Death by a thousand cuts

Your passing itself cannot be described as one of these small cuts. It’s the black hole that swallowed me up and hasn’t let any light escape since that day. But somehow there’s another me, a shadow of myself, still here. Continuing on against my will. Animated by a life force I didn’t know was there. And it’s that self who is slowly, painfully, devastatingly being sliced up.

Every single day, hour, moment that goes by, I am adorned with more cuts. Some days are better than others, but none of them are good. Some days I come out like I’ve been locked in a room with a spicy shelter cat. Others it’s as if I picked up a broken glass by hand. Each night I slather myself in ointment, hoping and praying that by remembering happy times these cuts might start to heal.

The first ones appeared the day you died. Every single person I encountered unknowingly stabbed me. As I met the nurses’, doctors’, techs’ eyes, I’d start crying anew. Leaving the hospital was hell. Arriving at the hotel, bags already packed since I was about to switch hotels, was almost worse. Getting into our car, the car we’d only had a few months, broke me again. The phone call from the eye bank on the drive home was truly painful; forty five minutes of medical information that had to be done then and there to be sure your eyes could be donated. When I finally got to our apartment and saw the cats, I couldn’t stop bawling. They looked for you. I did too. More cuts.

Each and every “first” has been its own special hell. That first night I couldn’t bring myself to take off my wedding band, and other than showering, I haven’t taken it off since. The first time I had to put the week’s pills in the pill organizers I sobbed. I didn’t have to do yours. We didn’t have to argue over whose turn it was to do the pills, even though I had been doing it for weeks since you had so many other meds to contend with. The first time I had to give your date of death I felt like I was betraying you. The person I was speaking with said “that was so recent” and I can’t even remember now how I responded. Every time I go somewhere we loved going together tears spring to my eyes, sometimes spilling over, and always my heart aches. All the firsts are more cuts.

I went to the first movie I’ve seen in theaters without you today. I went with Cricket because she’s the only one who I could imagine going with for this first. I got pretzels with cheese and a large icee for you. I cried a little during the trailers and more during the movie. I cried the hardest at the end because I wished more than anything that you could have been there, too. I’m sure you were in spirit, but I wanted to hold hands and share candy how we used to. I wanted to figure out together where to get dinner on the way home. Instead I cried on the way to Michael’s and bought a handful of picture frames so I can put up more photos. Papercuts.

I learned today that death by a thousand cuts can not only describe a torture technique, but also the way a major change can happen slowly, quietly, without anyone noticing, as if chopping down a tree one little slice at a time. My biggest fear has already come true, and all else pales in comparison. But I do fear that over time, with every little cut, every tiny change, my life will no longer resemble what we built together. Our silly little life. The life we loved so much. The life you fought so hard for. The life you deserve to still be living.

I hope it’s beautiful where you are. It has been gorgeous here. I surround myself with your photos, your things, all the reminders I can have, a salve for all these cuts.