Today is my husband's birthday. If he had lived, I mean.
I was trying to think how to celebrate his life today. Next year I may have a more ceremonious plan. But today so far I have made sure BoyCat feels loved. He's been a little neglected-feeling lately.
Miss Ellen and I are going out. I go see my therapist. The sun is out.
For some reason, I have been thinking about the day we learned he got sick. He had a seizure, right on the bottom steps of the VA where he worked. He used to get there very early and have breakfast, work on his files before appointments. He was not yet fifty.
In truth, he had been hiding his illness from the both of us--not very well from me anymore--but I still didn't have the full. When he fell over with the seizure, he looked like a bum. Unshaven, in clean clothes at least, a big man passed out on the street. His I.D. got him into emergency right away. But someone found him first. Somebody made sure he got inside the VA hospital.
Today, whoever that was, because I never met you: thank you for stooping down and looking at the strange man passed out on the curb. Thank you for rolling him over and determining he needed help. I am grateful forever.