…expect the unexpected.

I should really be in bed. I am beyond tired at this point. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in a couple of days, with last night taking the cake. While I have been in bed with the intent to sleep, a sound sleep has evaded me.

So I should be snuggled up in the dirty sheets, breathing deeply and inhaling his scent. I curl up in the spot he takes up in my bed even though it’s not my normal left side and pretend that the body pillow is his body.

I should be sleeping.

But…

A few weeks ago, Gee asked me a few questions as an add on to the Stiva’s Q and A post. Amongst them were whether my children spoke English as well as I do (they do because I’m not actually French and neither are my children. English is my first language. I learned French. My children are learning French now in school. Whether or not they choose to learn enough of it to be considered bilingual is entirely their choice) and how I was introduced to Reiki (the short answer to this one is that my Aunt introduced my mother who introduced me. I received my level one attunement in 2001 and my second in 2003 and have been learning and studying and practicing ever since. I will work up to my master/teacher level some day. If you’re not familiar with Reiki or what it is, a simple Google search will answer any questions you may have and familiarize your with the basics better than any blog post I could write).

The question that is sticking out in my head tonight (while I should be sleeping) is whether or not I believe I can communicate with the dead. I’m sure she was thinking of talks and posts about “the man in the old man hat” who is really Paul, Don’s father. Paul has been dead for about twenty six years now. I (obviously) never knew him in life. My only experiences with Paul have been in his death.

But Paul is not the reason I’m thinking of Gee’s questions about my communications with those who have passed over.

I’m thinking of her and her questions because if she had asked me that same question last night, I wouldn’t have been sure how to answer.

Because I was scared I was talking to a ghost.

Don and I had an amazing weekend together. He arrived on Wednesday night, late. My radar was off…usually I know the exact moment to go outside to meet his car. I watch it pull into my driveway each and every time. While this was still true on Wednesday, I was a little off because I had been darting in and out for about an hour and had been worrying a bit about the weather. Buckets and buckets of snow we have and no matter how many times I tell it that Mary elkhound loves it’s cold white ass, it stays put and keeps coming.

But he was fine.

We spent Thursday in a grocery store with Michael. Thursday night we took the kids out for a nice, traditional American Thanksgiving dinner (McDonald’s, of course) and then picked out the Christmas tree and some decorations. They had a blast. They love their Donny.

Friday saw Don and I back at Walmart, filling up two carts with toys from Santa. The big guy in red didn’t need to make another appearance, as he did last year, apparently and quite frankly, I didn’t miss him. I can’t tell you what it meant to be shopping for toys and pajamas with someone who wanted…REALLY wanted…to be there. To be in that moment, doing that exact thing. It was nothing short of fan-fucking-tastic.

But then…Don and I are nothing short of fan-fucking-tastic. Ha.

Friday night, Rock picked the kids up. Don and I headed to an advanced opening of a local craft sale (every year I read the notice that this very busy, very wonderful, German themed craft sale will open early for people with limited mobility and every year I wish I knew someone who could get me in. Bam-o! Finally that whole cerebral palsy thing pays off! Oh chill out. It’s just a joke. He knows that. In fact, I’ve already made that joke to him…). We had a good time, browsing around, laughing at the “find a pickle” bin of ornaments and buying soap and a beautiful nativity scene made by this sweet little lady who is there, in the same spot, every year. Ever year I buy a ceramic angel from her. I will be sad the year that she is too old to attend. Actually, sad won’t cover it.

Then it was out to dinner. And then a trip downtown because it was moonlight madness. We went to the store I bought his first ever Canadian Christmas present from. And we slipped and slid on the ice. And kissed under the stars. And he held me and I was overwhelmed by disbelief.

He was really here. A year later, he was holding me.

Saturday…hmmm…more shopping. And then more shopping.

Saturday night. That’s a post in and of itself. We both have learning to do, that much is true.

And then Sunday. Time for him to head home. I cried. I didn’t (yet) know why.

I thought I had talked to a ghost by Sunday night.

So even though it’s not my story to tell…

Ironic that Canada’s weather was fine. It was only after he crossed the border that the snow started.

The border crossing was easy peasy. They are getting to know him.

Snow started in Vermont, I believe. And extended to New Hampshire.

Bad conditions. Slow speeds.

But the ice can’t be avoided.

Two and a half 360 degree turns. And he hit a guard rail.

Lucky. Damn fucking lucky. To be alive.

We are both running out of lives.

And me at home. Freaking. No wait. FREAKING. Out.

By the time the twelve hour mark had come…and gone…I was convinced. There was no way that nothing had happened. There was no way he wasn’t dead or at the very least, hurt.

I had called. And called. I couldn’t sleep. I prayed so hard my eyes hurt from squinting. That old man in the hat stopped by to rub my back and keep me distracted.

I talked to my angels. Asked them to calm me down. Put me to sleep. They did. But only in brief fits.

At last, I stumbled outside and dialled the cell phone number, now committed to memory.

No answer.

I called his apartment, mentally making notes of which city’s hospitals to start with. Sleep is for the weak. And I had to be strong.

My world was caving in. I can’t describe the feeling.

The panic.
The fear.
The sadness.
The desperation.
The longing.
The regret.
The love.
And the hysteria.

He answered.

I asked him about three dozen times if I was still sleeping. If I was actually dreaming.

I had dreamed that I woke up and dialled his number. Someone answered, but it wasn’t him. They told me that a logging truck had rolled over. Don was dead on impact.

“Don’t worry. He was toast before he knew what hit him.”

Little consolation.

When I woke from that vivid dream, I was convinced it was true. I could no longer distinguish reality from the sleep world I visit when my eyes are closed.

I thought he was dead.

He could have been.

And when he answered, I thought maybe I was dreaming.

Or was talking to a ghost.

And then this morning. Not hearing from him. Not seeing his avatar. And thinking maybe I had dreamed it all. Or maybe he was dead. Maybe I had been talking to my dead boyfriend, just like I do his father.

I called him up.

And he answered again.

And I have never, not ever, felt so relieved in all my life.

We beg you constantly to try not to take the one you love for granted.

Try even harder now, okay, folks?