It's been 6 weeks and a day since the worst day of my life, the day a new reality began. It's funny how you can break my life into different phases: Before Jesse, the golden days of our life together before his diagnosis, managing his disease, and now life as his widow and a single mom. I've returned to work, made feeble attempts at returning to the gym, considering next week returning to church, and trying to find a new normal.
How am I doing? Well, how's anyone doing after the death of their spouse? What makes it even more gut wrenching is how PERFECT we were. I mean, not everybody knows everything about my past and I'm okay with that. Maybe someday I'll write the whole story. My marriage to He Who I Do Not Speak Of was a daily living Hell. I was afraid to go home. He was convinced I had a boyfriend because I was never home. (Though he was also paranoid, under the influence of opioids, and a sociopath) I never cheated on him or anyone, but my only escape was to go for a run. So I always wanted to be at the track running when I wasn't at work. (Damn I looked good from all that running) I wouldn't go back to that life for anything (except the running), but at least I could get away from my pain. Occasionally now I'm distracted from my new reality. And on the surface usually it looks like I'm doing it! But the most random things remind me, my life will never be the same and my heart breaks all over again.
I've had a hard time coming to the words to describe it, even to myself. Wandering off and leaving the kettle on I suppose comes close, but it doesn't fully hit it. I was preparing lunch one day and my dog was bouncing all over thinking it was for her and then I finally found it. I'm preparing food, the dog is getting anxious. I start eating and she gets more frantic. The food is gone and she's desolate. Wasn't that for her? Why didn't she get to have it? There it is. There's my feelings. I'm the frantic dog hopping around trying to get back what I had, trying to find relief. But it's gone, the life I had is gone, and there's no getting it back.
I met with a grief counselor on Thursday and we had a great conversation. I was able to tell my story and talk about my feelings without crying and then she said that the grief of losing your spouse never fully goes away and it reminded me, this is my life now. No matter what happens going forward nothing will change this, nothing will ever fully take it away. That was when I started to cry. I don't want to wallow in it forever... Jesse would want me to be happy, no matter what that looks like, and I made him that promise in his final days. I don't know if that happiness will come in the form of meeting someone someday and falling in love all over again, or dedicating my life only to being a mother, but I did promise him that someday I will be happy.
Anyways I got off course from where I was originally going with that. Knowing what hell I lived before he came into my life makes it so much harder to face the next 50 years without him considering how great I had it for so short a time. We fell 3 months shy of having known each other for 4 years. Not MARRIED for not even 4 years, but only KNOWING each other for a total of 3 years and 9 months. I put the dates into a calculator and found that we were within days of exactly half of the time we knew each other being locked in his cancer battle. That's madness. We crammed a lot into that 3 years and 9 months.. a lot of love, a lot of memories, wonderful trips and amazing friends, a beautiful baby, and those memories will have to be enough to sustain me.
Even in the first 14 months of his battle, he HAD this. He didn't get fully back to baseline; he was a little sillier than before and it was due to brain damage. But he was winning. Until suddenly, he wasn't. From the first relapse symptoms until his passing was 2 days shy of exactly 8 months. The first three or four of those he was able to function reasonably well. Conversation was hard, but he was able to communicate. He was able to still care for me while I was recovering from the C-section and he was amazing with the baby. He was able to play with her, snuggle with her, he took all diaper changes in the beginning, he read to her at bedtime, we took daily walks with her with an equal share in pushing the stroller. He took overnights when she was being stubborn about going down and I was crying in exhaustion. He took care of my crazy emotional ass when PPD made me feel like a failure as a mother and a burden on him. He was fighting what's known as The Beast to other glioblastoma caregivers and still taking care of me and the baby. His strength should NEVER be discounted. The things he was able to do amaze me and make me so proud to have been his wife. The first time I knew he was getting worse was when he wanted to nap rather than taking our walk, and asked me to take over the bedtime book. That was in September, just before my return to work. The change in him from then until just Thanksgiving was remarkable.
I'm still haunted by his face when he took his final breaths. I'm so glad he opened his eyes. I don't know if he could actually see us or if he was too far gone, but I like to believe he could see so many of the people who loved him and telling him it was okay to let go. There is nowhere else I would have been at that moment and was so afraid of him passing when I was not there to hold his hand and say a proper goodbye, but it was without question a turning point and the most difficult moment I've ever experienced. The image of it has been forever burned into my mind. We had Pandora playing in his room on a country channel... the soundtrack to his final night was Rascall Flatts and Lady Antebellum. I finally had to turn it off in favor of the TV because the sadness of it was too much to bear.
I've been reading a couple of books on grief from the perspective of other young widows like me. One such book mentions how much they dislike the phrase "Moving on". You don't move on from losing your spouse the way you do from a breakup. To suggest moving on means that you're over that person. It's different. You can stop loving your ex. There's a reason for that breakup. At least for me, I could never stop loving Jesse. To move forward rather suggests that I still hold Jesse in my heart but have opened it to a new life. I'm a long way removed from that day, and that's okay.
In my old life I prided myself on the nickname I'd picked up of being a Phoenix. The phoenix is a beautiful mythical bird that bursts into flames when it's time for it to die, and is reborn from the ashes. A friend reminded me years ago, beautiful things can be made from ashes; beautiful things like a phoenix. Right now I'm content to stay in my ashes. The battle was hard on me too, and everyone around us. I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge how hard this journey was on his family, too. A lot of people remark about my strength and that is something I'm proud of. But now that the battle is over I am exhausted. Not just physically but emotionally and I need to rest. Some day the phoenix will fly again, but I'm in no hurry.
How am I doing? Well, how's anyone doing after the death of their spouse? What makes it even more gut wrenching is how PERFECT we were. I mean, not everybody knows everything about my past and I'm okay with that. Maybe someday I'll write the whole story. My marriage to He Who I Do Not Speak Of was a daily living Hell. I was afraid to go home. He was convinced I had a boyfriend because I was never home. (Though he was also paranoid, under the influence of opioids, and a sociopath) I never cheated on him or anyone, but my only escape was to go for a run. So I always wanted to be at the track running when I wasn't at work. (Damn I looked good from all that running) I wouldn't go back to that life for anything (except the running), but at least I could get away from my pain. Occasionally now I'm distracted from my new reality. And on the surface usually it looks like I'm doing it! But the most random things remind me, my life will never be the same and my heart breaks all over again.
I've had a hard time coming to the words to describe it, even to myself. Wandering off and leaving the kettle on I suppose comes close, but it doesn't fully hit it. I was preparing lunch one day and my dog was bouncing all over thinking it was for her and then I finally found it. I'm preparing food, the dog is getting anxious. I start eating and she gets more frantic. The food is gone and she's desolate. Wasn't that for her? Why didn't she get to have it? There it is. There's my feelings. I'm the frantic dog hopping around trying to get back what I had, trying to find relief. But it's gone, the life I had is gone, and there's no getting it back.
I met with a grief counselor on Thursday and we had a great conversation. I was able to tell my story and talk about my feelings without crying and then she said that the grief of losing your spouse never fully goes away and it reminded me, this is my life now. No matter what happens going forward nothing will change this, nothing will ever fully take it away. That was when I started to cry. I don't want to wallow in it forever... Jesse would want me to be happy, no matter what that looks like, and I made him that promise in his final days. I don't know if that happiness will come in the form of meeting someone someday and falling in love all over again, or dedicating my life only to being a mother, but I did promise him that someday I will be happy.
Anyways I got off course from where I was originally going with that. Knowing what hell I lived before he came into my life makes it so much harder to face the next 50 years without him considering how great I had it for so short a time. We fell 3 months shy of having known each other for 4 years. Not MARRIED for not even 4 years, but only KNOWING each other for a total of 3 years and 9 months. I put the dates into a calculator and found that we were within days of exactly half of the time we knew each other being locked in his cancer battle. That's madness. We crammed a lot into that 3 years and 9 months.. a lot of love, a lot of memories, wonderful trips and amazing friends, a beautiful baby, and those memories will have to be enough to sustain me.
Even in the first 14 months of his battle, he HAD this. He didn't get fully back to baseline; he was a little sillier than before and it was due to brain damage. But he was winning. Until suddenly, he wasn't. From the first relapse symptoms until his passing was 2 days shy of exactly 8 months. The first three or four of those he was able to function reasonably well. Conversation was hard, but he was able to communicate. He was able to still care for me while I was recovering from the C-section and he was amazing with the baby. He was able to play with her, snuggle with her, he took all diaper changes in the beginning, he read to her at bedtime, we took daily walks with her with an equal share in pushing the stroller. He took overnights when she was being stubborn about going down and I was crying in exhaustion. He took care of my crazy emotional ass when PPD made me feel like a failure as a mother and a burden on him. He was fighting what's known as The Beast to other glioblastoma caregivers and still taking care of me and the baby. His strength should NEVER be discounted. The things he was able to do amaze me and make me so proud to have been his wife. The first time I knew he was getting worse was when he wanted to nap rather than taking our walk, and asked me to take over the bedtime book. That was in September, just before my return to work. The change in him from then until just Thanksgiving was remarkable.
I'm still haunted by his face when he took his final breaths. I'm so glad he opened his eyes. I don't know if he could actually see us or if he was too far gone, but I like to believe he could see so many of the people who loved him and telling him it was okay to let go. There is nowhere else I would have been at that moment and was so afraid of him passing when I was not there to hold his hand and say a proper goodbye, but it was without question a turning point and the most difficult moment I've ever experienced. The image of it has been forever burned into my mind. We had Pandora playing in his room on a country channel... the soundtrack to his final night was Rascall Flatts and Lady Antebellum. I finally had to turn it off in favor of the TV because the sadness of it was too much to bear.
I've been reading a couple of books on grief from the perspective of other young widows like me. One such book mentions how much they dislike the phrase "Moving on". You don't move on from losing your spouse the way you do from a breakup. To suggest moving on means that you're over that person. It's different. You can stop loving your ex. There's a reason for that breakup. At least for me, I could never stop loving Jesse. To move forward rather suggests that I still hold Jesse in my heart but have opened it to a new life. I'm a long way removed from that day, and that's okay.
In my old life I prided myself on the nickname I'd picked up of being a Phoenix. The phoenix is a beautiful mythical bird that bursts into flames when it's time for it to die, and is reborn from the ashes. A friend reminded me years ago, beautiful things can be made from ashes; beautiful things like a phoenix. Right now I'm content to stay in my ashes. The battle was hard on me too, and everyone around us. I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge how hard this journey was on his family, too. A lot of people remark about my strength and that is something I'm proud of. But now that the battle is over I am exhausted. Not just physically but emotionally and I need to rest. Some day the phoenix will fly again, but I'm in no hurry.
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