when sleep opens your eyes

As Adaline took her long nap this morning I laid down on the couch to rest for a few minutes. That rest became a 25 minute nap which included deep sleep and ended with a dream. A woman a little older than me, whose face I didn't recognize, was in tears as she sat in the midst of a small group of friends. I couldn't see them, but I could sense their presence. Her fiance had broken off their engagement. She looked straight at me as she spoke. "He was my fiance but he was also my best friend. When I lost him, I lost both of them." 

I woke up with tears on my face. If I hadn't had the baby there definitely would have been sobbing. Because all I could think was "YES!, Exactly!"

When my dad died, I lost my dad. When others I love have died, I grieved, but not like I have with losing Bill. And I sometimes have wondered why? I knew my dad and loved him (and some others) longer than I knew and loved Bill. 

The dream opened my eyes in a new way. When Bill died I lost my husband, the one whom God joined me together with. I know that. I have written about it. Taken comfort from the understanding it brings. But I am not sure I have recognized that I also lost my oldest, consistent friend. My protector. My security blanket. My lover. My financial provider. My hand holder. The father of my children. The grandfather of my grandbabies. The one who prayed with me in the morning. My source for news-from church, from KCU, from the area we live in and beyond. My "big" decision maker. My weatherman. The one who could answer my "do you remember his/her name?". The one I bounced ideas off of. The one I confided in when I had concerns about or frustrations with family. My driver for long trips. The one who was here to welcome me home when I went away for a visit to see friends or family. My caregiver when I was ill or recovering. The little old man I was going to be an old woman with. And more. Somehow, thinking about all of that today has been a source of comfort and relief. I think the dream helped peel another layer off the onion.*

Early on I began to recognize that for me, grief is like an onion. It makes me cry and it has many layers that get peeled back one at a time.