Knowing when to stop.

For years, I've had the frustration of not knowing when I'm about to overdo it. Then I do. Pfft. Crash. Splat. It has resulted, often, in underestimating, leaving before I really want to, not spending all the time I wish I could because chronic pain is tiring. Energy expenditure is tiring and even with the damn wheelchair that makes things easy, just sitting, I have learned, can be exhausting.

So, today - no shit there I was - doing just fine going through stacks of paper in boxes. I was probably doing fine for a while there because what i was looking at was stuff that Stu had received in the mail, but had not contributed to. Interesting but emotionally safe. Then I hit the stack of stuff that he edited, where he had contributed, participated. There was a photo that took me by surprise. Then I read a couple of things that were quintessentially Shiffman. And I am crunchy, buttered, rye toast.

Because for a really short time there - a minute? seconds? I don't know - I forgot. For a brief shining moment, Stu was not dead. And coming back to that hurts so bad. I know some day it won't hurt quite so acutely. But right now it does and I just want to curl up in the world's smallest little ball and whimper. I know that what happened for that minute or those seconds was joy, was Stu. But in the instant where I couldn't turn and say "hey, honey, I found a photo of you. Two of them actually! You look just like yourself!", it was a blade in the heart.

Damn. He was such wonderfulness.