Ghosts Don't Pay Rent

Living with the dead and crying to queer anthems

Sometimes I look around this house, this house I rearrange over and over, and it feels like a foreign country. I move piles of things from one place to another trying to make it feel good again. I stare at my late husband’s clothes in the closet and wonder if I am ready to pack them away. Some days I know with certainty that it is time. Other days my whole heart revolts at the idea, genuinely insulted that I would even consider betraying myself like that.

I know this is an insane thought to have, but sometimes, in those flashes of post-loss anger, I think, ghosts don’t even pay rent! How am I supposed to reclaim my space? How do I make this house mine and safe? Without living like I’m living with the dead? Then I panic and put everything back exactly where it was and continue my daily conversation with my invisible roommate about whether he likes the fresh flowers I put in our hug vase. I am sane. I promise.

There was a moment when we came home from the hospital for the last few hours before flying to Australia and we realized it would be Jeremy’s final walk through our door. His last time in the living room. His last time resting on our bed. He looked at me and said, “I would like to take a shower before the flight.”

I helped him into the bathroom and sat on the toilet in case he needed me. He asked me to play music. I had introduced him to Chappell Roan’s music that week and he had instantly fallen in love with “Pink Pony Club.” Of course he did. He always had great taste. I put Chappell Roan on shuffle. The first song that came on was “Casual.” The lyrics did not matter. The tone did.

It felt like I was standing inside the final scene of the saddest film ever made.

He let the water wash over him and started to cry. I think he knew it would be his last shower at home. He loved that shower. He used to keep a little scribble board in there to write down ideas because he always had so many. I used to run in and out in the mornings while he showered and I got ready. Sometimes I sat on the toilet and talked to him. I never imagined I would be sitting there silently sobbing as he cried beneath the water, both of us knowing this was the last time we would share something so mundane in our home.

Most days, I do not recognize my life. I feel like a split screen. One part of me moves forward. The other part is suspended in the past, waiting for it to catch up and say, “Just kidding, all the people you loved most are coming back for season two.”

The other night I went to the movies with friends. I floated outside my body for half of it, examining myself like a statue in a museum.

Circling myself, I thought She is laughing. She made an effort. She is eating popcorn. She looks normal.

So why am I out here watching her while she is in there living it?

I went home and felt the cloud settle again. The heaviness. The ache. And yet, I also had a nice time. I think the part of me who enjoyed it is not fully connected to the part of me I have always known. I am my own phantom limb. I used to be there, and now I am not.

Except I am. Just in a different shape.

And it is the holidays, which, if you are grieving, come with their own Olympics level obstacle course.

How do you deal with it?
Where does all this grief go when it peaks?
I do not want it to rule this next chapter, and yet I know it is the shadow I can never fully shake.

What a price to pay for loving someone. Worth every penny. And still, I would pay anything for a cure.

Some days I know I should be grateful for feeling it all. Other days my mind is a jungle of worries and flashbacks and memories sharp enough to cut. I would love a reprieve. Even a small one.

I have this. I have you.

Thank you for reading my musings, self reflections, dark humor and sad moments this year. It helps to share them. It helps knowing I am not alone. I am one of countless people in this world who is grieving, and when we relate to each other, even briefly, the burden lightens.

I hope you enjoy the mundane moments with the people you love. Relish running after your kids. Try not to get annoyed if your partner is late or doing the one thing you asked them not to. You can be annoyed another day. But today, for me, relish it. Thank the piles of laundry and the messy houses and the little disagreements for existing. They mean you are living and loving and being loved. It is simple in the end. And it does end. But, if you are reading this, today you are here.

We keep going.
Even when we are sobbing in the shower to a devastating (and beautiful) queer anthem.