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The Shower

A Story of How I Pulled Myself Together

By Ginny DorseyPublished 6 years ago 3 min read
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It's not even 9 AM and I'm sitting here on the cold tile of my bathroom floor, completely naked, bawling my eyes out. The sound of the water and steam from the shower I started but can't bring myself to take are somewhat soothing. The thoughts that are running a marathon through my mind are almost paralyzing. I don't know how to process all of this. We knew this day would someday come, but as it approaches, it's still so hard to believe. "He's really going to die." I say out loud.

The longer I sit here the more tears stream from my face. I can't tell anymore if it's the shower water I'm hearing or the sound of tears dripping onto my thigh as they begin to puddle and run onto the bathroom floor.

I decide to try and use the things I've learned in therapy to rationalize with myself.

"I'm doing the best I can," I say out loud.

My mind answers back, "But you're completely failing."

Am I failing? After all, I am the one sitting here letting the sadness that I'm feeling hold me down, the grief I've encountered weigh me down, the fear of living without him chain me to the floor.

I didn't realize I was failing until today. I was convinced I had it under control and every thing was fine, but something about this moment leads me to believe I'm not as fine as I want people to believe. I want so badly to be the strong one who is there emotionally and physically but it's incredibly hard.

Still sitting on the cold bathroom floor, I let my mind start to talk and encourage my heart to listen. I know waiting for him to die is the hardest thing I've had to do in my life. The constant worry that each night when I go to sleep he won't be there when I wake up is almost unbeatable. The weaker he grows, the stronger these feelings are.

"Am I being selfish?" I ask myself out loud.

This time I don't hear anything back from my mind. So I get in the shower and begin to rationalize all of the reasons this is hard. I begin to think about how he must feel. He's the one who is dying. As the still somewhat hot water beats down my back, I realize these are only temporary feelings and one day — maybe not tomorrow or the next day — but one day, I will feel normal again. He's still alive. The time we have left with him is limited, but instead of pushing him away I need to be pulling him in, letting him know he's got someone during all of this.

As I shampoo my hair, I notice my that I've been rambling and not once thought about how he's feeling or really how he's doing emotionally. I begin to think about how hard it is for me when people ask how he's doing. How do you answer that when people ask? What do I say when people ask?... I just wanna say he's fine but that's not how he doing... How he is doing is he's just dying. If it's this hard for me, it must be even harder for him. Mentally he's so there and present, but physically cancer has completely taken hold of his body. I finish washing the soap off my body and a calming feeling comes over me, almost like the shower is washing all the negative thoughts away. He had been so strong through all of this so I know I have to be strong too. I step out of the shower, begin to towel off, and I pull myself together. After all, what else can I do but keep a positive outlook and push through everyday living it to the fullest, making as many memories with him as I can while I can?

For everyone who is struggling with losing someone they love.

coping
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About the Creator

Ginny Dorsey

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