I wish I’d taken a Colonopin. Really. I’d taken one last night because I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, so I was hesitant to take one this morning. I woke up early enough and felt pretty good, thinking, “Hey I may get through this okay after all!” Afraid I might be too groggy I passed on taking the second one. And part of me felt somewhat of an obligation to Paul to be totally present. I did take the mood stabilizer, I’ve really been needing them lately. But I still wish I’d taken the Colonopin.
I’d written a letter to be read at the memorial, but I couldn’t get my damn printer to work, so I had to write it out by hand. I wanted it perfect so it would be clear for whoever read it. That took a couple of tries, unsuccessfully. So I tried different tactics with the printer, also unsuccessfully. Back to writing it out by hand again, now panicking because I was running behind.
By the time I’d taken a shower, tried on two blouses, (twice) fought with my hair, and checked the clock every five minutes to make sure I wouldn’t be late, (since I’d agreed to take two of my neighbors who don’t drive) I was a nervous wreck.
My heart was pounding as we drove. I think I chattered nervously most of the way there. One of my neighbors who had known Paul longer than I did kept repeating “Poor Paul.” She’s been saying that, with her Arabic accent, almost constantly since he died, “Poor Paul, poor Paul….” I tried to explain to her once that it’s really poor us since we’re the ones left behind with our grief and he’s finally without pain. She just repeats, “Poor Paul, poor Paul.” Well I guess whatever works for her.