It’s been two years, eight months, and fourteen days since my husband passed away from this Earth. I get “the look” quite often, when friends and family realize the Earthly time table that he has been gone, and that I am “still” mourning, grieving, and missing him tremendously. The look, but no verbal acknowledgement that, “Really, it’s been almost three years, and you are STILL grieving this hard. Come on, you have to move on.”
I get it: the look. Quite honestly, I have given the look, and thought the same thoughts when others have lost their loved ones, before I lost Joe. The time table on Earth does indeed lull the pain, take the edge of the gripping sharpness that left me gasping for air in those first days. “That” is what others do not get though–I didn’t want it to get easier, I didn’t want the pain to dull, and I certainly did not want others to ever forget the fight, the legacy, the character of my husband, my best friend, but most importantly the father of my son.
In months that passed after Joe died, friends, colleagues, family would ask how I was doing. Although life appeared to be moving on, as I went back to work, continued working on my Master’s Degree, and continued being a mom to our infant son, the inevitable choking lump would rise to the top of my throat and the tears would burn the brim of my eyes. I attempted to smile, and just nod my head. I wasn’t okay. I appeared to be, because life required me to to continue to be a functioning member of society. I didn’t get to stop working, or stop being a mom that cared for our son. Had I chose the latter, no one in society would have given me the excuse that I was “just grieving.” Everyone would have told me to get a grip, and continue on in life. I still did things with our son, and still lived, making conscious decisions every day to get out of bed, and still have a life full of memories for our son. It wasn’t easy, it still isn’t, but I refuse to allow sorrow to navigate our lives.
I guess I was afraid that if things started getting easier, less painful–yet still hurting–I would love him less. I felt like as time passed, others would think I cared less, forgot about our love, journey, and the road that led to where I was. Quite frankly, I didn’t, DON’T want to love him less, or forget about the man he was. I certainly never want to forget what a wonderful dad he was, because there is a little boy that only got to experience fourteen months of him being a dad. He deserves to still know the Daddy he has, the memories, excitement, and character of who his Daddy is. After all children on Earth get to experience that every day, I refuse to allow our son to be devoid of that, on top of not having his Daddy here every day.
I read other’s encounters through blogs, books, testimonies that although time dulled the intense amount of pain, you don’t love them less. You just learn to deal with the pain better; that it is more manageable. They are right, though I didn’t want them to be either. I wanted to stay there–that painful place that allowed me to feel the loss so significantly, because…. well, just because. Time did not allow it though. Time only allowed me to realize I’ll always love him, and that I can still be happy, and continue on in life. Time did not promise me moments that I would still cry, still miss him beyond any words, it just promised me to allow me to breathe during those times it still hurt. And somehow, some way, I think Joe made it known he wouldn’t dare let me camp out and feel sorry for myself, or our son. He made me keep going, evident by the opportunities and people he has set along my path.
It may sound weird to some, but when you are walking the never-ending journey of grief, you get “it.” You get that others do, in fact, talk about your loved one less, you do realize that your life is moving on without them–and that hurts. Others see this as a good thing, that it is healthy. But I didn’t want this life without him. I didn’t want our son’s life without his dad here to raise him. Although I know that Joe would, and does, want me to continue to live life to the very maximum, every moment I think of him. I think of his half-crooked smile he would have as our son tries to power his four-wheeler up our driveway. I think of the quiet giggle he would have as Porter begins dancing to his own beat in the middle of a restaurant, not a care in the world at what other’s might think of him. That lump in my throat continues as I think about the lessons in life he will miss out on teaching our son which tools go with what jobs, knowing that my half-attempt at researching all of these things just are not the same.
Those that are grieving: one day it will hurt a little less. I am almost three years out, and it certainly does hurt less than those first months, days, year without him. I don’t love him less. I still think about him every day. And I still talk about him every day. For those that don’t understand, have grace for those that are hurting. We didn’t get a manual on how to navigate the grief that consumes our heart–in the bad, and even in the good. We just miss them, and are doing our best to get through without them.