It has been three months. Time is supposed to heal, but it has not yet had a chance. The pain still feels, at most times, absolutely unbearable. I couldn’t get to work yesterday and did my best instead to work from home. I found myself finally trying to get cleaned up mid-day but sat down in the shower and sobbed until I couldn’t anymore.
His sports biographies and history books are still in the bookshelf next to our bed. I still sleep on the right side of the bed, usually with one of the kids next to me, since they still don’t want to be alone at night. His clothes still hang in our bedroom closet, the silly ties, the guitar shirts, his Cardinals jersey and some of the work shirts and suits that made him look so handsome. His home office is mostly untouched.
I still have the text message on my phone that he wrote wishing me a happy anniversary on the day he died.
There are still unheard voicemail messages on my cell phone, I’m sure sending me condolences, which I don't have the strength to listen to.
When I am unable to conceal my grief – friends/family ask what brought it on. There is nothing specific – I’m sad all the time – sometimes it leaks out at the wrong times. There isn’t a specific trigger, and everything, after over 20 years together is a trigger.
It’s driving home at night and seeing his car in the driveway and knowing he’s not at home, and never will be.
It’s the absolute fear of raising two kids on my own.
It’s the life insurance claim that has not and may not be paid.
It’s having to sell our home.
It’s having a daughter that wants to go to MIT and a son who wants to go to Stanford, with grades that may get them there and no earthly idea how to pay for it.
It’s the inability to stop thinking what if we had known earlier that there he had such advanced heart disease and tried to treat it?
It’s not having him around to kiss good night, or tease me, or watch ESPN sport center with his son. It's not having him next to me at the softball field when his daughter knocks it to the outfield, again.
It’s the exhaustion of trying to get the kids where they need to be and get them fed and help with homework and then go to work and repeat that cycle every day alone.
It's taking care of his stupid dog.
It's the embarrassment of crying at work. Every day.
It's teaching Charlie how to drive, even though we both agreed I was wound to tight for that assignment.
It’s seeing all these other families that have their husband and father with them.
It’s going to the Autzen stadium and having his seat empty.
It’s the horror of imagining the kids who adored him reliving what they went through the night he died.
There are some welcome distractions – when the kids are happy or proud of themselves – I can find some peace. I’m surrounded by family and friends who I know want to help. The thing is, I just don’t know what they can do.I want the father of my children back. I want my husband back. No one can give me that.
His sports biographies and history books are still in the bookshelf next to our bed. I still sleep on the right side of the bed, usually with one of the kids next to me, since they still don’t want to be alone at night. His clothes still hang in our bedroom closet, the silly ties, the guitar shirts, his Cardinals jersey and some of the work shirts and suits that made him look so handsome. His home office is mostly untouched.
I still have the text message on my phone that he wrote wishing me a happy anniversary on the day he died.
There are still unheard voicemail messages on my cell phone, I’m sure sending me condolences, which I don't have the strength to listen to.
When I am unable to conceal my grief – friends/family ask what brought it on. There is nothing specific – I’m sad all the time – sometimes it leaks out at the wrong times. There isn’t a specific trigger, and everything, after over 20 years together is a trigger.
It’s driving home at night and seeing his car in the driveway and knowing he’s not at home, and never will be.
It’s the absolute fear of raising two kids on my own.
It’s the life insurance claim that has not and may not be paid.
It’s having to sell our home.
It’s having a daughter that wants to go to MIT and a son who wants to go to Stanford, with grades that may get them there and no earthly idea how to pay for it.
It’s the inability to stop thinking what if we had known earlier that there he had such advanced heart disease and tried to treat it?
It’s not having him around to kiss good night, or tease me, or watch ESPN sport center with his son. It's not having him next to me at the softball field when his daughter knocks it to the outfield, again.
It’s the exhaustion of trying to get the kids where they need to be and get them fed and help with homework and then go to work and repeat that cycle every day alone.
It's taking care of his stupid dog.
It's the embarrassment of crying at work. Every day.
It's teaching Charlie how to drive, even though we both agreed I was wound to tight for that assignment.
It’s seeing all these other families that have their husband and father with them.
It’s going to the Autzen stadium and having his seat empty.
It’s the horror of imagining the kids who adored him reliving what they went through the night he died.
There are some welcome distractions – when the kids are happy or proud of themselves – I can find some peace. I’m surrounded by family and friends who I know want to help. The thing is, I just don’t know what they can do.I want the father of my children back. I want my husband back. No one can give me that.
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