Month: October 2022

When I was younger, my mother told me how her father’s brother had been killed in World War II. My grandfather had also been in that war, but he had survived. Their mother, my great-grandmother, went into mourning when her son died. From that point on, she wore long black dresses and she never cut her hair again. This was her way of grieving for her son who had died. It’s understandable that she went into a mourning period as everyone who loses a loved one does. What wasn’t rational to me though is that she remained in that same mourning period for the rest of her life, which was another 45 or so years.

I only met that great-grandmother a few times in my life. I can remember feeling her sadness every time I did see her. I didn’t understand that sadness when I was younger, but I definitely understand it now. Her heart was broken into a million little pieces when her son died and she didn’t know how to put it back together again. Maybe she thought it couldn’t, or shouldn’t, be done.

Over the years I thought about my great-grandmother and how her life must have been living in that perpetual state of mourning. How did she have the mental and emotional strength to get up out of bed each and every morning all those years when she was so full of sadness and grief? Did she ever laugh or smile again? Did she ever again have any moments where happiness took the place of her sadness, if only for a brief time? Did anything at all bring her anything that resembled joy anymore?

I’m not sure if she ever experienced any of the things above again, but I do know that she stayed in that state of mourning for the rest of her life. She unpacked her bags of grief over her son’s death and she lived there till the day she died herself. That breaks my heart because so much of her life was spent in that dark and lonely place. Her life could have been so much different had she never unpacked those bags, or at least packed them back up again after they had served their purpose. But, she did neither of those things.

My great-grandmother robbed herself of living her life because the life she was living was only for someone who was dead. Not only did she rob herself, but she also robbed the people around her…..her family, her friends, and any others who she crossed paths with. They were all the losers in it because no one wins when you remain in that place of sadness and grief.

How different would her life had been had she not permanently unpacked those bags of grief? What great things could she have accomplished had she not stayed there? How would the lives of the people who loved her been different? Would the relationships with those people have been closer and warmer? Would my mother and her children have had a closer relationship with her instead of only seeing her a handful of times throughout our lifetimes?

How different things would have been had she been present for herself and others instead of living every day solely for someone who had died so long ago. To me, it all seems like a terrible tragedy. I’m sure that her son would not have wanted her to live that way. He would have wanted her to be happy and not live a life filled with sorrow over his death.

As the first anniversary of Kenny’s death rolled around a few weeks back, I took a lot of time to reflect on the past year and how the journey through it was. It was literally the worst year of my whole entire life. I have never experienced such raw emotional pain and more often than not, I did not think I would make it through. But…..I did make it through it. I survived it. I came out on the other side of it a much stronger person than I was when I went into it, and for that I am grateful.

I spent that year in my own heavy mourning, much like my great-grandmother did over her son’s death. I came to understand firsthand the pain she felt and it was brutal. Hopelessness, despair, and grief was front and center for me for the entire time. It’s something I would never wish on another living soul. I did a hell of a lot of work on moving through that grief and processing as much of it as I could and it was excruciating. I’m not done with that working through and processing either, and I don’t think I will ever be 100% done with it as you don’t ever really heal completely from your loved ones death. But, I’ve come a long, long way in that year from where I started out at.

The difference between my great-grandmother and me is that I did not unpack and live in that state of mourning. It was only a temporary destination for me while hers was her final destination and it lasted more than 45 years. I refuse to allow her fate to be my fate. I won’t do it. I will break that ancestral cycle. I will live my life for myself, for my children, for my grandchild, and for the other people in my life. I won’t shutter myself away and hide from the world because I’m hurting from Kenny’s death. He wouldn’t want that life for me. He would, he does, want me to be happy. It would break his heart for me to unpack my bags of grief and permanently live there in that state of sadness. I can’t do that, not to myself, or anyone, but especially to him. The best way to honor Kenny’s life is to live my own life for me and to not remain permanently in that dark place that my great-grandmother did for the rest of her life. I won’t die a long, slow death from a broken heart like she did. I’m choosing to live instead.

Yesterday was one year since Kenny died. One whole, entire year. That year went by faster than the blink of an eye. The days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months. There’s a good bit of that time that I have no memory of. I guess that’s because of the trauma experienced from his death and my brain won’t let me remember a lot of it. That might not be a bad thing honestly. That year also creeped by painfully slow. At times it was like waiting an eternity for the hand on the clock to tick to the next second. The sound of those slow ticks echoed inside my head with a deafening loudness that would drive even the most mentally sound person insane.

I’ve learned a great deal about myself, other people, life, and pretty much everything else in this past year. The learning from this whole experience isn’t over by any means, and there’s still miles to go in the process, but as the calendar has flipped through the last 12 months I can now look back and see things more as an observer rather than an unwilling participant.

I learned that I’m so much stronger than I ever imagined I was or ever could be. I always thought of myself as a weak person in all ways, but in this last year I’ve grown so much stronger. Becoming a stronger person is never a bad thing, but this certainly isn’t the way I ever wanted that to happen. This is one of those times where being strong is the only real choice there is. The only other alternative is to just lay down and allow all the ugliness you’re going through to wholly and completely consume you. Likewise, you’re either strong, or you die. I don’t think there’s any in-between there. I have to choose to allow the strong to fill the emptiness left behind after Kenny’s death because there’s two adult children and a grandchild who need me here and not over there with Kenny, not just yet.

I learned what a whole new level of emotional pain feels like…..one I have never, ever before felt and one I didn’t think was possible. I learned how grief and trauma can be interwoven into this awful monster you can’t control or banish to the shadows. I learned how that monster can rear its ugly head up without any warning and spiral you back down into the dark pit you just clawed your way out of. I learned just how deep that pit really is. I learned how hard and difficult it is to try and climb out of it each time you fall back down into it.

I learned what true hopelessness and despair feels and looks like and felt every bit of it viscerally. I learned that this very same hopelessness and despair is your own and not everyone can or will understand it, and some refuse to even try to. Those that make that refusal put a timeline on the grief you’re experiencing and expect you to return to your old self after the clock strikes midnight on their schedule of how you should be moving through your grieving process.

I learned that the grief process is definitely NOT linear. You don’t work through the first stage, and then the second, and then the third, and so on. No, it just does not work that way. You absolutely will bounce all over the stages of grief and you have no control over it, none whatsoever. You have no choice but to ride it all out.

I learned just how badly my heart could hurt. Not just for myself, but for my son, my daughter, and my grandson. I learned that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make their hurt go away. Being such an extreme empath I absorb their pain as my own, and it exponentially compounded the pain I was feeling myself.

I learned that some things I thought were important before have no meaning to me anymore. I don’t care about them any longer and I wonder why I ever did before. I’ve let those things go, both mentally and tangibly. On the flip side of that, I’ve learned that some things that weren’t as important to me before are so much more important now. They’ve been moved up into the top positions of the priorities list whereas the ones I prioritized before fell off that list.

I learned how utterly cruel some people can be to you. They know what you’ve been through and what you’ve lost, yet they just take that knife and plunge it deeper and deeper into your soul, cutting away more and more of you with each strike. They do it with malice and without any regard to the suffering of another human being. I’ve worked hard to forgive those people in my heart and to release them from my life. The door is now permanently closed on those relationships. I wish them well…..but over there.

I learned how incredible and selfless some other people can be. They’re the ones who have stood beside me and behind me, holding me up when I couldn’t stand on my own. They didn’t turn away from me at the lowest point in my life, but turned toward me instead. They surrounded me and formed a protective circle around me. They acted as guardians for me, doing their best to shield me from the hurt that others tried to inflict upon me. Some of those people were already there in my life, but some appeared out of the woodwork. God knows who you need, when you need them, and He sends them to you…..all in the divine timing of His choosing.

I learned that it’s okay to ask for help from others when you can’t go at it alone. I learned that it’s not a sign of weakness to ask for that help, but a sign of strength instead because you recognize you need help. I learned that those who truly care will always show up for you, no matter what.

I learned just how precious life itself is and not to take things for granted like I once did before. Nothing in our lives is guaranteed except the fact that we will all die one day. It’s just like the tattoo the waitress had on her arm at dinner the night before Kenny had his cardiac arrest–“Every day is a gift, not a given”.

I learned that sometimes people die so much sooner than you ever expected them to and that “one day” turns into never. I learned the true meaning of the phrase “Woulda, shoulda, coulda” after continuously beating myself up for the things that I/we didn’t do that we said we were going to do but now it’s too late. I learned that I can still do those things, either by myself or with someone else, but they won’t be the same without Kenny there.

I learned that I’m an entirely different person now than I was a year ago. It was a long, slow gradual change, and one I didn’t notice until reflecting back on the year. This past 365 days has been a journey I never wanted to take the first step on. I didn’t take this journey willingly; it was forced upon me. As with any journey you descend upon, you don’t come out of it as the same person you were when you went into it. You are profoundly changed, in every way a person can change. You act different, you think different, you even look different. It’s almost like you shed the skin you had been living in before and emerged as something completely unlike that which you used to be. You’ve undergone a dramatic metamorphosis, inside and out.

I learned that I don’t have to accept the things that people tell me of how life will be; that I can change the outcome of what my future looks like by sheer willpower on my part. The second year after losing my husband won’t be worse than the first one, no matter how many other widows tell me it will be. I can’t even wrap my brain around how that can even be true because I’ve just survived the absolute worst year I’ve ever lived through. I refuse to take ownership of that statement or claim that to be my fate. I will not let that happen. I absolutely refuse to.

I learned that there will be a day sometime in the future where the hurt I feel will soften and the traumatic memories of the events 365 days ago will be overtaken by the happier memories of the 35 1/2 years Kenny and I had together. I learned that one day somewhere down the line that I will finally be able to see the light at the end of the tunnel, even if I doubted it existed.

I learned firsthand what the metaphor of the Phoenix bird is…..one that builds its own funeral pyre and as it lays down to die on the wood it bursts into flames and is consumed by the fire. It then rises back up from the ashes after its apparent annihilation to be reborn into a stronger and more beautiful version of its former self. I learned that Kenny’s death was the fire that consumed me and caused the death of the person I was before, but that his death also brought about my own rebirth into a completely different person.

I learned that his death was the storm and that no matter how broken and battered I felt I conquered that storm and survived it. I learned that the saying “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” really is true. I learned that after surviving the last 365 days that I can survive any fucking thing that life throws at me. I learned that before, the fire and the storm was an external force that tried to destroy me but that in that process, I then became both the fire and the storm myself.

I learned that a person who has healed themselves from their own pain makes the best person to help others heal. I learned that Kenny’s death brought me a purpose and that purpose was to lead others through their own journey of healing from their emotional pain. I learned that I can and will help them through that dark process because I’ve been to that place called Hell and I know what it feels like to exist there in all of its horror. I learned that because I’ve been in that Hell and emerged from it as a survivor that I can go back in carrying buckets of water for those who are still consumed by the fire that threatens to destroy them. I know all of this because I learned it for myself in the last 365 days of my life.

Today is that day…..the one I’ve been dreading for the last year. It’s been exactly one year since you died. This day has hung over my head like a noose and I just wanted it to come and go as fast as it could.

This has been the fastest, slowest year I’ve ever lived through. It’s also been the absolute worst one in my life. This past year is the one that completely broke me.

There’s been so many moments in the last year that I thought to myself How can you be gone? You were JUST here. You literally were…..just…..here.

I’ve also had moments in the last year where I forgot you were dead. I would see something that I knew you’d like and want to get it for you but then remember No, I can’t do that. He’s not here.

I’d find a funny meme on Instagram and want to send it to you because you’d laugh at it just as much as I did but then remember…..you’re gone.

I’d wake up in the middle of the night and expect to hear you breathing in the bed next to me and realize your side of the bed was empty.

I’d look out the kitchen window waiting to see your truck pull in the driveway after work and then remember your truck won’t ever be out there again because it’s now in Colorado with our son.

I look at my phone and expect to hear Rock Me Like A Hurricane by The Scorpions playing when you called but realize I’ll never again hear that ringtone because you can’t call me from where you’re at now.

I see peanut M&M’s in the store and think to myself I should grab you a pack of them because you loved them and then remember you won’t be at home for me to give them to you.

I automatically walk down the tool aisle every time I’m at Ross to see if there are any small tool items there you might want and then remember you don’t need any tools anymore.

A year later, I still do and think so many things like I did before because I was always thinking of you in whatever I did.

A few days ago I put a pair of my shoes in the shoe holder in the hallway and saw your work boots sitting there and it hit me right at that exact moment that they’ve been sitting there, untouched by you, for an entire year. That moment felt like the scene in a horror movie where the person is standing at the end of a long hallway that you can’t see the other end of and all of a sudden the hallway gets shorter and comes right up into the person’s face. Even though I’m consciously aware that a whole year has gone by since you died, something about seeing those boots sitting there right at that very moment brought home the realization that an entire year has passed.

I started to cry in the hallway and told our daughter what had just happened and that I wondered if that meant it was time to either give the boots away or put them in the back of the closet. She said that I didn’t have to do either and if I wanted to leave them there then do just that. I said that a part of me wanted to just rip the band-aid off and move them or give them away just so it would be over and done with. I think I’m probably going to move them to the closet now so I don’t have to look at them every day. I think for now that’s the best choice for me.

I look at pictures on the fridge and on my phone every day so the memory of what every part of your face looked like won’t fade from my memory. I watch videos of you on my phone for the same reason as well as being able to hear your voice. I don’t want to ever forget what your voice sounded like or that distinct chuckle we all loved to hear when you laughed. I don’t want to forget anything, not ever.

I want to wrap the memory of every single little thing about you in a carefully protected box that can’t and won’t ever be destroyed. More than that though, I want for you to be back here in the physical form with me, our children, and our grandson, right where you should be, instead of over there, on the other side. I just don’t understand how you can possibly be gone though because you were just here…….you were literally just here.