I still always answer it if I can, so I did.
It was the pharmacy for new inhaled antibiotic that we'd been fighting for.
They asked for you...
I softly told them that you had passed away just before Christmas and we no longer needed it. I think she was a little shocked, said she was sorry, and then said, "have a good day." (Pretty sure it was just a habitual response, not intentional.)
I don't miss all those phone calls, multiple each month, to get your medicine, food, diapers, and all your trach supplies. But I miss you, and if making those calls meant you were still here, I'd do it in a heartbeat.
Last spring I fielded a call while with some of my classmates. When I finished, one said I needed a case manager. I quipped back, "I am his case manager." She laughed and said, "I know, but he really needs someone so you don't have to." Frankly, she's a pretty awesome person and was just catching a glimpse of what it was like. You did need a case manager, and I was offered a nurse manager, but honestly, then I would have had yet another person to follow up on to make sure the ball didn't get dropped.
I knew I would get things done, and I did. You had four different pharmacies. We were trying to add a fifth. I called one number for food and feeding supplies, another for diapers, and yet another for oxygen, trach and vent supplies. And that was just for your supplies. It didn't take into account any of your doctors, and there were several of them.
But you were worth it, every minute! Every frustrating, long encounter as I answered the same questions (for the same people) over and over.
And I don't regret a minute of the energy and time I spent for you.
Tonight I stopped and got some things for your gravesite. I'm hoping to get out of here early enough tomorrow to take the Valentine ones over before I go to work.
It's dreary right now, rainy, dark, cloudy. It matches my mood, I'm afraid, almost like the sky is crying with me.
Sometimes this feels like a dream, a bad one. And sometimes your life feels like a dream that I'm tryinig to get back to.
Either way, it's hard to reconcile my before and after. Something fundamentally changed in me when your heart stopped. And I don't know how to fix it.
Your hospital gown still smells like you.
I miss you with all of my heart.”