Three Months

My eldest died three months ago today. My youngest is slated to be born just about three months from now. Our living offspring will again tally three. Not that it means anything; I just noticed it. Which reminds me of the Star Trek: Next Generation episode when the crew get caught in a time loop and Data programs in the number three to help him remember the way out in the next iteration.

A year ago today she was 9 days out of the hospital, after 6.5 grueling weeks of radiation and chemotherapy. She came out on January 12 weak, still vomiting, on IV fluids, and at her lowest weight ever. By the 21st she was, thankfully, just over the hump and on the upswing. It would be another six weeks before her first post-treatment MRI. But she was entering what would be 8 good months. Treatment bought her that, at least.

I can't say anything's really changed since a month ago. The breathless moments, when I really *get* that she's dead, seem to be no more and no less frequent. I still have moments where I feel vaguely guilty that we get to go on with our lives, get to eat breakfast, look forward to a movie, enjoy a warm day, and she doesn't. And the 21st is just a crappy day, however illogical I think that is. It's just a number. But I've been in a bad mood all day and finally figured out why, when I burst into tears after dinner.

There are leftover strands to tie off; they hang over my head, weighing more on some days than on others. Her things are still boxed in the attic; I need to go through them. We're still in a song-and-dance trio with the insurance company and the hospital over the bill. Her ashes still need to be picked up; I've not heard back from the crematorium after I sent the letter they requested, asking them to mail half to the US. I should call, but every day I have something "more pressing," decide I'll do it in half an hour, after lunch, after I pick the kids up; and then it's evening.