I couldn’t sleep.
I’m not sure why. Most nights I’ve slept pretty well but Friday night I couldn’t sleep.
So I flipped on the light, reached for my glasses and sat up to write some more thank you notes.
The writing looked blurry.
I glanced over at my nightstand and saw a pre-moistened lens cleaner packet. I opened it and I took off my glasses.
I cleaned the right lens.
When I moved over to clean the left lens my thumb and forefinger met with only the moist cloth between them.
The left lens was missing.
No wonder everything looked blurry.
I looked around the nightstand for the lens.
I felt around the bed and pillows.
I looked on the floor by the bed.
I stepped carefully on the floor where I’d already checked there was no lens and reached for my phone. I turned on the flashlight and searched the bedroom and the bathroom.
I had had the glasses on downstairs so I knew the lens was somewhere in the house.
I walked carefully, using the flashlight ahead of me, and went downstairs and looked around for the lens.
I was afraid that I’d find it when I stepped on it.
I was afraid that “oh there they are” would follow crushing the lens into pieces.
I went back upstairs.
I looked at the glasses to make sure the lens was really missing. I checked it was lost the same way I looked over at Kim’s side of the bed to make sure she really wasn’t there.
The lens was still missing.
How did it pop out without me noticing. I felt so stupid. I felt so helpless.
It’s only a lens.
I could go to the store and have them fill my prescription. I hadn’t gotten new glasses this year because my prescription hadn’t changed that much. I could go and get new glasses.
But still it’s so stupid.
It’s weird. I know that stuff is stuff. It’s not important. But the little things can really knock me off my center. They cause me to question everything.
Without the left lens everything looks blurry. It’s like the glasses suddenly represented my life with Kim. We each clarified the world around us. Without her contribution I wasn’t seeing the world clearly.
Suddenly, I felt better by feeling worse.
It made more sense. I wasn’t tearing up because of my lost lens, it was because of some association with losing Kim.
Stuff is still stuff.
Still, I felt so stupid. I hate doing stupid things.
The next morning I decided to retrace my steps.
The lens still wasn’t in the bed, in the bedroom, in the bathroom, or in the hall.
It wasn’t on the stairs.
It wasn’t on the floor downstairs or on the table or in my chair.
I had sat on the couch.
I shined the flashlight on the couch and there on the far cushion was the lens.
“Wait,” you say, “you found the lens? Why didn’t you just tell us that in the first place? Why did you take us through this story of loss?”
It’s kind of what this whole blog is.
At some point I’ll find the tools I need to feel a bit better and stronger and be sad a little less often.
In the mean time, I’m walking around carefully trying not to step on my missing lens.
In the mean time the world is a little blurry.