Sundays

Sundays aren’t the same anymore. I used to have a love/hate relationship with them. On the one hand, we got to spend the whole day together. On the other hand, the Sunday scaries loomed over me no matter how much I didn’t want them to. I never wanted to return to the real world when we were in our little bubble.

We’d almost always wake up, cuddle, and then go out for breakfast on Sunday. Occasionally we would do some chores, but they were usually reserved for chilling. A great Sunday consisted of not much more than being together. What I wouldn’t give for one more lazy Sunday. Another trip to Owego for food and a bit of wandering. Time spent playing with the cats. Looking over the calendar for the week ahead to be sure we weren’t forgetting anything. Last summer we made a weekly template, and Sundays were our plan the week ahead day.

I have a weird thing with days of the week. I almost always remember the day of the week something important happened on, and I didn’t know til college that not everyone thought that way. Hospitals can really jumble up time perception though. I only knew what day it was when I asked somebody or checked my phone for the thousandth time.

You passed on a Sunday morning. The death certificate said 11:10. On 1/11. I wonder if 111 was significant to you at all. I sure see it everywhere now. Whenever there are angel number candles or other things for sale, the 111s are sold out. I’ve heard some widowers wake up at their spouse’s time of death every night. Maybe I stay up so late so I can try to sleep through it every morning.

The following day was supposed to be a milestone day. Monday. You were supposed to have your trach capped and get to try talking. There was even the possibility of getting to see the young adult lounge on the 14th floor. We never got to go. Instead I spent that Monday being shuffled around, propped up by our families. The cats kept asking for you, and I kept telling them tearfully that you had gone elsewhere.

I don’t think I will ever like Sundays again.