It's been three months

Today.
It's been three months since you took your last breath and left me behind.

I haven't written here in a while because there is so much going on for me at the moment. It still feels very chaotic, but I also feel calm every now and then.

Calm or numb?
Can't quite tell.

But at all times, I feel your presence around me.
You are with me.

I went back to working full time again.
I find healing in working with my clients, although I wasn't sure I was going to be able to do it.
I want to do it now more than ever.

I feel lonely and sad when I cannot talk to you during the day while I get a moment at my desk.
I look at my phone...hoping it will light up with a text from you.

Ting ting.

I saw your phone last night...sitting there, staring at me.
I picked it up and began looking at your pictures and videos.
Hesitant.
Scared.

There were many videos in there of you and Maya that I hadn't seen
the times you spent with her while she was up odd hours at night
and the times I was away when you forced me to take a break and take care of myself.
You spoke to her all the time, sang to her, snuggled her, showed her things.

She will see these videos a few years from now and get to know her wonderful daddy.

I also found one of the many videos you made for me a few months ago.
and...
I also wish you were home with your love bug right now.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a4FRC9hlDAU
Miss you too babe.
Good night.

Creating a narrative

My friend Sara and I were talking about the blog this past weekend and I was thinking to myself about what I feel when I write and what I decide to share and why. I have read some of my old posts here and they make me cry. They take me back to the emotions I was feeling at the moment as I think about our life.

The life that was.
Our life.

The grief book also talks about creating a detailed  narrative about the loss during the early stages of grief and about how helpful that can be during the journey.

I want to create that narrative.
Not just for me, but for the children as well.

I think Isis and Maya would want to read the narrative in the future to know about these moments, my pain, their pain, our pain, what happened to their father and how it all happened and why it happened.
We are still waiting on the "why" part.

I think the narrative will also be a poignant reminder of what we overcame and how strong we all are as a family and that you are part of that strength too.

I am not sure how much Isis will remember and of course there are certain things around your death that she is not privy to at the moment.

It will be a private narrative. Just for me and our girls.
The girls can decide if they want to share it in future with others.

I have spoken about the details of the events quite a few times now. During the first few weeks after your death, I would share the whole entire story from our last weekend together up until the time of your death with whoever was willing to listen. Looking back, I needed to do that.

I still do that...but only with certain people, and only when I feel comfortable doing it.
And then there are those days when I don't feel like talking about you or what happened.
I just tell people that my husband is dead and that's all there is to it.
I have also realized that I have a special "short version" of the events for strangers and other random people at the bank, doctor's office, or social services agencies.

I plan on creating this narrative sometime this week.
I think one day...way down in the future, I would want to read it. I would want to revisit the pain. The other reason why I want to do it is because I know how memories get tainted as time goes on. Right now, everything that happened all the way up until the paramedics sat me down to tell me that you were dead, is fresh in my mind like it just happened yesterday.

I also remember the first time I saw your body, your memorial service, the time when I was told that you were cremated, and the day I sat alone in that dimly lit room with your ashes in front of me.
The "urn presentation", as they called it.
I remember the words that I said to you.
Words between us that nobody heard.

I remember those days.
I remember those moments very well.
My narrative will hold these memories.

I know this pain will never entirely go away. This wound will heal and leave a big, thick, scar that will stay with me for the rest of my life. The scar will throb every now and then to remind me of you, Jess.

The wound is still raw now.

I miss you so much every single day.
I think about all the things we used to do together, big and small.
Your voice and your laugh...still echo in this house.

I think about all the things that I cannot do with you anymore...all the places I cannot see with you...all the joys I cannot share with you...all the weirdness in the world we can't talk about...all the cool things we cannot admire together...all the things our children cannot experience with you.

I love you Jess.
I love you so much, my cuddle bear.

Good night.

This week

• Cried quite a bit, but mostly at night.
• Read that grief book for more than five minutes in one sitting.
• Actually spoke about to you to strangers and didn't cry, choked up, but continued to have a conversation.
• Cried (bawled) while I spoke to a child therapist on the phone.
• Almost called the 24 hour support line to talk about you and what happened, but couldn't get myself to.
• Teared up when filling out a form because I started to write your name under "Emergency Contact". 
• Learned that I can never write your name down again on that line.
• Identified as a single mother for the first time to a stranger.
• Changed beneficiaries on my bank accounts. You were my beneficiary.
• Every now and then, I used the term "died" instead of "passed away" to see how it feels. It is still painful. I am going to continue to go with "passed away" for now.
• Wondered about how you died. I wondered a lot about that the first few weeks after you were gone, but as days went by, it didn't really matter anymore. You are gone. Nothing is going to change that. But this week, I wondered about what really happened to you. How?
• I realize I am still scared to call the coroner's office to find out.
• Had our first bug encounter at home without you coming to the rescue. There was a spider in Isis' room and we both freaked out and the next five minutes were dramatic with bug sprays and tissues ready in hand to squish the thing, but neither of us could do it. So we settled for carefully taking the jacket outside and throwing it out on the deck so the spider could walk away. Yes, of course Isis said, "Oh no...daddy is not here!"
• Actually dialed your number even though I cancelled the service long time ago. I just wanted to dial your number and I did.
• I am slowly beginning to realize that some days will be better than others and to try and enjoy them if possible.
• I learned, after talking to Mama, that I am going to have to build and get used to a new "normal". The old one was gone along with the last breath you took.
• Maya is growing up so fast.

I am sorry

I haven't written in a while.
Like I was telling Clancy...I feel like I will die from grief if I start talking about you.
I am in some sort of denial stage.
It is all too painful.

But I still have been thinking about you.
Of course. Always.
I look back on our life together and think about all the times I could've done better, been better.
I guess I will be in the guilt stage for a long time?

I am sorry for picking on you when you didn't do things my way.
I am sorry for taking life too seriously, most of the times, and making sure, obsessively at times, that we had all kinds of "plans" in place.

I sure didn't plan for this babe!

I am sorry for the times when I didn't give you all of my attention.
I am sorry for all the nagging about keeping the house clean and for making you clean over the weekends and for griping about the video games.

It was all so bloody trivial.

I am sorry for allowing you to feel like you couldn't burden me with some of the difficulties you were having a few days before you left me.
I wish I could've done something.

I'd give anything to have you back.

Thank you for loving me just the way I am and for loving our life just the way it was.
Our life was good.
Happy.

I miss you Jess.
Just a few minutes ago I walked past your ashes, I paused, I opened the box because I wanted to see you and touch you.
But I had to stop because, again, I felt like I would die from the pain.

I love you, my muffin chicken pot pie.
Yes, I did call him that.
It is what's engraved on his wedding band
that hangs solemnly around my neck.

Maya holds on it every time she nurses.