Tonight while the Dude and I were eating our gourmet dinner from a fast food bag, my phone rang. A girl I’ve known since high school. I let it go to voice mail so I could call her after he left.
After giving me a bit of shit about the whole moving home, getting divorced, why didn’t I call thing, she asked how I was doing.
Oh well . . . I can tell you, but I will probably cry . . .
She says, it’s fine, I called so I could cry to you.
I just sat there. A. Her first true love. Her no-matter-how-much-I-love-my-husband-or-how-many-kids-I-have-I-love-him first true love.
He had a minor surgery. Got an infection. Infection shut down his organs. He died.
He died unhappy. Which is what was killing her. She said, “I could have loved him his whole life, and he died unhappy.”
I have no . . . I have no way to tie up this story or put a bow on it to make it okay. I have no end to this story, or way to tie into mine. I have no action step, no anything. But I’m in the dark and alone and I needed to share. The pain that love is causing all around me is so thick I can practically run my fingers through it like some tar, or rubber cement, or snot (which really, isn’t that what rubber cement is?)
This boy-girl shit hurts man. How any of us keep breathing is beyond me at this point.