The Lost Piece of Me

When Paul died, I lost more than a husband.

I lost my very best friend, my lover, my confidante, my advisor, my companion and my encourager. I lost my roommate, my ally, my co-conspirator, my protector and my helper. I lost my lawn mower, my car mechanic, my vacuum repairman, my plumber, my electrician and my light bulb changer. I lost my spider killer, my garbage remover, my curtain hanger, my furniture mover and my ceiling fan cleaner. I lost my income provider, my bill payer and my decision maker. I lost my dance partner and my dinner date. I lost the one person I could be totally honest with.

Who will I cook for now? Who will I talk to while I cook? Who will I shop for? Who will help me fold the king-sized bedspread? Who will I fight with and then make up with? Who will tell me how beautiful I look no matter how I really look? Who will hold my hand in church as we pray? Who will hold me close at night? Who will sing the melody to my harmony? Who will be there to wrap his arms around me and tell me everything is going to be all right? Isn’t it ironic that the person you need the most to help you through this experience is the person who died?

Who am I now? I am no longer a wife, no longer a lover, no longer a partner and no longer a helpmate.

I feel like I am on an emotional seesaw from the moment I wake up in the morning until I finally fall asleep at night. Every morning when I wake up it hits me – Paul is gone - and I have to get up and face the world all by myself. The day drags by with too many reminders of his absence. Night comes and I can’t bare the thought of going through yet another night alone. I miss his presence. I miss the companionship. I miss his embrace. I miss the intimacy.

I miss his deep southern drawl and hearty laughter. I miss his booming baritone voice and his unique style of singing. I miss the absurdly stupid jokes and silly sayings that he so freely tossed about. I miss my best friend. I miss my other half.

How does one go on?