I really hate it.
I wish there was just one.
But no, I have two days.
Today is the four month anniversary of the accident.
And then in six days, the anniversary of Roger's death.
Then throw in the mix of our anniversary on the twenty-third.
Sad/angry, then more sad, ending with depression.
Repeat each month.
It just sucks.
Sometimes I wish the accident and the death were on the same day. Two birds, one stone.
But then I think about those last days.
How people were able to come see him while he was still technically alive. And for those people, they needed that time. But I hated seeing him unconscious. I kept looking for some sign that he was going to wake up and be normal.
Those last days, I was able to hold his warm hands on Thursday, the twenty-eighth when they had been so cold all week.
How I saw my support system.
I saw how much people loved Roger.
I saw how much people loved me.
And how much they loved us.
So many people from every corner of our lives.
Maybe it gave me a chance to ease into this whole new life.
Maybe it gave me just a few days to prepare my heart.
But was I ever truly prepared?
Could I ever prepared in six days?
Was it better to see him in a coma?
But I hated the control I was suddenly given.
I hated being at the head of it all.
And last forty-eight hours of knowing that my husband was going to die. It was up to me to choose the final day and time.
I prayed in those last forty-eight hours that Roger would make the decision for me.
I prayed I would not have to watch him take his last breaths but at the same time part of me wanted to be there.
Part of me didn't want to leave him there at all. I just wanted to wrap him up and take him home.
To our home.
Our safe and loving home.
But why two days of Roger's demise for me to think of each month as they roll around.
Will I ever simply go by the twenty-second, twenty-third, or twenty-eighth of each month?
Will they ever just be days?