…but instead, there are glimpses here and there, and even then I’m not quite sure when/if I remember it right. It creates a sense of loss that is a dull ache somewhere under my ribs, as if there’s a pocket there filled with regret.

April 10th would have been our 16 year anniversary. March 14th would have been his 37th birthday. These dates were at the forefront of my memory right up until the day in question – then I completely forgot. Then I remembered and felt bad. Then I got angry, because no one else remembered either, though mostly I was angry at myself – because who forgets that? How is it I could stare at the date and wonder why it was important to me? Then kick myself because it IS important, but for some reason I was hiding it from myself, just as I had been hiding from everyone else.

You can’t see me if I cover my eyes, after all.

The simple fact is – I miss him, and it hurts. I “forget” because it’s easier than remembering that I’m alone, raising his kids, his AMAZING kids, who he’d be so proud of. It’s easier than remembering how long it’s been, and how much I’m still hiding from the rest of the world.

I “forget” the little things, because remembering hurts too damn bad.

Happy Anniversary, Kevin.
I haven’t forgotten… anything.

Life with someone in constant pain is not easy. In a lot of ways, it’s harder for the caretakers, the wives and the loved ones, then it is on the person in pain. We’re he ones that deal with the mood swings, the drastic measures taken to get relief, the blowups, the tears, the manic episodes when they feel good, countered by the deep downswing when they can’t take another minute of the pain. It’s exhausting, and incredibly painful to watch someone you care about wrestle with… well, life.

But we do it. I did it for over 10 years – in truth, almost our entire 15 years together as Kevin was suffering a knee injury when we got together, and it was two years of reconstructive surgery and physical therapy until it was fixed. Then just 2 years after that, the arm injury and he beginning of a 10 year long battle with pain.

One of the things Kevin was most worried about was addiction. It ran in his family, and he was determined never to become an addict, yet with the amount of medication he had to take just to get through the day was more then a normal everyday person would use, and they’d be labeled ‘addict’ in a heartbeat. I watched him wrestle with the decisions to take more meds, to change his meds, to take any at all, to give up or to work over and over again. Did I mention I HATE it when I can’t fix something?

It did teach me something though. I can’t fix everything. And sometimes? Sometimes you have to step back, and let go. As much support as I gave Kevin, as much as I tried to help him and weathered the storm, in the end he was the master of his own self, and each decision was his own. Through it all I learned a very important lesson – the only reactions I can control, the only person I have ultimate control over, is my own, and my self.

I can’t stop someone from making a mistake, though I can listen. And when it gets to be too much, when I can no longer keep my mouth shut, when I can’t say anything without growling… I’ve learned to step back, back off, and shut down.

I’ve learned when to be D. U. N. Done.

I watched people tell him, and tell me, that he couldn’t be in that kind of pain, that it was a desperate cry for attention. I watched people say that they had pain worse, that they would react better, that they would DO better – meaning they thought themselves to BE better. I watched the passive aggressive little jabs and pokes and slices of sharp words meant to cut and cut deeply, as they tried to make him feel less then capable of taking care of his family, because of his injury. It’s only an arm, after all. It couldn’t be THAT bad – while the doctors looked at him in shock and asked why in the world he was still trying to work instead of staying home…

And even now, I react poorly to passive aggressive tugs at my sanity. I react poorly to someone popping pills because they’re upset, and using excuses as to why, and trying to get my sympathy because woe, woe is them in the same kind of cry for attention that people accused Kevin of. I physically recoil when people tell me what they do or do not deserve. I react extremely poorly to people who don’t. get. help. I react way bad to people poking at me, slicing with words that cut, clutching and clinging on as if I’m supposed to save them too, just because I talked to them, just because I listened, just because they won’t take responsibility for themselves.

I am not your savior.

Don’t you think that if I could have saved ANYone – it would have been the other half of my soul?

There’s times though, that I wish they’d give it a break. Even now, 3 years later, where it isn’t quite as raw, quite as new, but instead is a comfortable and well-known ache, it gives me pause when I hear “daddy would have…” or “once time, daddy did…” or “remember?” Because I do remember… everything. What he said, what he did, what they remember, what they think of.

Being the holidays, his name has come up a LOT from my youngest – in everything from Christmas memories, to “Whenever I get sick I think of daddy because I was sick when he died.” [To be honest, i don't remember that she was sick when he died, but then again, I don't remember much of anything of that first 48 hours, either.] Sometimes it’s hard to answer, even if your not really obligated too, even if it’s the pup who’s just talking to hear herself talk. I don’t want to stilt the conversation though, so I do my best to at least nod, to at least say “I know” – especially now, during the holidays.

Kevin never was one to appreciate Christmas. He never cared, as his upbringing was one of pain and terror, instead of love and support. He didn’t really see the point until we had kids, and he was finally able to view it through their eyes, the way it should be. Despite how much it hurts, then, I’ll continue to nod, smile, hug, and hold the precious memories of my kids in the open, under the sun, where they can continue to flourish and nourish their still tender hearts.

Even as mine still breaks.

Did you SUE that doctor?

The simple answer is No – but then they want to know why and.. well yeah. To be honest, I’m not really sure why I didn’t. Mostly, I didn’t want to bring the kids through something like that, but also – I wasn’t sure I could handle it. While I do blame the doctor for the switch in the meds and causing Kevin’s death, I don’t see what good suing him will do. This particular doctor has been sued for malpractice before, and always settles and is still practices medicine here in town.

Part of me me thinks why bother? He’ll still be there, and it just won’t do any good. It also won’t bring Kevin back, or make me feel any better either. Sure, I might get some money out of it – but what if I don’t? How am I supposed to pay for representation, if they even decided I had a case?

So there were more questions then answers, and I just couldn’t see being just like all the Sue Happy Americans, and going to court. It just seemed to be too much bother, for little gain. That, and I was told I’d have to decide within 2 years, and since it’s been over 3 now… yeah.

So no.
I didn’t sue.
Any other questions?

Kevin worked on “The Slope” as we call it, for one of the oil companies drilling along the northern edge of Alaska. It was a dream job – everyone wants to get on, and you have to know someone who knows someone who’s sleeping with their wife’s cousins’ dog groomer in order to get on. Kevin worked his way up there, and was the Breakfast cook, working the graveyard shift and feeding the hungry workers through the night, for three weeks at a time. He’d then be home for 2 weeks, before returning for another shift.

Some folks aren’t made to be Slope Wives – I am. I loved having him home and concentrating on the kids, and also loved him being at work where I had the run of the household. We made enough money to get by, though it was never an extreme excess, despite it being a well paying job. We got by – we had enough.

Kevin had a sever wrist injury some 10 years before, and after 5 surgeries, he was still in an incredible amount of pain. He wasn’t want to just not work, despite the fact several doctors told him to do quit and get disability. Instead, he saw several doctors and was on a pain management drug program that kept him working, and happy, if still in pain and/or drugged.

We’d been through dozens of drugs, dozens of combinations over the ten years he fought with his injury. Kevin, you see, had a large tolerance for pain, as well as an allergy to all Opiates, which naturally took away a lot of the pain relievers many turn to, and those he took eventually stopped working. He was deathly allergic to morphine, would break out in hives after 24 hours of Demerol, and all other Opiates would cause a reaction to some degree. He self medicated with whiskey and beer during his off weeks, then powered through the on weeks with a determination that would make anyone proud.

I hated that he hurt so much. It was something I couldn’t fix, and I found that to be grossly unfair. Nine days before he died, we had a doctor’s appointment to adjust his medication. He added a new medication, and when I questioned if it would mess with his allergies, I was assured by Dr. Carlson that it would not. He had pills to help him sleep, pills to help him stay awake and manage his pain. Three days later, He went back to work, pills in hand, to power through another three weeks of work.

Six days after that, he was dead.

At about 10pm that Friday night, a co-worker of Kevin’s showed up at my parents house (two doors down from ours) because she couldn’t read the numbers very well. When she told my folks why she was there, they came down to my house with her as she knocked on the door and they asked me to step outside. I knew right then something was wrong. Really wrong. This co-worker (and I can’t remember her name, her face, any detail…) told me that they had thought Kevin had overslept when he was late for his shift earlier that night. When they got to his room, they found him dead.

I thought I would join him – I’d never felt such pain like that before. It felt as if my chest had caved in, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t make sense of what she was saying – so I stared. She gave her condolences, as my parents stood near by, and that’s when I collapsed. I have never sobbed so hard in my life as I did then, unable to breathe, unable to pull it back, to control it as I always have been able to do. There was no controlling this. My world had spiraled out of my control completely – and I was lost in the storm.

Going inside and telling my children killed another part of me. We had to call The Girl back from her friends house, and the four of us huddled together on the couch and cried, slept, stared, cried. My family gathered around, supporting us as the calls were made, the wheels set in motion, everything that has to be done that night was done. Mom cleaned, Jen baked, I sat and stared at nothing, with my arms and my heart holding my children close.

It was all I could do, all I could manage. We had fought on the phone before he went to sleep. I couldn’t remember if I’d said I loved him, or if we’d ended with a hangup and promise to talk later. I couldn’t get my mind around the fact that he wasn’t going to call, that he wasn’t going to walk in the door again.

Some days, even now, three years later, I still look up as the door opens, expecting to see him there. Some days, I pick up the phone and expect to hear his voice. Some days, I miss him so much I think I might give up and die.

Everyday, I look at my kids, and I force my head to stay above the water.
Just… some days are easier then others.