2+ weeks to go...

I can barely wrap my brain around the fact that in just over 2 weeks, my Steven will have been gone for almost 3 years. My heart sure knows though…


I miss my best friend, my lover, my partner in crime, my confidante, the wonderful father of our son. He was my everything. I am scared about my future – we were supposed to grow old together, take those “some day, I want to go to…” trips together, love our son and grandchildren together, take care of each other when we were old. I worry about my retirement years – two people saving is a lot different than one. I worry that what I’m able to do on my own, sans a second major income, while getting our son through school and college and life in general just won’t be enough. I wish Steve was here to tell me – don’t worry about it, honey, we’ll figure it out. It will work out, it always does. But he’s not here for me to talk about it – and I hate that.

I finally got rid of some of his clothes about a month ago. Socks, underwear, a few pairs of jeans and a sweater or two. I couldn’t donate them to Goodwill or the like – the socks and underwear were destined for the trash, but I couldn’t fathom or stomach the thought of someone else wearing his jeans or sweaters. Selfish, perhaps – but those touched his body last, and it wasn’t right that they touch someone elses. I might donate other pieces of clothing at some point – but not now. A friend has offered to make his existing clothes into quilts, which I am looking forward to having done. It’s the process of gathering his clothes, putting them in a box, and shipping them off that I can’t get jiggy with. So, three years later, I’m no closer to our quilts than I was when he died. I feel weak about it – they’re just clothes. But they were HIS clothes.

When I got rid of the clothes a few weeks ago, I ended up at the top of the stairs, his urn on my lap, crying like I haven’t cried in a long time. I’d forgotten how deep and guttural a cry could be. I miss waking up with Steve, going to bed with Steve, and just knowing that he was always there. I miss taking care of him and of being “us.” Now, what is left of his physical body takes up the contents of a small pecan box. For three years, I’ve kissed his urn before going to bed and I lovingly tap it when I go up or down the stairs. I’m tired of kissing his urn – I want to kiss HIM again. Just one more time… That Tuesday morning, who would have thought something as mundane as an oil change would change our lives forever?

The pain of widowhood cuts so deep, there are barely words to describe it. A thought of Steve can bring a smile, followed by a sharp pain to my gut when the reality creeps in that he’s gone. Truly GONE.

Only other widows seem to understand the toll this new life brings… A simple dinner out with a friend becomes a chore because I have to line up a sitter, I don’t want to be too far in case something happens, and there are only a few people I even trust to watch Bear because I know they watch him the way I watch him. He’s all I have left. Sometimes I feel rather isolated, but I know it’s been my choice. No one wants to hear me go on and on and about missing my husband – and I don’t want to go on and on listening to others bitch and complain about how theirs can’t hit the hamper with their dirty socks or how their husband’s 5-day business trip out of town has turned them into a ‘single mom.’ Give me a fucking beak. It’s just easier to isolate sometimes because if I told people how I really felt, I’d probably get myself in a lot of trouble.

Bear is my strength, my everything. Three years later, I still know in my heart of hearts that if it wasn’t for my son, and my devotion, love and responsibility for him and to him – I would have joined Steve that first week. Not sure how – but I would have found a way. It’s so hard to watch your child process the loss of his father, of his buddy, of his idol. It’s something that will stay with him forever, that will alter the course of his life in ways that we haven’t even begun to see yet. My hope is that he turns his tragedy and loss into a positive – that the pain of losing his father will push him to do more good in the world than he would have ordinarily, and that it will create a more compassionate and understanding boy and man. But why couldn’t he have learned these lessons with his Dad HERE? How I wish we could have Steve back so he could just be a little boy, doing little boy things, with little boy experiences. I am so mad at God sometimes, I can barely speak. He was MY husband. He was Bear’s FATHER. How dare you take HIM!

There are days, I just want to pack it all in – sell the house, quit my job, throw the dog and the kid in the car and just drive until I find happiness again. I know that won’t solve anything, but the loneliness I feel here, without Steve, is heart numbing sometimes.

I’m doing my best to turn this tragedy into something good, starting a scholarship fund in Steve’s name with a local nonprofit that offers grief camps to children, and starting my own nonprofit to help kids of widowers stay in extracurricular activities. I’m proud of those things. But at the end of the day, if being truly honest with myself, I wish I didn’t know that there were such things as grief camps for kids and I wish I didn’t know about this whole side of life called widowhood. I wish I didn’t know that my body was capable of making such gut wrenching sounds in the middle of the night when I wake up and reach out to him, realizing it’s just been a dream – he’s really still gone. I wish I didn’t know…

But I do know. I know how much this life sucks.

Sometimes I feel like people just don’t understand how hard this is… I’m so tired of insensitive comments about how sad my son looks in the aftercare program at school when the other kids are being picked up early and I can’t get there until after 5:30 (like I have a fucking choice!), how I need to get out there and meet someone (I HAD someone wonderful – your point is?), and how my husband would want me to be happy (do not tell me what he would have wanted – because he would have wanted to be here, with us!). Fuck them all.

I miss my old life. I miss being a wife, being loved unconditionally, always knowing he had my back and I had his. I miss being happy and content and hopeful of my future. I miss being carefree and oblivious to the cruelness of the world. I miss being able to write “Mrs.” on a form and not second-guess myself. I miss checking of ‘married’ on a form – and not even noticing if ‘widowed’ was an option.

I’ve done this for almost 3 years – I’ve learned lessons. Can I have him back now? Please?