How Do I Miss Thee? Let Me Count the Ways

Grief, when it comes right down to basics, is simply missing someone who is no longer there. 

My life and my husband's were more intertwined than a lot of couples, which means that there are a lot of normal everyday things that make me miss him almost more than I can bear. It feels like he ought to be there in every moment of my life, but he's not. I miss him every moment of every day. 

I miss him when I wake up in the morning and his face on the pillow next to me isn't the first thing I see. I miss warming my cold feet on his warm legs before I get up. I miss him when I have to go downstairs to get my morning coffee myself instead of him bringing it to me in bed. I miss the lingering scent of his bodywash and the warmth of the steam from his morning shower when I go in the bathroom to brush my teeth. 

I miss hearing him working in his office, or on a phone call sounding all business-like and organized and in control. 

I miss him when I eat lunch alone instead of having him come out of his office and announce that he's cleared his schedule for a few hours so we can go out to lunch, or to Costco, or to the hardware store, or take a walk in the park across the street. I miss watching him pretend his Costco cart is out of control as he careens across the parking lot. I miss quietly singing together, "We are Farmer's, bum ba-dum-bum bum-bum-bum" whenever we get the cashier who looks like J.K. Simmons. 

I miss him when I'm cooking dinner and he's helping out while dancing to Sinatra or Buble or BYU Vocal Point or Broadway tunes. I miss cocktails and nachos on the porch. I miss going out to dinner and him asking the server for a taste of 2 or 3 different wines so he can do a "taste test." I miss the way he always ordered his martini: "Tanqueray martini, extra extra dry, shaken hard, up, with a twist (lemon; sometimes he had to clarify)." I miss sharing an appetizer of calamari, or cheese steak egg rolls, or steamed dumplings. I miss telling him I don't want dessert but having him still order a creme brulee with four spoons because he knows I really want dessert. I miss the way, when the server asked if he wanted a second cocktail, he would look at me and raise a single eyebrow, silently asking if I was willing to drive home so he could say yes. I miss the way we'd always stop by the band and request a song to dance to when we were leaving Eddie V's.  

I miss relaxing together in the hot tub after the kids are in bed, listening to the quiet night noises, like the owls hooting and the occasional plane overhead and the deer rustling in the woods. I miss our late-night talks, and our late-night silences. I miss "solving the world's problems" over a nightcap. 

I miss being on stage together. I miss navigating while he drives. I miss shopping for Christmas presents for the kids together. I miss planning vacations together. I miss sharing a bowl of popcorn and watching movies together. I miss private jokes like, "Era? What era?" and "50 pounds is 50 pounds" and "LI! LACS!" and "Tell me about the piano." I miss him bringing me flowers "just because." I miss happy-happies. 

I miss debriefing in the car on the way home after a party or a show. I miss planning parties together. I miss cleaning the house together before and after a cast party. I miss singing and dancing together at parties. I miss catching his eye across a crowded room during a party and knowing what a wonderful time we're both having. I miss watching him teach people to saber champagne. 

I miss kissing him during that first backstage cross after the opening number and again before the curtain goes up in the Victorian scene in the Reagle Christmas show. I miss kissing him every time we got into an empty elevator. I miss kissing him on the Ferris wheel. I miss kissing him good morning and good night and have a good day and I love you and I missed you. 

I miss having a partner and a best friend and a sounding board and a fan club president and a cheering squad. I miss a hug at the end of a good day or a bad day. I miss having a shoulder to cry on, and a faithful fan to celebrate with. 

I miss him not noticing when I get a haircut. I miss him forgetting to take out the trash until we hear the truck down the street and him throwing on clothes to bring the bins out to the curb before it gets to our house. I miss being wakened by his snoring. I miss asking him what he'd like for dinner and having him respond, "Hmm, I'll have to get back to you," and never getting back to me. I miss shopping for my own Christmas stocking stuffers and Easter basket fillers because that was not his thing. I miss him getting a little too loud after his second (or third) cocktail. I miss him walking into the living room and obliviously changing the channel on the TV even though I was in the middle of watching something else. 

I miss hearing his voice. And his laugh. And seeing his face. And smelling his smell. And sensing his presence. 

I miss ending a phone call with, "I love you and I miss you." 

Because I still love him. And I still miss him. Almost more than I can bear.