Now that I’m stuffed with food and comfort, I quickly begin to fade, yet I have to ask, “Dave, it’s still really cold. Can you help me with the heat?”
“Yeah, it is cold,” he agrees. “And it’s only going to get colder. Sorry, that thermostat needs a tweak. Back in a sec.”
While he’s gone, I read the cat another children’s book from the living room collection and get some welcome tail wags, and then my Top Cat curls back into his soft cube.
After some clanking sounds, the heat kicks on, and then I hear noise from the kitchen as dishes hit the dishwasher.
Dave is taking care of everything.
I start to make my way to the bedroom, venturing to the flannel sheets and mattress that will again suck me in, but I have to grab on to the doorframe to steady myself. Nothing has happened that should shake me. No songs, no words, no thoughts. Yet I’m suddenly unsteady. Begging for air.
There must be a Grief God who is going to smack me down with lessons anytime she chooses. Tonight she wants to hit me, but tomorrow maybe she’ll help me.
I can’t do this. I can’t do this.
My inability to breathe is going to take me out. It’s that simple. This loss is overwhelming. Killing me.
Dave finds me hyperventilating in the hallway and leads me to the bed as I repeat what’s been running through my head. “I can’t do this. I swear to God, I can’t do this.”
Even I don’t know what I mean. That I can’t cry? That I can’t let go of my best friend? That I cannot process how deep this pain cuts? And how I know that the stabbing hurt might fade, but that I’m going to have to live with this incalculable loss for the rest of my life?
I’ve done all the research, all the reading about what’s to come. The initial loss and grief are going to be bad enough, but then—just when I might think that I’m steady—I’ll be left waitingfor unannounced reminders that will slice through my heart forever. It feels stupid to even think about trying to recover. The odds are against me.
“Will you help me into bed?” Such an embarrassing and sad request maybe, but I truly don’t think I can get there myself.
He must know that I’m struggling with more than my wrist and pissy cat, but he waits me out until I can speak. But only after he’s got me into bed and fulfilled all of my crazy sleeping needs can I consider that I might actually sleep. Under the big comforter and huddled down like a hobbit or whatnot, with a fan blowing, a sound machine billowing white noise, an eye mask blacking out any light, a pillow over my head, and a weighted blanket. These are actually my normal and weirdo bedtime needs, but I’m clinging to them now harder than ever.
When I’m finally decidedly enveloped, he whispers that I can tell him anything.
“I know. But I can’t. It’ll make it real,” I whisper. Hearing his worried tone makes me feel guilty and awful.
“Something else has happened, yes?” Dave pulls up the sheets and fusses with them for a minute. “Whatever it is, it’s already real. It’s already happened.”
He’s right.
So, I push off the mask and pillows and look into the darkness and just say what has to be said. “Patrick is dead. Some weird shit about a blood clot after surgery. But he’s dead.” I roll over a bit.
“Diana.” He sets his hands on my shoulders. “What? He was fine…”
“Yeah, he was fine until he wasn’t. Now he’s all dead.”
I can’t blame him for not saying anything because I’ve made it all awkward as fuck. Dave was supposed to be my vacation fling. Now he’s found me in such a hideous mess, and I’ve forcedhim into the shitty position of having to offer up some kind of brilliant words of condolence.
Understandably, he says nothing at first, but his delayed response tells me how much he gets me and my pain. “This is an absolute bullshit pickle-truck tragedy of grotesque proportions.”
I smile. Patrick was right to approve of New Friend Dave.
“Can you wrap me up like a burrito?” I ask. “Like, stuff me in the sheets and all? Pretty miraculous that I even got up today, considering you obviously splurged on some kind of wild thread count. This is a forever bed.”
Getting tucked in is highly underrated. I squirm into the folds of thick cotton and embrace it. Impulsively, I reach out and pull him in, wanting the weight of his body fully against mine. Dave is strong and solid, and the way he grips me back gives me hope that I might be able to sleep one of these days. Or nights. He intuitively and thankfully knows this is not a sexual thing. It’s just that I realize I need him inexplicably, but I do needhim.
After he feels my breathing slow, Dave sets me back into my pillow collection and covers my eyes with my mask, and it’s seconds before I’m out. Even without my weighted blanket, the fan, and my other usual needs.
I’m not sure, but maybe I ask him not to leave. But maybe I don’t. It’s all fuzzy and clouded.
Yet, during my foggy foray into sleep, I know he whispers, “Of course I’ll stay.”
So, I guess I asked.
