617 Days and Counting

I reached another widow milestone this week: on Thursday Dan had been dead for 617 days. The same number of days that I was blessed to have him in my life.  One year, eight months, two weeks and four days. That's all the time we had together.  

I'd been dreading this moment for months. For some reason, I even have a countdown app on my phone, so I could watch the days ticking down.  You know, just because I seem to enjoy torturing myself!  As the days ticked over; 612; 613; 614; the anxiety and dread intensified.  

I couldn't bear the thought of being his widow longer than I had known him.  I didn't want to be that far away from our last kiss.  We were only married for 45 days before he died, so the milestone of 'being his widow longer than I was his wife' passed very quickly, when I was still in deep shock.  So I had held this 617 day mark as a point in time, down the track, when surely life would be easier and the pain wouldn't be so bad.  I guess that probably is the case, but it's harder to see when you're in the midst of it.

As is common with these milestones, the actual day itself wasn't as bad as the lead up had been. I cried myself to sleep the night before, but woke up on Thursday feeling... well, normal.  To my surprise, it was just another day.  He was still dead.  It still royally sucked. But his love was still all around me.  

I got up, went to work, and managed not to do that weird thing where you blurt out to people that your husband is dead or that it's a difficult milestone day (especially one that someone not familiar with grief would never understand!). 

But, I missed him.  Oh, how I missed him.  Lately, I find myself thinking of him every moment of every day.  How much he would have laughed at something on tv; how he'd have enjoy a meal I'd cooked; the way he'd carry on, circling pictures of the Easter eggs he wanted in the shopping catalogues that he loved pouring through.  Every time he pops in to my mind I whisper quietly 'I miss you' and clench my hand, as if I was wrapping it around his.  Yep, I miss him a lot at the moment. 

And now I'm in the middle of the Easter long weekend with my family, who are awesome, and all I can think about is how much I wish he were here.  One moment I'm laughing at memories of him (like the year we spoilt each other with chocolate eggs and then, in a moment of weakness, decided we should give them all away and be committed to getting healthy for our pending wedding... before turning up at my sister's house the following day and admitting we'd made a mistake and wanted them all back!).  And the next moment I'm wiping away tears because such a big part of me is missing. 

He made every day fun and special. His laugh was infectious and his hugs were second to none. I miss my husband.  I will continue to miss him, regardless of how much time passes and how long I'm his widow. Because those 617 days we spent together changed my life and made my heart sing and I will always wish that we'd had the lifetime together that we'd planned.  Death sucks. 

Saudade ... the Love that Remains

The polaroid we are holding in this photo, at our wedding, now sits in my bedroom. A snapshot in time from a beautiful, joy-filled day that perfectly defines my saudade.

The absence of my husband has been a very physical sensation over the past few days.  It's as if my body is aware on a cellular level that his isn't here any more. I've been longing to be near him.

I'm not talking about sex, it's that so-hard-to-describe feeling that would come over me when I was in his presence. Like a mixture of safety, calm, tingling with excitement that he was mine, feeling confident and accepted. It was like being home.

Even when he hasn't been on my mind this week, I've noticed that my arms have been yearning to hold him and my head really wants to rest on his chest. My ears are straining to hear his laugh and my eyes are missing seeing him walk in to the room.

My fingers are stretching out to his hand that is no longer here to hold. As I wander around our house I find myself running my finger tips over his things, like I'm sub-consciously trying to connect with the items that he used to touch.  

Walking down our staircase my mind drifts to all the times I followed him up and down it.  The day we moved into our home when, while carrying furniture upstairs with my brother-in-law, they put a couple of dints in the wall. I touch these marks now and still overheard Dan say 'don't worry mate, I'll tell her in was my fault.' He was my person and I couldn't be annoyed with him. Also, I was just too happy to be starting our life together in our new home to care about the damage. 

I think about that very last time he walked down the stairs and into our kitchen where I was making his breakfast, waiting to say goodbye as he left for work. I try again, for the millionth time, to get in to his head that morning and my heart cries out 'why didn't you talk to me. Please come home.'

I haven't had this particular 'physical ache' type of missing him for a long time. I felt like this constantly in the first year but more recently, the missing him has been one of the many other variations - missing having my life partner / companion / team mate; missing the life we were supposed to be living right now, the child we were planning on welcoming in to our happy life; missing that person who I could completely let my walls down with, who embraced and adored every last flaw.

Again, I'm reminded how complicated grief is and marvel that it still has the ability to catch me unaware when it manifests in a different way.  Usually, just as I've started to get comfortable with it.

One of the ladies in my on-line support group here in Australia recently introduced me to the term 'saudade'.  There is no English equivalent to this Portuguese word, however loosely translated it describes a melancholic incompleteness or nostalgic longing for something or someone who is absent.

It's the repressed knowledge that the much-loved object of longing may never return - whether it be a homeland far away, a happy moment in time that can never be relived, a lost lover, or a family member who has died.

Saudade has also been described as the love that remains after someone is gone. The recollection of feelings, experiences, places or events that once brought excitement, happiness and a sense of well-being, but which now trigger a sense of emptiness. That feeling when someone who should be there in a particular moment is missing. 

It brings together 'sad' and 'happy'. Sadness for the sense of what is missing and happiness for having known the experience in the first place.  

I like this word, for I feel like it sees my soul and says 'I know'.  

Today, I'm pausing and sitting in this moment. 

Today, I saudade my husband.

Facing My Second Christmas Holiday Without Him

A friend called me yesterday to talk about plans for New Years Eve.  She had previously mentioned the idea of renting a house at the beach and getting a few people together for a fun night in.  While I had been quite keen to join them when we first spoke about it, I found myself feeling more and more reluctant as the conversation went on.

For a start, the house will have three bedrooms, all of which she had allocated to the three couples.  When I asked about my sleeping arrangements she suggested I bring along a blow up mattress and crash on the lounge-room floor.

Now, I'm not a princess.  Sleeping on the floor doesn't bother me and I've done it plenty of times before.  But this time I found myself feeling really upset at the idea.  As soon as we hung up the phone I burst in to tears and it hit me that I would be facing my second 'new year' alone and without Dan.  

I wasn't hurt by my friend or her plans, but I realised I was upset about the idea of not having a bedroom because it would mean that I wouldn't have access to a private 'safe place' if the grief roller-coaster took a steep dip during the event. 

I tried looking in to hiring my own hotel room nearby, so I could retreat if and when I needed - but everything was either booked out or had a minimum 4-night stay that would be way out of my budget.  

I thought about driving up to the beach in the afternoon and not drinking, so I could drive myself home when I wanted instead of staying for the night.  But I don't want to do that either.  

In fact, within about five minutes of hanging up the phone I felt myself going in to self-preservation mode.  I was flat out ready to hide from not only New Years Eve (I have invitations from other groups of friends that I could take up) but all holiday-related social events over the coming weeks.  

Instead, I decided, I would stay home alone and go to bed early that night, hide under the blankets with the cat and let 2015 crawl in unannounced.  And there it was again.  Dan was dead and I was on my own. 

It's so easy to miss him.  Even when the grief isn't the biggest thing in my life and I'm in some kind of place of peace about his death, the 'missing him' is there.  The happiest of moments can crystallise his absence and remind me of what he's missing.  What I'm missing. The smallest or most obvious thing can set me off at the most unexpected times.  

I can be sailing along in calm seas, feeling ok, planning my Christmas holiday... then suddenly realise that at midnight on New Years Eve I will have to stand there awkwardly while everyone else around me turns to embrace and kiss their partners. It was a classic light bulb moment.  I mean, Dan isn't going to be here for the holidays - how had I not thought of this already!?  

Then came the realisation of everything else he would miss out on this Christmas.  When I make the trip to Sydney to see his family next weekend, his absence will be incredible.  I can't wake up in his arms on Christmas morning and make him wear a silly matching Christmas-themed accessory with me. I won't be able to find the perfect present to make his eyes light up and bring on that gorgeous, excited grin that used to flip my stomach. 

He is gone and it sucks.  So today has been a teary day while I cry for the fact that my husband is dead and won't be home for Christmas.  When I'm ready and the sadness has been vented enough, I will get back up, brush myself up, and take another step forward into this widowed life without him. 

A Dangerous Indulgence

Waiting to board the plane for our first holiday together in May 2012. Dan was so excited, like a big kid. He made every day so fun.  I really miss that. 

I’ve been really missing my husband this week.  I miss him every week, of course, but this week his absence has been palpable.  I’m not sure why, maybe it’s because I’ve been spending a bit of time helping a friend who has a new born baby, which is a sensitive issue for me. Maybe it’s because yesterday marked the 15-month anniversary. Maybe it’s just the grief rollercoaster swinging me through a new bend or dip.  Whatever it is, it sucks.

I’ve been waking up in the morning and finding myself just laying there, staring at his pillow and resting my arm on his side of the bed, knowing I’d be hugging him if he were still there. 

I’ve been feeling that urge to call or text him throughout the day with the tid bits of information about what I’m up to that would be mundane to most other people in my life but fascinating to him.  I’ve been clenching my fist as I walk through the city to work, wishing he was beside me and I could tighten my grip around the comfort of his hand in mine.

At night our house has felt quieter than usual.  The emptiness has been bigger. When I look at the photos of him scattered all around our home, I’m less able to smile at the beautiful memories we shared and instead have found my thoughts wandering towards his depression.  Imagining what dark whispers might have been lurking in the corners of his mind, tormenting him. 

I’ve been day dreaming about what life would be like if he were still here.  This is always dangerous territory for me; it’s an indulgence that I don’t often dare allow myself. To start with it’s such a sweet sensation. When I let go and imagine the life we could be living, it fills me with warmth and love.  We had a very fun, kind and playful relationship. Dan would make even the most mundane and boring chores a delight. 

When I think about how dramatically different my life would be if he were still here (and his depression had magically never existed), how I’d be spending these lonely nights, the adventures we’d be getting up to on our weekends, the face of the child we could be raising, with Dan’s bright blue eyes and round cheeks - well it’s so wonderful that it’s almost unbearable.  Because when I come crashing back down to reality and this dream is replaced with the severity of my new life.  It’s nothing less than torture.

I’m overwhelmed with how unfair this world is.  Everything around me seems so bleak and inadequate.  Trying to look for positives or find things to be grateful for is just impossible – all I want is Dan. 

I want the life we should be living together and I want my innocence back and I don’t understand a world where this could be taken from me. I don’t understand why such horrible things can happen to good people.  I miss him.  And I’m so sick of these words because they just feel so inadequate to explain how deeply I ache for him.

I understand my grief well enough now, that when this low sets in, I instinctively go in to self-preservation mode.  I pull back, tread lightly, and reach out to my support network when I can.  I remind myself that I'm stronger than I know.  This agony will lift again. I know Dan would be so proud of me for surviving without him.  I just wish I didn't have to.  I wish he was still here.  I wish I didn't know this pain - I wish no one did.  Death sucks. 

I miss you

Love notes from my husband - 'I missed you so much today, I love you too much!'

Sometimes the English language feels so inadequate.  I can’t count the number of times I’ve said ‘I miss him’ in the past 11 months since my husband passed away.  But each time I say it, I find myself thinking that these three words just aren’t enough to fully capture the ache that is tearing at my body, mind and soul.

‘I miss you’ was a common phrase in our relationship.  A term of endearment almost, up there with ‘I love you’.  As our courtship blossomed we quickly grew from two private, independent people, content in our own company, to love-struck sweethearts who felt incomplete when we were apart. 

I recall a couple of months in, when we’d planned on having a night apart to catch up on laundry and sleep.  We text on and off throughout the evening until around 9pm when he finally called and said ‘would it be ok if I came over… I miss you.’ My heart sung – he missed me and I missed him too.  We would say it to each other during the day while at work or when one of us ducked out to get groceries or were off spending time with our friends.  He wrote it on love notes that he left on my bathroom mirror (pictured) and I wrote it back in the notes that I hid in his lunchbox that I lovingly packed him each morning. 

We both had jobs that required occasional overnight travel and the evenings apart were difficult for both of us.  I hated falling asleep without the comfort and security of his steady breathing in bed next to me and often stayed up way too late texting or video-calling him.

One of the few things I remember about the day Dan died was laying in our bed that night, staring at the ceiling with my heart racing and my head spinning.  I was thinking: I miss him when we’re apart for more than 30 minutes – how am I physically going to survive never, ever seeing him again for the entire rest of my life? 

I actually didn’t think it would be possible.  Surely, I would die of a broken heart.  I couldn’t imagine anything more painful than a life without him in it.  And I couldn’t understand how his depression took him from me, when he loved me SO much.  He knew I was hopeless without him, yet the power of his disease was enough to cloud that from his mind.

Now, here I sit, 332 days since I hugged and kissed him goodbye that morning, when he left for work and never came back.  The sadness in my heavy heart hasn’t been enough to make it stop beating, but some days I wish it had.  The physical ache for him is almost magnetic – I feel like I’m being pulled out of my own body with the urge to reach out and touch his face or fall into his arms, almost as if my heart senses that he’s standing two metres in front of me but I just can’t see him.

When I’m having a bad day and try to explain to people what I’m feeling, the words ‘I miss him’ just don’t seem enough.  They sound simplistic, light and easy whereas the grief is suffocating and weighing me down like a dozen wet wooly blankets.

I hate that these three words that captured my love for my husband in such a sweet and affectionate way, now feel like a sentence that I will carry with me until the day I die.  What were romantic lyrics between sweethearts are now forever laced with the pain of his death.

I still, subconsciously, say it to Dan daily. I whisper 'I miss you' to his empty pillow every morning; it’s on my breath as I walk through the busy city streets; I close my eyes and hear it run through my head when I'm sitting with friends, feeling totally alone; I cry it out loud to our empty bedroom as the tears fall each night.

I know from speaking to other widows and reading grief books that the pain will eventually soften as I heal.  But I also know I will never stop missing him.  Part of me doesn’t want to – I want to cling to the pain, because it assures me that our love is still real and he’s not slipping away.  I don’t understand this grief and have to continuously remind myself that I can’t plan for it.  I can only wait.  Wait for the day where the pain of losing him is less than the happiness from knowing him. While this seems impossible to me now, I have to cling to the hope that this day will come for me eventually. 

Too busy

I have report cards due in the next few weeks. 
Work is hectic as we finish up assessing where the kids are at. 
Home is stressful as my own kids finish off assessments that their teacher need to assess (but DON'T get me started on teachers who allow assessments to be done at home in primary school and just how many parent's are earning their kids' grades).

I am busy pretty much all of the time right now.

....and while I am not stressed (at this stage), I am also so busy that I have not had any time to just sit and miss him.

I feel distant from him, when I had been feeling like he was so connected to us that I could almost feel him next to me.  I had been just starting conversations with him when I was alone, feeling like it was not a one-sided thing.

....and I need to get that feeling back before I crash and burn later....

I need to remind myself that I was (am) loved by the most remarkable man. 
A man who I trusted with my heart and soul. 
A man whose love for me was bigger than anything I can imagine.

So on the weekend, I will make a time between marking report cards and cleaning the house where I can go outside, sit in the sunshine and just be with my memories of Greg.
Where I can feel his hand on my shoulder and his whisper in my ear and remind myself that I am still loved.

No coincidence

I am having one of those days where the very idea that he is dead and never coming back is unbearable. 
I want to crawl out of my own skin. 

I can neither comprehend or entertain the thought that  I will never again look across a room to be met with blue eyes and a smile that said "I see you, I love you .... and I know what you are thinking".

Maybe it is because  the weather is miserable and I spent a great deal of the early hours of today worrying about the rainwater seeping in to my garage again and dreading the monumental task of sweeping it out time and again.

Maybe it is because I am on holidays and I am sick and feel like my own grandmother.

Maybe its because I tried looking at an online dating site again and came to the conclusion that the particular combination of brains and sense of humour I am looking for does not exist. 

Maybe its the after effects of last Friday's meeting where a monetary value was placed on his life.  On his worth.

.... I just really miss him tonight.



...and then just like that.
Right this second. 
Just as I wrote the above words, an e-mail came through....

My best girlfriend, bridesmaid and almost-sister sent through some photos taken in 2006 of my beautiful boy playing with the kids at a party for her son.
I have four new (old)  photos of my love with my loves.

I feel like I've just looked across the room and got that nod that says "I see you, I love you .... and I know what you need right now".


...and I know that this is no coincidence.