Yesterday was Valentine’s Day. I woke up early (around 3AM) and filled out the card that I bought for my husband (Paul). I put it on his bed stand and then went back to sleep. When I woke up; he was out of bed and the card was on his bed stand, moved and unopened.
He is not coping well with the death of his then, 19-year-old son. Suicide is tragic; young Paul’s suicide has affected not only the two of us, but so many others that knew him and us. I am saddened; well, devastated. I remember the last time I saw young Paul which was early March 2015. He was wearing jeans and a hoodie that I had bought him; apparently, the same clothing he was wearing when he died. I hugged him and said I would see him in Germany. I wonder if he already knew that he would never make it to Germany to visit us.
Valentine’s Day for me was nothing more than a day. Paul did not kiss me, did not tell me he loved me, barely touched me. I retreated to the bedroom (neither his nor mine since we have a guest bedroom that he sleeps in when he is in a particularly bad mood) and basically drowned my sorrows in a Patricia Cornwell novel. She mentioned suicide and called it one of the most selfish acts one can commit. I am not sure if it is true; but I know that it is truly destructive.