The Pink Polo Shirt

After work yesterday, I stopped at Walmart to pick up a few grocery essentials. As I walked the aisles, I wordlessly talked to Brad – and questioned God. Why is his death so difficult for me? I feel like the person from the COPD commercials with the elephant sitting on his chest. When I jog, rather than the physical exertion releasing the tension, my breathlessness feels more like an oncoming panic attack. I cannot escape him or ignore him. For the first time in my life, I somewhat understand how those with ADD feel.

Brad suffered all of his life. It crushed me to see periodic photos of him on social media and see his withering body and to know, whether I wanted to admit it or not, that he was dying.

I prayed for him constantly, asking God to release him from his pain – whether that meant taking him home or healing him here on earth. I prayed also that God would heal him here – in this life – so that his family could experience his healing and joy with him – so that healing can take place here – now – and he would know true peace in this life.

I suppose I am somewhat angry with God for answering my prayer, but not in the way I hoped. Still, Brad is no longer suffering. He is healed, whole, happy, and at peace. So, why does it hurt so bad that he is gone?

My conversation with Brad:

I am angry because you took away my healing. You are free. I am still here and you are not. I am left with your ghost, with our ghosts. By dying, you took with you any hope of our reconciliation. I never hoped for us to get back together, but I did hope we could become friends – real friends – as I thought we had become before that horrid day you butt-dialed me and I had to face the truth as I listened to your drunken conversation with Michelle. You forced me to face a truth I did not want to face and to make a decision I did not want to make. I hit the floor of the kitchen and cried. I was in so much pain. Still, I longed for the day when we could be truly reconciled.

But would that have ever been enough? Honestly, I would probably have been jealous that Michelle got the sober, happy Brad that should have been mine.

Remember that day you asked me if I saw us divorced or together when I thought about our future? It was the last time we . . . I held onto you, cried, and whispered we were going to be okay. I believed it. When you asked the question, I said I had two equally vivid visions – one vision was dark and grey and we were making each other miserable, hurting each other – divorced.

In my other vision, I saw you and I standing in a procession at the front of the church, holding hands with a little girl – our adopted little girl – joining the other families in dedicating their children. You were sober. We were happy – truly happy and whole. You wore khaki pants and a pink polo shirt.

That is why I am so angry with you, Brad. The Brad I knew would never wear a pink shirt. You thought pink was a “sissy” color for men. You thought it would make you look weak. The Brad in my happy ending vision of us cared nothing about the color of his clothing because he knew the color is not what made the man. Your heart belonged fully and completely to Jesus and your family. All your demons were a distant memory, no longer controlling you.

Even before you died, I knew that the Brad in the pink polo would never be a reality for me, but your death sealed the coffin of this dream for good - for real. All hope is lost, gone, never to return. I will never know a Brad in a pink polo shirt and this is the reason I mourn you. This is the reason I am angry that you died. This is why I am angry that you left me – twice.

I recently read a post on FB about why those with high anxiety enjoy watching the same shows over and over again. This familiar repetition is predictable and comforting.

When I miss you most, I find comfort in the predictability of the Good Witch. It is strange and difficult for me to admit, but I long to find a love like Sam one day. I’m not sure why the love story of Sam and Cassie intrigues me so much when all other love stories nauseate me. Perhaps it is the fact that a woman who lost the love of her life and the man with trust issues and a broken heart find love again. I identify with both of them. Perhaps it is their age. Perhaps it’s the simple fact that I am enamored with James Denton. Whatever it is, after you died, I have been longing for a Sam in my life – not here and certainly not now – but someday.

Maybe the death of my pink polo shirted Brad has opened me up to new possibilities – once my hurt and anger subside.

Sam is a romantic. I used to think I was a romance cynic. What I have come to realize is that I became a cynic as a defense mechanism. The only time you tried to romance me is when you were apologizing for something. That kind of romance disgusts me. After your death, I looked through old mementos and saw the deflated balloon you once randomly brought to my work and the cards and notes you used to leave me. I was all in then. Your romancing me had nothing to do with an apology in the beginning and it worked. I knew how you felt back then. We lost it somewhere along the way – and I know just when and how. I want to be romanced again. But again, not here and not now.

Brad, thank you for releasing me – finally – but I’m still mad at you. I’m still hurt that you never gave me and the pink polo shirted Brad a chance. You chose oblivion in the bottle over me and I resent you for it although I do not blame you. I do understand how strong a pull your demons had on you, but still . . . you could have chosen differently. You could have chosen me and that unnamed little girl and a pink polo shirt.