Always and Forever
*This post may be triggering for some as it talks about the loss of a loved one, at times in great detail. If at any time, you feel you need to talk with someone about a traumatic experience you have gone through, please go to our Resource page for help.*
Eleven years ago today, I became a widow, at 33 years old. You would think that by now, the pain of that loss wouldn’t be so great, but it’s really been hitting me hard lately. I don’t know if the extended time of self-isolation has exaggerated those feelings or if single-parenting is taking it’s toll. It could be the recent death of a former co-worker and close friend that has caused that pain to resurface or a combination of it all. Whatever the cause, I’ve been more emotional and have cried more over losing you than I have in a long time.
Today, I had to drive past several locations that had a different memory with you attached to each of them: the first place we ate BBQ together, the place you proposed, then the funeral home where we held the service for you with Boston’s “Hitch a Ride” playing on repeat in the background. My heart ached a little more with each memory. They were a blatant reminder of the hole you left behind.
It’s times like these that writing with music playing seems to help me get my thoughts and feelings on the page. You know how it goes though, every song that comes on is another reminder that you’re gone. I know I’m supposed to be strong; I have been for so long. So, why now? Why does the pain I feel right now, after all this time, hurt just as bad as it did the day I lost you?
I pulled up some old pictures, just so I could see your face and didn’t realize how few we had until I began searching. We didn’t take many pictures while we were together and even fewer with just the two of us. I regret that now.
These are some of my favorites, the night you were finally able to meet your hero, Tom Scholz of the band Boston.
There were so many great things I experienced for the first time while I was with you: buying our first home together, a trailer in Clearwater, Florida (It has since been torn down and an apartment complex built in it’s place), getting a job as a 9-1-1 operator (one of my dreams), our first boat, racing a new Mustang in our old Grand Marquis and winning, my first cameo (a piece of jewelry I’ve always wanted), purchasing the travel trailer, my first trip to Boston, our engagement and marriage.
We went through a lot too: losing our first residence, probation, staying up all night while you went through withdrawals, cancer, chemo, radiation, surgeries (yours and mine), more hospital stays than I care to remember, the fight with family over my son while we fought for your life….just to lose you in the end.
I’ll never forget that day and the desperation, helplessness, and guilt that I felt. You were a fighter, refusing to give up even after your body started shutting down. I wasn’t that strong…
I wrote this last year for a college writing class, detailing my final hours with you. I haven’t shared it publicly, until now. Though I wasn’t physically alone, I felt like there wasn’t another person anywhere that was able to understand what I was going through at that moment. No one could truly understand the pain unless they had been through it themselves. With that being said, I want to acknowledge my youngest sister who was there with me, and the ICU nurse who came by afterward and cried with me.
