The concept of permanent loss

I know Sandy died. I was with her. I signed the papers for the funeral home representative who arranged to transport her body for research. I have copies of the death certificate. I'm a fairly practical, reasonable person.

I also know what death means. But I don't know that Sandy isn't coming back. My brain is still protecting itself, at some level, from this overwhelming change in my reality, my future, my world. At least once a day, I'm agonized to realize that she's gone and not returning. I literally shake my head, unable to hold the thought, unable to comprehend the incomprehensible.

I've told hundreds of people now, in all kinds of settings, that Sandy has died. And I've let them believe that she isn't coming back. My denial is thick enough that it seems like a lie to allow people to assume that. (On rare occasions, I'm even offended that they believe she is so like other people that she'll stay dead.)

Crazy, yes? The kind of crazy that the brain takes on in order to stay sane.

For a few minutes each day, I realize that I'm the only living person in this household, and that decisions about home maintenance, gardening, utilities, cat care, financial planning, and so on are mine alone. But most of the time, I don't. There's enough of Sandy here that I don't have to face reality 24/7. Not yet. Maybe never. I don't know. As long as the bills are getting paid, the trash gets out to the curb, the cats are doing well, and the house isn't falling down, I think my denial is serving me.

One book about grief said that widows tend to start understanding that their loss is permanent some time between three and six months. We're just past 11 weeks now. So I figure I'm right on track. And if she comes back before I recognize the loss is permanent, all the better!