I ran across an old receipt today and felt like it was from another lifetime. At the beginning of February, I was happily married, we had just raised enough money to start the Enhertu treatment and the oncologists thought it would give my wife another year or two. It was the first optimistic news we'd had in a while and her death was the furthest thing from my mind. Two weeks later, she was gone and my life snapped in two.
I'm already starting to forget the little things, like how it felt when she touched me. I know it was wonderful and calming and always full of love, and she touched me every day for eleven years, but I can't remember the actual feeling. All those little moment of us just being together, talking nonsense, making plans -- it must have been another person because I can't remember it. Sitting on the sofa with my hand on her leg - she always curled up so her legs were tucked against me - or the feeling of her hand in mine. I would give anything to feel these things again.
I knew when I lost her that I would soon lose all of these little things, so I made sure I appreciated them while she was here, but that doesn't mean I could keep them. You can't put time in a bottle, you can't capture lighting, you just live and hope that the peaks outnumber the troughs. Right now, I feel like I've had all my peaks, and I can't imagine any future ones.
