Sandwiches

It’s been seventy-two days. 

I manage to get the dog out this morning and the kids some breakfast, but then crawl right back under the covers. I don’t have it today. I am exhausted and my body hurts though I have barely moved in days. 

The slight rise and fall of my chest is the only evidence that I am not dead. Long pauses between breaths; my breathing is shallow and slow. Cradled by the foam liner of the mattress, my limbs are heavy and still. Staring at the wall, I barely even blink, hopeful that time will pass around me and leave me overlooked in the safety of our bed.  Maybe if I remain still, the kids will forget that I am here? Maybe they won’t need me for anything?

I cannot clear my mind of the depression that fills it. I cannot make myself get up and go downstairs even though I tell myself repeatedly that a good mother would. Most days I can pull through the fog and find something to lean into to fill up the space until I can get to my bed again. Recently, it has been house projects. I am spending so much money distracting myself and trying to get excited about changing the scenery of my day-to-day life, but really it is just me trying to stay one step ahead of the ghost around every corner. Graham is all around me and yet no where. Every corner of the house has a memory; he lives in the wood and plaster. He is even part of the dirt of the place because he helped put it there. I cannot find a space in this house that he has not touched. Graham hung the pictures I walk past, stacked the boxes in the storage closet I put his things in, painted the doorframes the kids walk through, ate from the plates I wash, picked out the tile I stand on; everywhere. Out of desperation, I decided I had to start changing the way the house looked. If the house doesn’t look like our house, I might stop expecting him to walk up the stairs after work, or to find him emptying groceries, or brushing his teeth. 

Rolling over, I pull the covers tight to my chin. Sounds from the TV mingle with giggles from the kids. Relief washes over me and I allow myself to relax into the comfort of the bed knowing that they won’t need me for at least thirty minutes, if not more, which is enough to let me ease back to a resting state and for my mind to wander. 

What would Graham have thought of COVID? He died the week things shut down. He didn’t know that people weren’t allowed in his hospital room to say goodbye or that the two week school closure we learned of the morning of the accident turned into a permanent shutdown the day after he died. He didn’t know a world where we use lysol to wipe our grocery bags and hold our breath when we walk by someone on the sidewalk. He had no concept of face masks, nasal swabs, states banning people from entering, and home schooling the kids. A small smile creeps in as I imagine Graham looking for the patience to help kids through hours of elementary school lessons. He would have hated it and I would have taken over. Ever-moving, ever-working, he would have felt like a caged animal with the pandemic restrictions.  He probably would have torn down walls and worked on remodeling the house or something else messy and extreme. He was never one who was able to just sit, relax, rest. Would he have found the patience to help Jane who cried almost every day from frustration after virtual school? What would he have said if he knew we would not even be able to hold a service when he died? Would he have cared? We probably would have fought a lot, but maybe not. I like to think we wouldn’t have. 

“Mom?” yells Jane from the floor below and I am pulled back, tension returns to my shoulders and I know this respite is over.  They are wanting lunch by now. Our dog needs to go out. There is no one else but me.

I push my legs over the edge of the bed and sit up, but don’t answer her. It is almost 11:00 a.m. I want to ignore the day if only I could convince the kids to be satisfied with just TV. Wouldn’t be the first time since he left, but they were getting tired of the TV, tired of COVID, just tired, like me, only they are too young to think sleeping all day is a good idea. I don’t know what will feel worse- knowing that I did nothing with them or actually pushing myself to do something with them? The self-imposed burden to try to keep their life normal has been the most unbearable of layers to this grief. I have no energy to throw at being the fun and active mom. I don’t have it today. 

There are piles everywhere in the house and things needing my attention.  Laundry is growing musty in the washer, the tenants have a leak, my son has tests  that he has not studied for, the planks have not arrived for the shelves I am creating so the contents of the hutch that I already disposed of lay scattered across the table making it hard to eat together. There are stacks of paperwork for the wrongful death case as well as the estate that I can’t seem to get through. Graham’s mail grows in a pile by the front door. So many false starts; reflections of some effort to bring order but not enough effort to complete any one task.

I mostly ignore the piles though I have moments where seeing them can spin me into a complete panic. The panicked moments are the ones where I haven’t given up- I want order, control, something to count on like a clean house. The complacency of most days, the apathy toward these piles, those are the dangerous times where I just don’t care. Depression envelopes me and the dirt of an unwashed body and house hold no meaning.

Today is one of the days where I don’t care about the piles. 

Dragging myself to the kitchen, I take out bacon with a plan for BLTs, which feels ambitious, but I also feel guilty for lying in bed all morning and tell myself to do better than a peanut butter sandwich. I hand my daughter a bag of Goldfish and she trots back to the couch and shares with her brother, who grabs a handful without breaking his view of the TV screen. A few of the orange shapes fall between them on the couch. A few months ago I would have been mad, but today, I feel nothing. 

The other day while in therapy, I caught myself from saying “we” and changed to “I.” It’s been ten weeks  and I have still been saying “we” about everything. We have some, we bought those, we did that, ours, us, all the automatic words used when in a couple. When I talk about things, I have to say I now instead of we. I like to go to Asheville, even though we used to go all the time. We don’t like to do anything together anymore. There is no we, just me. He is dead and I am alone.

I rinse a tomato, slice it unevenly, and then pull pieces of lettuce from the head of iceberg without washing it. The trash is full and needs to go out. Last night’s dinner dishes in the sink are standing in line behind the clean dishwasher that needs to be emptied. I tuck the used cutting board and knife in the remaining space of the sink and pull down some cups and fill them with water. Several of my coffee cups are stacked on the counter with muddled cream turning sour. Immobilized by the state of my kitchen, I feel the magnetic pull of my bed upstairs.

The enormity of need all around me feels suffocating. I love my kids desperately but would pay a lot of money if someone could come and just do all of this for me. Where is my help?  A wave of anger and resentment flood me. I don’t have a mom here stepping in, letting me sleep through this while she tends to the kids. There are no casseroles growing moldy in my fridge or baked goods lining my counters. COVID has made my life a ghost town and all the normal ways the widow is helped have not materialized for me. Flowers are dying around the condolence cards I never removed from the soil. I have phone calls that I can’t bring myself to take and an overflowing mailbox, which is all people can do from their own houses on lock down. In the movies, people are there helping the widows, telling them to rest and grieve. All I have is a needy goddamned dog, stacks of dishes, and a homeschooling agenda that makes at least one of my kids cry by noon. And every day, I have to find the will to get up and do it all again so the kids feel some sense of normalcy.

Tightness in my chest says I could cry, but nothing comes. The most I can summon is another deep sigh. This is what depression looks like. Not bathing, battling each second and hoping to accomplish something in between periods of sleep.

If the kids  weren’t here I would stay in bed with the gray weighted blanket and I would turn off the lights and lay there until tomorrow. I would listen as the fan rotated and feel the softness of the sheets under me remembering when we used to lay here together. I would induce a state of deeper sadness by asking Alexa to play our favorite songs and look at his ashes in the box beside our bed. It’s good they are here because none of that helps. I just end up feeling guilty for wasting yet another day in bed. 

I toast bread and pull a knife from the drawer. I dip the metal into the mayo and then glide an even amount on each slice. I take the cooked bacon from the microwave and build a stack with the sliced tomatoes and lettuce.  I cut both sandwiches into triangle halves and use the knife to help balance the pieces onto the waiting paper plates.  The dog is asleep on his bed in the kitchen so I allow myself to ignore his empty bowls for now. 

I bring the lunch plates to the kids and ask a few questions about their show to seem engaged. I tell them that they can keep watching because it is Saturday, I think, and they don’t have school. 

“I am going to lay back down, guys. I’m not feeling great today.”

“OK, Mama. Love you,” Jane responds. She gives me a hug and sits back down. She takes a bite from her sandwich, careful to put her head over the plate on the coffee table and she stares at the animated figures on the TV. “This is good, thanks.” 

“Let’s watch a movie with some popcorn tonight, ok?” I offer. Both nod and seem appeased by this for now. 

I carry myself and my guilt upstairs and crawl back into bed. With a deep exhalation, I feel some safety again under the covers. The room is cool and dark and I feel small inside the cocoon of blankets. 

I want him to come up the stairs and help me.

Help me feel better, make me laugh, bring me another cup of coffee, play some music, tell me to get up, something.

I want him to stop me from crying.

I want him to close the door and tell me to have a good rest, that he’s got this, and to wake me up when it’s over. 

I want to stop feeling so alone.

-Courtney Sherron

Courtney is a Psychologist by day and enjoys writing and other creative pursuits when not adulting. She and her husband live happily in Virginia where they spend their time managing the circus created by their combined four kids and two ever-conspiring dogs. She is currently completing her first memoir.