To Pissed Off Housewife re. 250 Posts

((My dear POH)):

Congrats on 250 posts!

Your anger, the particulars of some of which I share as if we were sitting under a tree together reciting a litany against the cruelties of life, is occasionally red – not black, white, nor gray. Anger, long something (for many of us) we “shouldn’t” feel, has more than once saved me from I don’t know what – at the very least, I would guess, an imploding heart attack. I am always on the look-out for healthy ways to express it, whether it is screaming at the top of my lungs under water or tearing up an old telephone book. It’s okay to be angry, I assure myself, so long as it doesn’t define me. Think Job if religious prohibitions, however misinterpreted, come to mind.

Sorry I haven’t been reading or posting the past few days. I think I have been trying, unsuccessfully, to hide from my pain. Some people, who caught wind that Craig was injured April 24, are still catching up on the news that he died May 9 – and, lucky me, I am the messenger. I wish more people would google.

Just reading the dates – April 24 and May 9 – baffles me. How could, what, 15 days seem like such a long time period of raw emotion and uncertainty and how could the rituals of mourning (from May 9 – 15) seem like such both a short and long time ago? And how, oh how, could anyone be expected to suck it up and go back to work, school or whatever after just three or four days of “compassionate leave”? I’m not even working and I don’t feel as if I’ve had enough compassionate leave!

Poor Claude has been plugging away at moving into their his new condo, packing, cleaning, renovating, dealing with legal issues of joint single ownership. Thank goodness he is on leave from work, though hardly “compassionate” with a percentage of his salary being withheld by ever-impoverished insurers. I am sure, once he flops into his favourite chair in the new place, many tears will flow. I weep just thinking about it. Be strong, Claude. This was the home you and Craig had picked out. He will, I am certain, be there in spirit. (I hope he has saved that birthday bottle of wine.)

As we try to comfort ourselves, however unsuccessfully, with thoughts that Craig might very well have died long before now, from either AIDS-related or heart conditions, such thoughts remind me of the warning I read last night as I was about to apply a medicated patch to a sore rib: “Do not apply to wounds or open skin.”

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