As of today, February 25, David has been gone three months and four days. I continue to make my weary way up the down escalator.
I keep myself busy trying to complete projects like our taxes. That one plunged me into a world of hurt, as I relived David’s decline and death courtesy of cold numbers and receipts. I found David’s careful notes on medical expenses for 2013 only after I’d finished figuring out this year’s by myself. I spent an entire day calculating how much David spent last year on herbal supplements ($6240 but some were for me) only to discover supplements aren’t deductible. Still, I needed the task of taxes to be over ; they stressed me out more in not being done than in the hell of implementation.
I feel more liberated than conflicted about turning what once was David’s office into a woman’s proverbial room of my own.
That the red hue David chose for his walls matches the woman’s hair in the Picasso painting on my screen saver gives me comfort; it confirms I’m heading in the right direction. When I’m ready, I’ll move David’s picture up from the living room and put it next to Stew’s. During daylight I can forsee time, hopefully sooner rather than later, when my post-death to do list no longer stretches out behind me like one of those gigantic creature kites at the Berkeley Marina. I’ll relax, turn David’s former office into a Judy Gumbo cradle of creativity and feel upbeat enough to seize the six months I need to complete Yippie Girl. Still, when I wake up in my lonely bed between 3 and 3:30 a.m., my to do list feels less like a kite and more like an albatross around my neck.