November’s Grey Days and Goodbyes, Part 2

This 9-year-old story is why I want to go to bed on November 1 and stay there until this treacherous month is in my rear-view mirror…


The ten days between Thursday November 10,  2005, when I learned of the death and possible suicide of my husband Rob, and Monday November 21, remain a blur. Quick snapshots in my memory, yellowed, blurred by age, and all slightly out of focus; these are all I remember from that time. Family, friends, and neighbors arriving by the dozens, bearing casseroles and good intentions. The funeral home mercilessly bearing down, forcing quick decisions to be made by a mind unable to comprehend the simplest request, unable to separate day from night. My brain was in mental lockdown; perhaps this is what Alzheimer’s victims experience? I watched mouths forming words, sure that they must have some meaning, but unable to discern what they might be. When you are accustomed to having a quick and witty brain, and find yourself suddenly helpless as a baby, the terror is absolute. My brain was thickened by molasses; synapses were not connecting. I feared this might be my new and  permanent…

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