Today is October 7th. It is 8 months and one day. I started this blog about a week ago. Typically, I ICE it (Thank you, Mrs. Polles,
Theme class, RHS) for 24 hours. However,
in the midst of this, a fellow colleague and friend lost her life, leaving behind
5 children and a loving husband. I know
the indescribable feelings he is experiencing.
I had to take a minute…and so, this is a little delayed. Yet, here we are at 8 months and ONE day…each
ONE more day is a triumph in my world, so I think this blog is landing on the
exact date it should.
This is why I keep writing…why I keep telling my story. Maybe, I can help someone else. Even if this isn’t your story…maybe these
words or any of the words I have typed since turning 40 will help someone else.
That is my prayer.
And here it is…
I have mentioned it many times if you follow me on
FB...Oprah’s 6 month rule always prevails and works.
I thought I had been lied to by Oprah—On August 6th,
2016, it had been “officially” 6 months.
I should have been able to look at my life and see that things were
different –that my perspective had changed since that fucking awful day in
February.
I recently looked back, played back that day in my
mind. I was telling the story to a
friend, and I had to really look backward, think carefully. The moments leading up to knowing that he was
gone had been buried deep -
Hold
on.
The
prettiest, most amazing smile just walked in the room with her
kindle
watching Caillou.
#reallife
As I was saying –those moments before I knew he was gone had
been buried—tucked away. But, as I
spoke about it, I had to recall. I had
to replay driving 80 plus miles an hour to the valley with my amazing friend
Dawn (whom I know had the most difficult role—to not let me know what was
happening…thank you, Dawn, for protecting my heart a little longer that day),
driving down Route 7 thorough a million vehicles and helpers (which I wasn’t
ready to acknowledge that they could be related to Tim), and I had to replay
that moment I jumped out of the car, ran to Shayna, took her hands, only to
hear the words, “he’s gone.” I can still
feel the screaming coming from my throat, as I ran to the fence in the backyard
of Donnie’s house. Thinking about it
now, as I type, with tears streaming down my face …tears matched with the
soundtrack of a whiny little boy on a cartoon in the background, I think about
that scream. I can still hear me,
shouting, “You fucking asshole. How dare
you leave us.” I can still hear me say
it. I still call him that around the
house from time to time…although…
Less.
The 6 months that landed on August 6th didn’t
really land, they didn’t collide with this whole new shift, and they didn’t suddenly
awaken me. They passed by me without a
word or even a pause. In fact, I didn’t
even know the “milestone” had come or gone.
Non-descript. Not
even a whisper.
Yet, here I am embarking on month 8. I heard recently that it takes a year to
“clean up” the mess. I would agree. I am still dealing with paperwork and
financial pieces. I am still surrounded
by a mess…that he left behind. His
clothes are still in his closet (yes, I know I can make something…), his tools
are still hung, that damn carpet is STILL in the basement (oh yes…), and the
photos are still everywhere…although…
Less.
There are some dents.
I navigated through an entire TO DO pile yesterday, creating a much
smaller TO DO pile. I have given away
some of his clothes to family and friends (I also wear his t-shirts all the
time—even the damn Bobcat and Johnny Cash).
I cleaned out some of his tool drawer, and I moved a few photos. This might be shocking, but seeing the two of
us everywhere was beginning to take its toll on me. …and the wedding pics and happy Put In Bay
trips were just keeping me frozen. So, I
move one of them, and I replace it with one of Maris or Maris and I. It helps…because then I cry…
Less.
It’s a few days later, and I am sitting in the family
room. I decorated a little for Fall
yesterday, and I turned on the fire. I
sat by this fire night after night last winter, choking down tears and wine for
dinner, listening to my iPod all night, and talking on the phone to anyone who
was awake. Night after night I would be
awake until 3 and 4 in the morning. I
would cry and cry. Now when I look at
the fire on this chilly Monday morning, I think about the next 6 months.
In March…
I am suddenly aware that I am in this bizarre parallel
universe that carries me into two worlds…one that is in the past and one that
is in the present. I’m not quite ready
for the future.
Each day, I walk these two lines, hopping back and forth,
back and forth. I don’t know how to
grieve, and I don’t know how to stop. I
don’t know where to tuck 18 years of life.
A marriage isn’t a piece of paper that you fold and put into a box. It is a relationship made of a million little
moments. No box could ever hold them,
and I don’t want one to. So, I am
surrounded by these moments. It’s like
walking through a tunnel filled with dandelion fuzzies…I can’t see in, and I
can’t see out.
Yet, when I hop to the other line, the tunnel collapses, and
I am just here in the new moments. The
moments without him. The moments with me
and a fire. The moments with me and that
crazy little 4 year old. The moments
with family and friends. The moments
cooking in a kitchen where the music is loud…so loud that I cannot hear my
memories. The moments where I lie in bed
at night staring at social media, wondering why everyone looks so happy. The moments where Maris feels happy…The
moments where I feel happy. And there
are moments where I FEEL happy.
I am pissed. As I
head into month 8, I am pissed. Pissed
as hell. I want to scream like I did
that day when I heard those words. But,
I can’t. I am in a new place now. I am tip toeing into the now and …the
tomorrow. I don’t want to look back and
say…where did all the time go? I don’t
want to tell Maris that I am sorry that Mommy “went away.” I have to keep tiptoeing on this new path,
even as I stumble onto the old one over and over every day…although...
Less.
