It’s Sunday, and I’ve spent a lot of my weekend cleaning up and decluttering and organizing.
I’ve gone through paperwork, I’ve thrown out or shredded a bunch of different stuff.
And in the middle of it all – papers I had almost forgotten about.
His disability parking permit.
And the discharge papers from the hospital.
Why do I read shit like that? Why do I go through it, re-live all the moments that were sanitized down to 4 pages…?
It doesn’t nearly describe the heartache. It doesn’t nearly describe his determination to live. It doesn’t nearly describe the painful moments of he was DONE.
It just describes, in clear, concise medical terms, how his body failed him. How he finally chose to stop fighting. How he went from full code to comfort care.
It doesn’t express how much he loved us, how he cried over his dog, how he asked our daughter in a private moment how I was doing. It doesn’t tell how he was so determined to get well.
It just describes the clinical moments of sick, worse, surgery, bleeds, and finally – a momentary sorrow at his passing.
But leaves me remembering in vivid detail the moments, the pain, the sadness of a man who was our glue – who was so much more than what those 4 sheets of paper describe him as.
The triggers suck. But sometimes… I’m grateful for them; they break open the box of memories.
And there’s so many good memories…