I don't remember when, but early on in his cancer diagnosis I came across this quote. I printed it and hung it on the mirror in my bathroom. Death was something that was on our minds regularly, but talking about it and preparing for it were challenging. We tried... we met with the funeral director to start making plans. But then, well... life happened. Specifically, trying to stay alive. Trying to battle cancer and still have time or energy for other things was tough.
Then this fall again, when he faced death in the face again not once, but twice. In a short time period we again realized how important it was to talk about and make those difficult decisions. While in rehab on evening we spent a a little while talking about what he wanted at his funeral. I jotted things down on a digital post it note and we planned to talk more in detail about things after Christmas. It was a very small list which included songs, pallbearers, speakers and stormtroopers. But having walked away from the edge of death, we thought we had more time. But all we had was five short weeks. I'm very grateful we had those weeks. But those five short weeks were filled with building up the strength to walk again.
In all of the discussions we had over the years, there were many things to talk about. Some of the most difficult were talking about not his death but in talking about me and the life after. For both of us, it was difficult to imagine what that would look like. The thought of me being alone was agonizing for both of us. The possibility of me finding love again and marrying was difficult for either of us to imagine. It was too hard to look past that.
Now here I am on the other side in the reality that we hoped would be many years still away. While there are things that may have helped to make this easier, grief is hard. That doesn't even take into account all of the other seemingly mundane daily tasks that must take place. In a support group I read of a widow who had been very prepared, everything that could be was in place. But she struggled because she wished she had things to do to distract her from the pain of her loss. It really is a situation where you can't win.
Sometimes the difficult things come when you expect it. Such as the necessity of getting in an elevator to leave the hospital the night he passed away. That was excruciatingly difficult. Clutching my pillow and focusing on placing one foot in front of the other as I walked out of the hospital without him. The cold winter air was bitter, and the gut-wrenching feeling as I looked up toward the windows where I knew he was, will forever be a part of me.
But many difficult things come when you least expect it, often with the most mundane of tasks. I wasn't prepared for needing to check out the box for widow when my work had a new payroll system, or the fact that I needed to list an emergency contact other than my sweetheart of the past twenty two years. After years of battling cancer, and picking up prescriptions for him I struggled to think of my birthday instead when picking up a prescription to help me sleep.
How and when to remove someone whose life has been intertwined so beautifully with mine is so difficult and often comes in unpredictable moments. Some days it's hard just to see his name or a photo of him, a sad reminder that he is gone. Other days pictures of him make me smile. We often ordered groceries and fast food on an app, with both of our names listed together. When placing an order at Chick-Fil-A one day, I updated the app because I knew that saying his name to the attendant in the drive through would make me cry. But fast food is one thing and that choice was mine. Often the choice is made for me. I wasn't prepared to login a church app and notice that his name and picture was no longer next to mine in the directory. That was hard.
So, all things considered could we have been more prepared. Yes. But honestly I don't know that you can ever really be ready.
As I sit here and write this however, I'm struck with a profound sense of gratitude. I may not have the brain power to read, but I at least have been blessed with the strength to write. It seems counterintuitive and that writing would also take brain power that I don't have, but somehow it doesn't. While some days I may lack the emotional fortitude to write, the days when I do I often feel better. It's a great opportunity for me pause, reflect, acknowledge and express the changes that have happened and are happening. Tears typically stream down my cheeks, but they at least feel productive instead of just sad. I'm grateful that along the difficult journey of the past years that I've gained a different hobby without even planning on it. I've been given the gift of writing to help me through my pain.
