Monday, July 15, 2013



You should be grateful. You got to have love.
All the gratitude in the world wouldn't take away the pain. This pain. It doesn't go away. It doesn't get fixed by gratitude. It's because I was grateful that I feel this pain. It's because I loved that I feel this pain.

Don't worry. 
As though I can stop. As though I wouldn't have already stopped if this were a possibility. This new life is full of worry. Worry that doesn't listen to logic, or commands to stop. Worry that wraps my brain in a hot, vibrating blanket of buzzing bees, tormenting me.

Get out! Have fun! Live!
Every day I try. Every. Day. Living fully after losing him is the hardest thing I've ever done. I'm pulled back to the space inside a protective shell every time I think of him. His last moments, lying on that gurney, his last words, my last words, the way his beard felt against my cheek, the way his voice sounded, the way he looked at me and conveyed whole thoughts with his eyes.

You should organize a memorial celebration for him. Make something meaningful out of his death.
How? How can I organize anything? I can't organize my own thoughts.

You should get a job. Stay busy!
I am busy. Busy trying to reassemble a heart and soul that has been blown apart. Trying to navigate a new world. Trying to heal. If I worked at a job all day, I'd still be facing this pain. How do I function in a world that seems to move on without acknowledging what's missing? How do I put my pain aside? How do I find my motivation again?

How long is this going to last? After two years aren't you better?
It's not easier, I'm just getting more accustomed to carrying it around. I've mostly forgotten what it feels like to live without this weight on my chest, without constant exhaustion, and without anxiety and worrying.

Just because bad things have happened to you, doesn't mean more bad things will happen. 
Do you remember learning about probability in school? If you roll a die 10 times, and you roll a 1 every single time, on the 11th roll there's still the exact same chance of rolling a one again. All the ones that came before don't predispose the die to finally land on another number. I think this applies to the universe too because I don't believe there is mercy in fate. I don't think someone is keeping score for me and saying "Okay, she's had enough. Let's let her live in peace for a while". It also means, though, that there's the same chance for good to happen, too. I just no longer think that I have earned a free ride from here on out. I fight the fear of the other shoe dropping every day. I cling to what's left like it will soon be taken from me too. When I leave my house for the day, there's a part of me wondering if it will still be there for me when I get home. I know this doesn't serve me. I know this makes it harder for me to enjoy the present. I don't want to think this way and I fight it. But it is there anyway.

He'd want you to be happy.
But he's not here and he's not living this life. I'd want him to be happy too, if I'd left first, but now that I'm living it, I can see how hard it is to be happy when you're heart has been torn out of your body, jaggedly reassembled and shoved back in to your chest where it flutters half-hardheartedly.

I'm doing this and I'm strong and it's hard for me to admit just how hard it is. But it is. It is the hardest thing I've ever done and I'm so very tired. There is nothing more I want or need than to be cradled like a baby and sung to, and tucked into bed and reassured. I've worked so hard to be independent and strong and positive and it's left me tired to my bones. And it's STILL up to me, as an adult without parents of my own, to perform the self-love and self-care I need when I really don't have the energy to do that all the time.

Care for me, cradle me, love me, give me a rest from doing this on my own, I beg.

But, the reality is, the people I beg this of are gone from this earth and even if they were here, I'd still have to face my demons alone. With help, but still essentially alone. We all do.  I suppose it's making me stronger than I can imagine is possible, even though I feel so weak all the time. I suppose one day I'll be able to see what a warrior I was. Am.

Now I'm just so damn tired.


  1. Exactly how I still feel, Cassie. The above thoughts and statements continue to roll around and around in my head. I still am waiting for this all to miraculously resolve. It just takes so much effort and I'm just. too. darn. tired.
    Love your posts. They hit me right over the head!

  2. I can relate to all of this... "Organize? How can I organize anything? I can't even organize my thoughts!" This made me LOL with understanding. Yes. So tired.

  3. "I'm doing this and I'm strong and it's hard for me to admit just how hard it is. But it is. It is the hardest thing I've ever done and I'm so very tired. There is nothing more I want or need than to be cradled like a baby and sung to, and tucked into bed and reassured."

    Yes! I've always been strong & independent but it's so frigging exhausting to do this alone. Some days I sooooooo want somebody to just step in and take care of me and tell me it's OK. (And if that happened I'd likely soon push back and say, "Hey! Give me some space! I can do this". Lol! 'Cause that's just the way I am.)

  4. I'm tired too...of the constant day to day barrage of all those things you mention. It's a never ending merry go round that I can't get off of, more and more to do, to figure out, to decide... when I should just be living like those around me. I want off, but I'm afraid this is it, forever. I've dealt with many issues throughout the years, from kidnapping, to infertility, to breast cancer, but this tops them all. Yes, he was here with me thru all those issues, and I feel I have failed him in not seeing him thru his cancer diagnoses. I guess I saw him thru it, it just ended as neither of us expected with his death.

    Truly this is the hardest thing we will ever do, can't imagine anything else. Hang in there, Cassie, there's strength in numbers.

  5. You have put into words all that I have been struggling was so wonderful to read in words what I feel but could not express.
    Thank you.

  6. 15 months after I lost the love of my life, the best man I will ever know, people I see now all ask "how are you?' I can tell they are hoping for a positive answer, something that will make them feel better, because frankly my grief makes most people uncomfortable, of course if it can happen to us, why not them, their husbands, their lives.... truthfully I am functioning in a fog, faking it mostly unless I indulge my real feelings of utter lonliness and longing for my Michael.. Mostly I answer "it's too complicated", but Cassie I love your phrasing, I am not better, just getting more accustomed to carrying around the weight, it walks besides more with greater ease these days, but still resides so deeply and I am exhausted.

  7. so true, so beautiful...thank you for writing.

  8. It's been 14 months since my husband of 25 years passed away suddenly at age 52 from an undiagnosed Pulmonary Embolism. That morning he was sitting on the couch, talking on the phone for his job, a few hours later I'm sitting in a room in the ER of the hospital, being told I have to say goodbye. And I had to tell our two daughters, then ages 15 & 19, that their father was gone. It's been over a year later and I'm still having to deal with "stuff" - forms to fill out, taxes, bills, lawn care.... I have a lot of friends, neighbors, church members who continue to listen and help me try to continue on my healing journey. And our two daughters are keeping busy with school and activities. Thank you so much for writing this entry. I understand.