me that he loves me.  I do not have him to forgive me for all the mistakes I perceive having made.  I know that I still love him.  I am telling him and writing him all the time.  But I get no response.  It is scary and lonely.  I want to feel comforted.  I want his presence.  Really, I just want him to come home, whole and healthy, and for us to get started on that nice, long life together that he always talked about . . . but we all know that ain’t gonna happen, so . . . what next?

I avoid public.  I am slow.  I am not thinking clearly.  I am not accomplishing things.  Well, I am not accomplishing what I think I should be.  But, again, I am too hard on myself.  If it were anyone else going through this, I would tell them that they don’t have to accomplish anything and that there are no expectations.  I am my own worst enemy. 

I did accomplish a monumental feat yesterday.  I cleaned and rearranged the living room.  This had not been done since Ron’s heart stopped beating . . . since they wheeled out the body . . . since they dismantled the hospital bed that had become the focal point of the living room.  The cleaning process involved touching and moving a lot of Ron’s things.  It felt like moving forward . . . and I am not ready for that, but I did need a space that felt clean and safe and not chaotic where I can grieve.  During the cleaning process, I screamed, cried, punched, slapped, threw, yelled, pulled my shirt over my eyes to feel the blackness, fell to my knees, prayed, cried some more, yelled some more, wrote angry letters to Ron for leaving me, wrote letters to Ron apologizing for being angry at something he had no control over, and eventually got it done and decided he would like the way it looks.  If he were here and healthy, he would suggest we just spoon on the couch in our nice, clean living room.  And I would take an uncharacteristic break from busy-bodying and comply with that request.  And right about now, we would both be completely blissed out of our minds and marveling at how comfy we could get when wrapped in one another’s arms. 

Today, my accomplishment was going out in public . . . alone.  I really felt like I needed a team of body guards and a vehicle with darkly tinted windows to protect me from the world.  And, even though I got some things done, I think it may have been too soon to attempt that feat and I don’t feel like trying it again any time in the near future.  I had to get an oil change and tire rotation (hid in the back of the waiting room reading and crying and avoiding eye contact with all the people there who wanted to be chatty).  I had to get toilet paper, so went to Target (literally everything in the store reminded me of Ron, made me weep uncontrollably, and had me exiting in tears).  I attempted to close out his bank account, but will need to get a copy of his death certificate first (was so tearful while explaining that I forgot to cash my own checks at that branch, felt too embarrassed to go back inside, and had to go to another branch to cash them).  I decided against getting the groceries that I made a list for the night before Ron died.  I think I have decided against eating meals alone in this house, at least for now.  (I do allow for solo consumption of string cheese and Coke Zero and beer). 

The hardest part about being in public is that the whole world does not know and I feel like they should.  They don’t know what happened to Ron.  They don’t know what happened to me.  They ask me how I am doing.  My ongoing issue is that I am always honest to a fault.  I fumble for how to respond to the routine question of how I am.  (Note to self – get better at lying about it and just say “fine.”)

Upon returning home, I have been efficient.  I remembered to give Ru her daily immunosuppressant med and both dogs their heartworm and flea/tick medication.  I completed paperwork to mail to Ron’s DHS worker.  I completed paperwork to stop my mail while I am in Texas.  I put things away, in their proper places (don’t have the energy to clean again, so cannot risk messing it up).  I watered plants.  I took out recycling.

And now I am doing this.  Why?  I don’t know.  (Ask me ‘why’ about anything anymore and my answer will consistently be ‘I don’t know.’  The meaning of it all is lost to me.)  I am doing this because it feels like truthfully exposing my pain (in a way I cannot fully achieve while talking to people, whether in person or on the phone) and remembering Ron at the same time.  I am doing this because reading and watching stuff are not distracting enough activities.  I am doing this because I don’t feel like being around very many people right now.  I am doing this because I am alone in my house and I miss Ron.  I am doing this because I need to.  I am doing this because I hope it will help me.

I guess I am also doing this because it is what I do now.  Ron taught me.  He bravely made his disease and living after diagnosis a public process.  When he no longer felt up to blogging, I took over.  Now, my grieving process has become public, too.  For as much social isolating as I am doing, this is a forum that makes me feel removed enough that I can say how I am feeling and receive feedback without the pressure (albeit self-induced) to put on a good, strong face. 

People, I am telling you, I am falling apart.  Even when you check in on me and I sound fine, I am not.  Except that I am.  But of course, I am not.  A conundrum, right?  Should you worry about me?  Or shouldn’t you?  Well, I don’t want to worry anyone, so let me assure you that I will get through this.  But let me also say that I am suffering real bad and there is very little anyone can really do to help.  How could I not be broken over losing someone as wonderful as Ron?  You would not ever expect me to be OK.  It is just part of the process of having loved and lost.

“’Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.”  I had always associated Tennyson’s quote with relationship break-ups; I didn’t consider this implication.  I wish so badly that Ron had just left me for another woman or said we weren’t compatible or something mundane and terrible like that.  That scenario would hurt fiercely and I would still never be the same, but he would be alive.  I would wake up and go to sleep knowing he exists on this planet.  That would be enough, I think, to give my heart hope.  Instead, and as much as I am grateful to have met Ron and for the short while we did have together, I am not so convinced by Tennyson.  I am sure that my closed-up, “Hate Family,” sarcastic, cynical, snide heart was emotionally easier to be with than this raw, open, shattered, bleeding mess I cannot contain now.  This is better?  Really?  Maybe in time I will figure out how, but right now, I tend to disagree . . . except when I remember the light Ron brought me.

There are two things that are helpful.  One is doing things to honor and remember Ron.  I found this to be true in my last blog post.  And I plan to do one to include things from his celebration of life service, which I think will be as meaningful for me to put together as it will be for those who want to remember him (especially those who could not be at the service in person).  And I have other blog posts planned to remember the good times Ron and I shared.  Once I am a little less raw, I intend to get busy with some activism and hope I can take on the injustice of his untimely and preventable death.  Creating, honoring, fighting in the name of Ron Clark . . . these things fill me with purpose and make me feel closer to him.

The other thing that has brought a streak of enjoyment and eased the heartache is the communication I’ve received from people who have shared with me how much Ron loved me and what I meant to him.  Friends have relayed stories about the positive changes they saw in him (and in me) after we fell for each other.  People recall how in love with one another we were and how obvious this was.  So, if I allow myself to be self-indulgent for a moment in asking for something to help me with the pain, I welcome anyone who knew Ron to contact me with these kinds of comforting words.  Obviously only if you are so inclined and actually believe this - I don’t want anyone making stuff up or saying things just to say them.  I get so full of doubt and loss and sadness when I am up in my head.  I don’t have him here to tell me these things anymore.  Hearing that he loved me makes me feel better.  (It is stupid, I know, because of course I know he loved me.  I can’t explain why, but hearing it from others just helps.  I don’t know if all widows go through this or if it is just because we had such a short time and didn’t get to really finish out our life together.  I feel slightly insane with how much I crave and need these secondhand accounts of the story I already know firsthand.  And I am sorry if this degree of crazy is annoying or creepy.)  I hope someday I will feel his presence surrounding and protecting me.  I hope someday I feel like I am still loved by him as much as I still love him.  But until I do, these stories bring me comfort.  Big thanks to those who have shared these thoughts with me so far.  I keep returning to them when needed to find peace, rereading them over and over until they become my mantra.