Hey babe.

by Lori Dwyer on February 5, 2011 · 94 comments

I get the feeling that writing letters to my dead husband on my blog may creep some people out a little. I’m OK with that.

Heya Tony,

Hey babe. What’s happening? Where the hell are you anyway? I mean, I know, dead. I just wish I knew what your head space was like.

That’s hard. Because I know, especially now, with that dreaded hindsight. how freaking stressed you were about all that stuff going on. Why didn’t you tell me? It was all so fixable. We could have done it together.

You know, I found a fresh packet of cigarettes in the car tonight? Yours, no doubt. I remember you saying, on that last afternoon, “Where are my f**king cigarettes?”

In the car, you goose. Where you always left everything.

But they helped, those cigarettes. because why would someone who was going to kill themselves buy a fresh pack of cigarettes, when they already had some left?

That would sound dumb, to most people. I know you’d get it. I know you’d be relieved, I can almost feel it.

I know, you didn’t really want to do, You were such a freaking smart arse, thought you knew everything. Thought you would have time.

But, my, didn’t you fight. You know how proud I am of that, of you? I told you, in the hospital, I’m sure you heard, one way or another. You lasted 4 days. They didn’t even give you 24 hours when they admitted you.

You fought. Your tried to come back. I know that. because I know you wouldn’t have left me, not rationally, never on purpose.

‘Ab infito, in infintium’. Or something like that. That was what you had, inscribed on your back, for me. Latin, for “From the beginning, to infinity, without end.”

For me.

Damn. This hurts so much, it’s comforting. I keep coming back to it, like playing with a niggly tooth when you were a kid. Or Vegemite on a mouth ulcer. It hurts, but you can’t help it. because it feels so damn good.

For a month now, you see, all I have been able to see is you spitting at me, calling me names. The hate ion your eyes, how much you detested me.

But now? My memories are so full of you, it’s almost like the very weight of them should metamorphosis into something solid, into something real.

You’re so thick in my memories, every day is like walking through a fog of you. Stupid things. Little things.

You played board games with me, remember? You hated them. I get it. Not everyone is into board games like I am. But you played them anyway, just to make me smile.

And you bought me Slurpees.The last one you bought me is still in the freezer, I think. You bought it home, without me asking. Just to make me smile.

Our kids miss you. Like crazy. Chop, of course, especially. He loves you so much. he’s missing his best mate, his daddy, his idol. His measure of what a boy should be, a man should be.

I imagine, wherever you are, you’ve shed some tears over that. So have i.

The night we got engaged, middle of winter, floating in our spa, set to as warm as we get it, me with fish white, round and pregnant belly, that you loved, and would hold and rub at every occasion. And you turned tome and said “I wonder what all the happy people are doing tonight?” And all I could was laugh.

And when we got married. How awesome was that? We said, time and time again, it was the best party we’d ever thrown, the most fun we’d ever had. And you, you didn’t ask for anything, nothing, except for me to wear a veil, so you lift it up. And you told me, alter, that you tried to male it the most romantic moment of my life.

And it was. Right up there with the day we first- not the time you vomited, the one after that. Because I looked at you, and you looked at me, and that was it. Love at second or third sight. Seriously, I looked at you and went “That’s the man I will marry”.

And I know you thought the same. Woman, not man, obviously, but… you know what I mean.

There’s so much I need to say to you, need to tell you. I know you loved me. OK? I think you know that. I think wherever you are, you’re at peace. Kicking yourself with frustration, perhaps, at having left us, but at peace. And with people you love. And all that stress, gone. You worked so freaking hard, almost every day for twenty years. You told me so often how sore your feet and back were. That’s a comfort, I think. To know that you’re not so bloody uncomfortable in your own body anymore.

I’ve been swimming a lot. I love it. The silence, the weightlessness. But I think you can see me. I know you’re with me. I can feel you. Not as strongly now, after the funeral. But I still feel you around.

And that ring. That bleeping gold ring, that cost me a fortune!! And I knew you’d lost it, but I didn’t want to ask. I’d get angry, you’d feel bad.

Nine months, it was missing for. And then, as you no doubt already know, it popped out of the toaster, two days after you died. The toaster. Seriously, babe, you have a warped sense of humour.

Now, I know, you don’t read my blog. But, some days, you made the exception. You left me a comment just two days before you died, remember? About Megan Gale. I do hope there is some cutely pregnant Megan Gale look-alike up there with you, hun, taking care of you till I get there- it’ll be a while. Not sure your Nan would approve, but tell her it’s OK with me, OK?

But I know you’re reading this. I can feel it, feel you right here. And yes, I’m smoking your cigarettes. I know, I should’ve sent some with you. Sorry. But I did give you boxer shorts to change into. And undies to wear under your shorts. I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable. Silly, I know, but true.

I’m guessing you’re OK with me publishing this. If not, the bleeping computer would shut down, or something. And we’ll leave comments on, cause, hey, you’re a bit of a show pony. Just like me.

You were so awesome, you know that? Probably still are. And I loved- still do-every inch of you. From your almost-shaved head (you know I preferred it longer!) to your ugly craggly toes.

You were my best mate. I miss laughing with you, the most. You always made me laugh, without fail, every time. We were such good friends, babe. I’m not only missing my husband. I’m missing my best friend.

OK. I love you. I wish you could let me know, some way, that you’re at peace. You did, I know, you left me a sign when you were going, but I wish we’d organised one for now, for later. Just so I know you’re OK, you’re at peace, not in pain, not hating yourself. Because I don’t hate you. not for one second. A few people have asked me “How can you forgive him for this?”

But there’s nothing to forgive. Everyone does dumb things. But most people are luckier with the consequences, is all.

And I’d forgive you anything, whatever it was. I’ve always told you that.

I’m so sorry. For everything, every bad word, every fight. Every second I didn’t spend with you, that I could have, should have. But I thought we had all the time in the world. And I think you did, too.

Love you. Like the moon and the stars and all that over stuff.

Catch ya on the flip side. Houso.

xoxoxox

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