A lot can be said about waking up on the right side of the bed so to speak. In the past, especially if myTunes was last set for a quick moving beat, my return from the astral was often somewhat of a jolting experience. Thankfully, those days of rude awakenings are behind me… regardless of whether I actually want to get out of bed.
In past years, be it d-day, his would-be birthday, or some other day of significance in the day and the life of Tom, YaYa and I have made a point to sit down and read a bit of his writing. In this way, we honor him for the one thing in life that he was truly proud of.
I have always been careful not to read too many from the later years as one particular topic became all to prevalent in both his life and, therefore, his writing. That topic was death and grieving. And although it was something that he had been struggling with since before we first met, it seemed that every 6 months or so someone close to him was either fighting for their lives or had just lost their battle.
By the time he hit his 40s, it seemed that every month he was getting pulled under by undertow of grief: aftershocks from one loss or another. Sadly, the man I’d fallen in love with, years prior, seemed to have lost his zest for life. If only he knew just how much we all love him. If only he could have seen how much his life was worth. If he had, would he have been able to detect the numerous tumors that were eating away at his bones and brains? I don’t know. I only know that he left a whole lot of unfinished business behind.
I stayed up ’till near midnight trying to complete a post about running. It’s coming. I promise. After all, this was once a running blog.
The night that followed was a sleepless night — for both me and YaYa (whom I let sleep with me). Taking turns waking during the night, I believe that I saw every hour on the clock between 3 am and 6 am. By the time my clock started chiming to call me out back from what finally felt like sleep, a refusal-to-get-OUT-OF-BED had hit my being through and through.
When I’d finally drug my sorry arse out of bed, I could feel an all too familiar feeling of sadness. DAMN! “Later” has arrived. Much like the dull headache you get after drinking too much (not that I know anything about that), this feeling never quite leaves no matter what measures you take.
I make the strongest cup of coffee that I can and drag my body into the bathroom for a look in the mirror. It’s just as I thought; I feel bad and look it too. Unfortunately, I lack the energy or want to do much about it. I drag the brush through my tanged hair (knowing full well that I will be left with a frazzled mess), then pull my hair up in a ponytail. I open up my bathroom drawer and sort through my make up for a little color. I hope this will brighten up my face — I hate when my co-workers tell me that I look like shit (even if I do). Then I dig through my drawer looking, but not finding, my smile. It appears to have been misplaced.