I Can't Even Imagine...

Lately I've noticed myself thinking of an activity we enjoyed and suddenly realizing we will never share it again. It's not a new thing, but it seems to shake me up more lately. Each time this happens it's as if I'd never realized it before, as if I'm learning it for the first time, and I feel a moment of panic. Maybe I'm emerging from some of the deepest denial and numbness and it's gradually beginning to occur to me, I mean really occur to me, that he's actually gone and I just don't know how to process that information yet.

I sometimes wonder what Jeff would be doing if he were in my place. I always imagined he'd cope much better than me, that he'd have handled this much more logically and he'd be a thousand steps further down the road than I am. But after listening to one of his voice mails I realized that I really don't know how he would have reacted. It was one of the last messages he'd left, a week or so before he died. He'd worked late and was letting me know he was on his way home, and as he often did when leaving voice mails, he talked about how much he loved me and how much our relationship meant to him. And he said "I can't even imagine my life without you."

It was something we said often, although we typically meant that we couldn't imagine what our lives would have been like if we'd not met. On occasion we did talk about what we'd do if the worst happened, but unless you've gone through it you can't even begin to guess at how you'll react. One of the most frequent things I've heard from friends or acquaintances who are married, is some variation of, "You're so strong, I could never handle this." Well, I was absolutely certain I wouldn't either. I would be one of those perfectly healthy widows who died shortly after her husband, not for any unknown physical ailment, but simply of grief, because I couldn't go on any longer with a broken heart.

Some days I feel his loss so strongly that it seems like the air is being sucked out of the room and I'm caught in a vacuum and I'm sure that I'm going up to bed for the last time, but no matter how horrible I feel, emotionally or physically, I'm still here. Honestly, nobody is more surprised that I'm still here and in good health than myself... but I don't think it's strength, or that I've found a way to cope, I think my body is just running on some sort of auto pilot and the rest of me has no choice but to go along for the ride.

This isn't unusual, I find. The more I read up on grief and how people respond to it the more I find that I'm not alone, there are countless other widows and widowers who have felt very similar things. It can be comforting to see that, to know that what I'm going though is normal, and that one day I will move forward and integrate these changes into my life.

Yes, that new normal idea again. I couldn't have begun to imagine.

Creating New Traditions

Tuesday was my wedding anniversary. Well, it should have been, but instead of celebrating eight years of marriage I have faced almost eight months of widowhood.

I wondered what other newly widowed folk do for wedding anniversaries… it occurs to me that in all my research I've never noticed anything about that. Do they celebrate quietly? Spend the day in grief? Try to just go about the day as if it were any other? I expect that if I asked ten different people they’d each have a different answer, so I just went with what felt right for me. I'd make my own little tradition to deal with this day.

I thought I'd create an anniversary that we might have had if he were with me. I started off with lunch at one of “our places." Not a fancy restaurant, we rarely went to those, just a nice, casual place that we'd visited many times. I hadn't been there since he died, it had become one of those places that I just couldn't bring myself to visit on my own, and that was why I chose it for this anniversary. I took the tablet along and sat it across from me with his photo displayed, so he could join me. It wasn't the same, but he was there. Sort of.

After lunch I thought about going for walks through some of the parks we liked, but the heat persuaded me to limit that stroll to one small park, and spend most of the time on a nice shaded bench. There were only a few people around but quite a lot of geese to keep me company. I followed the park up with a stop for a milkshake at another of our spots, then headed home. It was exactly the sort of day we might have spent, the perfect little anniversary outing. I could imagine him with me at every stop but I missed his physical presence more than ever. It was a pleasant day, but it was profoundly lonely.

That evening I watched our wedding video for the first time since he died, and it was easy to remember exactly how I felt that day. I often thought it was a blur, the day went by too fast, but the emotions are still vivid in my memory. I could remember being so happy I couldn't contain myself, smiling so much that I didn't think I would ever stop. My dreams had come true, I'd found the love of my life, someone to grow old with, and I would never be alone again. My fairy tale was getting it's happy ending.

After I watched that I spent a couple of hours crying, then pounding fists on the floor and screaming  until there was nothing left inside me. It's not fair. It's not. But all I can do is try to adapt, and try to find a way to go forward and forge new traditions.  In the end it was another yo-yo day, a bit more extreme than most but not unusual. I guess that's part of my new normal. And now it's onward to the next challenge, whatever that may be...

The day after our wedding we stopped by the church to pick up the decorations and other things. As we were getting ready to go home this song played on the mix cd we'd made for the reception, and I have a vivid memory of him stopping in the parking lot and singing it to me. Someday I may even be able to listen to it without crying my eyes out. Happy Anniversary, Jeff. I love you.

cross posted from Kything NaturesZen

Thoughts From Month Seven

Dear Jeff,

You've been gone for seven months now, Jeff. Seven. It is never going to be easier to accept that.

It's odd that sometimes I can feel okay... I move along through the day, I feel all right. I try to interact with people, I catch up with friends and get things done. Sometimes I feel good, sometimes I'm even really happy. Most of the time I'm all right, at least. Then evening rolls around and the last thing I want to do is go to bed.

Now part of this is my night owl tendencies... I never wanted to go to bed. But a bigger part is that going to bed just reminds me that you aren't there. Sometimes I try to pretend you've already gone up and you're sleeping, sometimes I hear the house creak, as it does, and for a moment I can imagine that it's you, walking to the bathroom. You're here, you're alive, and everything is okay.

Sometimes I never do go up to bed. Sometimes I sit up watching TV and surfing the internet until I'm so tired I feel like I might pass out, and I just sleep on the couch. Not because it's comfortable to sleep on, because it's not. No, I stay on the couch because then, for at least one night, I don't have to go upstairs and face the empty bed, and know once again that you are not here. It's easier to sleep on an uncomfortable couch than to be in a big bed, where I still reach out and hope that I'll feel you laying next to me.

Sometimes I think of the times you'd call when you were on the way home from work, and you'd tell me to meet you out front and we'd go out to eat, or to the store, or somewhere. You knew I had a tendency to take three times as long as I'd estimate, so you'd always remind me of the time, and tell me to be outside and ready. And I'd try to be, I'd try to be there waiting when you pulled up. Now, when I come up to bed, I can't help but whisper to you, that I'm ready. I'm ready whenever you want to come by and pick me up. I won't make you wait. But the universe must not be quite ready to send me on my way yet, because I wake up each day and start the cycle over again.

Sometimes I feel like our entire life together was really just a dream I had, one that was beautiful and wonderful, but that it wasn't real. Sometimes you are so present in my life that I know if I turned my head fast enough I'd see you there beside me. Sometimes you feel as far away as that dream... wispy, ethereal, too good to be true. Sometimes I'm certain I just spun you out of my fantasies.

Sometimes I can't even process the reality that even one day has passed. Seven months? Ha. Not real. I knew without a doubt on that first night that I'd never make it through one month. Seven is out of the question.

But I'm still here, and I'm still moving forward, even if it's just by a fraction of an inch with each step. I guess that's something.

Seven months, Jeff.

I miss you.