Love is forever…One woman’s journey with grief

Camp is in 3 weeks.  I dug my sleeping bag out of the closet and threw it in the washer, because it hadn’t been washed since the first and last time I used it, which was in January 2007, 6 months after A had died.  In 2008, plans changed, my friend B and I stayed in a hotel in San Francisco, and I didn’t need it.

I washed it, and now it’s fluffy and smells good, and then I worked on stuffing it back into its compression sack.  And as I did, I kept up a running monologue towards A’s picture.

“I don’t like this sleeping bag.  I don’t want it.  I want yours, like I’m supposed to have.  Screw that, I want to be spending the weekend with you in a B&B and not need a sleeping bag at all…”

The first year, I borrowed his bag so I didn’t have to schlep one with me.  The second year, we stayed at an inn, and fell asleep together under soft flannel sheets to the sound of the relentless northern California rain.  The third year, I bought this damned sleeping bag, and struggled through the airport by myself, without my love and sometimes caddy, trying to find B who had promised to take care of me if I made the trip.  I was none too sure I could handle it, and by the time she found me at the rental car counter, I was wiping the tears from my eyes with my scarf as I sat on the floor and waited for her.

I love camp and am excited to go.  And I hate this trip, because he is everywhere, and nowhere.  

Bittersweet.  Such is the flavor of my life these days.

This was our trip, and half of “us” isn’t here, but in spirit.  And while other bereaved folks fight the holiday funk, my December funk is due to this being a time of preparation for camp, a time that for two beautiful years was filled with anticipation and excitement of being with him, and of unlimited kisses.  And now that’s all gone.  I can live with it; I have no choice.  But I never really stop hating it.

I’ll be fine on this trip.  But I used to be so much better.