63rd day

It has been 63 days. I find myself oftentimes in complete disbelief, as if I am still living that movie that I was so convinced of in the first few days. When I don't know his grandma's phone number, I think "Oh, I'll just ask Mike the next time we talk." When there is a box too big to carry to the storage unit, I think about waiting until he comes back to move it. In my saddest moments, I wish I would hear him pop up on Skype to comfort me.

In 63 days, I tragically lost my husband and my future with him. I traveled across the country to retrieve his body in Dover and attend his memorial service in Kansas. I have accepted the flag at his funeral. I have kept my composure at a wedding. I have moved from my home away from family. I have moved to a new home closer to friends. I have struggled at work taking care of others while questioning why my husband was not as lucky as these people. I have talked to counselors, pastors, fellow widows, and an online community I never thought I would need to join. I have gone through some of my husband's remaining personal effects, and avoided going through others. I am muddling through, and most days I think I can make it. Some days I do not.

I think the phrase "heartbroken" is used far too much, too flippantly. Until you feel like your chest was cracked open, it has not happened. Someone took a surgical saw and just cut right down the middle. I do not feel like my heart was actually removed, but that it is open to the elements. Any piece of dust that may land in my chest causes a physical and emotional reverberation throughout my body. Each piece of dust is some emotion that has taken on totally new meaning. For me, it is mostly fear. Fear of what my husband experienced, and what and if he is experiencing anything now. Fear for my own future. Fear is then translated into nausea, panic, pain. It's a pain that surprises me that I can live through. It brings me to my knees so that I cannot breathe. And I cry, and it passes. And it comes again, sometimes immediately, sometimes in a couple days. And I know as more time elapses, these will happen less. But every widow has warned me, they never completely stop. Even after a lifetime, it never goes away.

I guess that is a testament to how much one can really love another person. Whether they can continue their life for that person, to honor that person. To be able to live through having their heart fully exposed with no anesthesia, having to have a full recollection of something you do not want to remember. I know my husband would want me to feel true joy again, and in time I hope I get there. I have the needle and thread in my hands, so I guess now it is a matter of learning to sew oneself together again.