Weep with Those Who Weep

"Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep." -- Romans 12:15

Two more days.  Two more days until I will most vividly re-live the worst day of my entire life.  Even today, since I woke up this morning, I was re-living the day, one year ago, that the doctors gave us the news that the previous day's bone-marrow biopsy was bad -- very bad -- and there was nothing else they could do.  Even then I didn't believe it.  What an idiot.

All week I've been filled with even more anxiety than usual.  I have that same sick feeling in my stomach that I did a year ago.  I'm eating less, crying more and feel just as helpless as hopeless as I did around this time last year.  I view the approaching 14th as the day I will lose Mike all over again.  Like I know he's going to die on Sunday -- this time I know it -- and he's already slipping from me.  It's not just that I don't want this date on the calendar to come and go, it's that awful feeling that comes with knowing he's been out of my life and my arms for one solid year.  That's freaking impossible to me.  There has been a strange, tiny comfort in all of this, being able to say that at this time last year Mike was still with us.  At least I still had that.  After Sunday, I can no longer say that and it is freaking me out.  I want to shout out, "Don't go.  Please, please don't go!  Don't leave me.  Please."

Some people get hung up on all the "firsts" -- the first holiday without him, the first wedding anniversary, the first birthday, the first winter.  I have no way of knowing how I will feel when I wake up on October 15, but I have no expectation that my world will feel any better.  In fact, I am already dreading the second set of holidays without him, the second wedding anniversary, the second birthday, the second winter.  He's not here, period.  First, second, 20th -- does it really matter?  He's not here.  HE is what I need -- not the illusion of time.

I know I will cry a lot on Sunday.  I don't necessarily want to be comforted.  I don't really even want to be told things will get better or that I'll get through this.  I want -- no, I need -- people to cry with me.  It's one of the only times I don't feel like I'm alone in this dark pit of grief.

Two more days.  And then what?  God, help me.