Been A Long Time Gone

Well, I got through it—the second anniversary of my husband’s death. I don’t know why, but it feels in some ways like I’ve lived the longer part of my life since he’s been gone. So much has happened, so many things to learn about myself and my place in this world. I’m still working on that one; I’m still not sure where I belong in life, but I think that’s par for the course for someone who’s only been widowed for a couple of years. I’m not too worried about it though, because I think this exactly is where I’m supposed to be at this stage.

Naturally, I’ve been thinking about Will a lot. I was listening to the classic country station on cable one night when our wedding song came on; but instead of crying, I felt a sweet sensation wash over me, and I could almost sense his presence in the room. I imagined myself caressing his handsome face and running my fingers through his thick hair. I remembered his smell, a slightly musky scent with a generous splash of Old Spice. I saw once again his big hands with their work-roughened palms and gnarled veins that I used to joke about trying to get an IV in. I thought of us, newlyweds at ages 29 and 21, and how we had NO idea of what life was going to be like as a married couple. We didn’t know that one day we’d have children and jobs and money troubles. We couldn’t foresee that I would go on to develop the mental illness that cost us so much in the long run. And we never imagined that three and a half decades later we’d have to say good-bye, long before either of us was ready.

All of which served to remind me of how much I’ve lost and how much I miss him. The night of July 12th was the worst; it was the night he suffered so terribly and it took what seemed like an eternity to get him the pain relief he needed so desperately. I will never forget his screams or the question which had no answer: “Why do I have to suffer like this?” As a medical professional, I have the technical knowledge to understand that one or more of his tumors probably exploded that night, causing massive internal bleeding and the agony that turned him inside out, but as a loving wife it doesn’t comfort me much. I still wonder sometimes if there was something more we could have done for him at home…but in my heart of hearts, I know that battle was over before it began.

In a few ways, reliving it makes it seem like it happened only last week. But I’ve gotten used to Will not being here, and it feels—shall I say it?—normal. I’m used to making my own coffee in the morning, although my son Ethan made it for me on a couple of recent occasions. I’m used to looking over at Will’s chair and not seeing him there in his bright orange T-shirt and blue plaid pajama pants (usually with a puppy or two). His voice, alas, is fading from my memory, although I can still recall his cackling when something really funny happened. I haven’t even watched Pawn Stars since he passed, and we used to watch it almost every day. I wonder if he’s run into The Old Man yet.

So I got through the 12th and the 13th, feeling anxious and tearful but not depressed, and now I’m OK again. Those days will always be difficult, but I’ve accepted that. I went out and had a great weekend celebrating Ethan’s 27th birthday, and today everything is business as usual. I’ve been sleeping well (more on that in the next post), I’m smiling and laughing, and life is being kind for the most part.

I think this is what healing looks like.