The big bed we shared for so long feels half-empty without you. I think it is there that I feel your absence the most intensely - both physically and emotionally. It’s a big King size bed; and, though we often stayed on our own sides, sometimes by choice, but usually because Koda liked to be in the middle, we could always come together for moments of intimacy.
For me, the intimacy changed and deepened after you got sick. Sometimes it was just laying on my side facing you…watching, listening, praying, crying. Sometimes I would reach out and hold your hand or forearm. Other times a hand on your shoulder, chest, or the small of your back depending on your position at the time. Sometimes I would slide over for a sideways cuddle or spoon. Always careful to avoid pressure on your tender belly. Always wondering what the future will hold. In truth, this was the beginning of my grief.
There were times of sleepless anticipation when I listened and watched for movement so I could jump up and help you. There were instances of panic and numbing fear of a fall or whether or not you were breathing. Toward the end, in your terminal restlessness phase, when I was so exhausted that I feared I would not wake up, I even had to position myself so that you would literally have to climb over me to get out of bed.
On the day you died I came home from the hospice unit in numbed exhaustion and crawled into your side of the bed, hugged your pillow, and slept. In those hours, and in that place, I could still sense your presence. But I awoke to the reality that you were gone, and I was on the wrong side of the bed.
So, it’s just me and Koda now: and he prefers to sleep at arm’s length with his hind end toward me. I love Koda, but to be honest, it’s just not the same! It’s been almost three months; and I frequently look over in the dim candlelight glow and reach out to your side longing to see you there and feel your presence in this lonely half empty bed.
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