A Beautiful Day

 

This week brought with it a major milestone - my first wedding anniversary. A special day that I should have been celebrating with my darling but, instead, had to spend alone, as his widow. I've had a pretty busy few weeks so even though I knew it was looming, the reality of the day really snuck up on me.

One year ago I married the man of my dreams. A man I never dared to imagine existed. A man I still adore and have a ridiculous crush on. A man who, even in death, makes me want to be a better person, to make him proud. Who makes me feel lucky and blessed, beautiful and loved.

In the days leading up to our wedding anniversary I started thinking, ‘what does this day mean now that he’s not here to celebrate it with me?’

Because, on one hand, I felt in my heart that it should be a happy day.  I’m grateful that I married Dan, he was the most beautiful thing to happen to me and this should be celebrated.  It is such a cliché – but our wedding day really was the happiest I had ever been in my life.  I have had many reasons to be happy before this, I’ve had some amazing experiences, created wonderful memories and lived a very full life, even at the tender age of 32.  But nothing had compared to standing up before everyone dear to me and exchanging vows with the man I had waited for my whole life.  His love had validated me and completed me in a way that I hadn’t thought possible.

But on the other hand, of course, it was a tragic, sad and painful day.  My husband was dead, our marriage had technically lasted 45 days - 'til death do us part. Even though, as many of you would agree, I still feel very much married and consider myself to be his wife, more so than his widow.  How do I bask in the glow of on his love and memory of this blessed day when I am grieving his death so deeply? 

I’m learning that while it’s normal to ponder these philosophical-type questions, I need to stop putting so much pressure on my self to find the answers.  I have always been a proactive problem solver but grief is teaching me to sit in the moment, be patient and let the world turn without trying to preempt and resolve everything.  I’m relying on my instincts so much more than I ever have before.  So, rather than decide what this day meant to me and how I should mark it, I decided to just let myself feel my way through. 

I started off with a major meltdown the night before, while reading the beautiful card he wrote me and watching the video footage of our wedding. It wasn’t intentional, but a good few hours of crying and I think I got most of my tears out – meaning the actual anniversary ended up being a much calmer affair.

I spent the day with my sister, who was my maid of honour and has been by my side every step of this difficult journey. We went to the cemetery in the morning before getting massages at a day spa and then met up with my best friend (who was my other bridesmaid) for lunch. The afternoon was spent curled up in bed, where we watched trashy tv, ate chocolate and drank cup of tea, after cup of tea.

There was lots of reminiscing about that beautiful day – so many happy memories that deserved to be aired.  Both my sister and my friend miss Dan too and, having played an important role in our wedding and our lives, they are also going through their own, different grieving process.  

So, overall, it was a very difficult day but I got through it, with a heavy heart.  It was cruel, agonising, complicated and exhausting, just like grief.  I'm glad I managed to go out and do something nice, I know Dan would have been pleased about that too. Like many milestones, the lead up was more painful than the event itself, but that doesn’t take away from the overwhelming task of reaching and passing them.  

I miss my husband with every fiber of my being. I ache for the life we should be living and will never be ‘ok’ with the fact that he was taken from me so soon, in such tragic circumstances. 

But, I will be forever grateful for our wedding day. Despite suffering with his depression on and off over the months leading up, he was truly happy on that day.  I look at the photos of his wide, cheeky grin and listen to his wedding speech about how he realized he had found his ‘home’ when he met me, and that is so, so precious to me. I'm thankful that we had that special day with everyone we loved.  It was a beautiful day - the best day - my favourite day.  

Conversation

 

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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.