Back to Life

It would be nice if I could tell you that immediately after losing Johnny, I pulled myself together and moved forward with strength and grace. It would be nice, but it wouldn’t be accurate.

Like most people who have lost their spouse, I had a very difficult time. To be honest, I didn’t care too much about showering, getting out of bed, getting dressed, being a mom/daughter/sister/aunt -- or even being alive. I didn’t feel alive. I felt hollow and lonely. Lonely is the very worst feeling there is, if you ask me. And widow is the loneliest word.

I knew I would miss Johnny. Of course I would. Since I was 16, my life had been shared with him. We grew up together, married, had a family, traveled, built a house, built a life. What I was completely unprepared for was that I would miss him with all of my senses. I couldn’t see him or hear him any more. I couldn’t smell him or taste him. And I couldn’t feel him. I had pictures I could see, but they didn’t provide flesh and blood. I had his voice on videos and my voicemail, but it wasn’t his voice speaking directly to me and having a conversation. His smells (good and bad) were evaporating into thin air… and you can’t stop it from happening. I couldn’t taste his last kiss or feel his last hug. My feet didn’t find their warm spot in our bed any more.

When you are caught inside your head and all you feel is lonely, it takes something just this side of a miracle to make you want to live again. My miracle came in the form of my two boys. Quinn and Jake were so amazingly patient with me. I will forever thank God for giving me these two amazing kids. They allowed me space to grieve, and would even crawl in bed to grieve along with me at times. Quinn took his role as the ‘man of the house’ very seriously. He would make sure I was safely tucked in bed (remember: my legs were still a mess) and always made sure I was ‘ok’ before he would go to his room for the night. Jake would check in daily and would bring his laptop to my room and we would check our Facebook pages together. Or, I would read my Kindle and Jake would play computer games. Often the three of us would end up in my room to check on each other, which prompted some pretty amazing conversations. There were nights that we just needed to cry together, and other nights that “Dad Stories” made us giggle. My sole purpose became keeping my boys talking. I knew if they kept talking and not hiding away what they wanted to feel and say, they would get to the other side of this heartache in one piece.

“How you doin’?” became our opening statements to each other on most days. Testing the waters, so to speak, to check on our collective well-being. It was ok to cry. It was ok not to cry. Really, I knew that rules didn’t apply. Whatever needed to happen, happened. Whatever we needed to do to get through just one more day was good enough. It felt like a long, lazy, fuzzy dream.

There was no precise moment that I decided to get up and start living again. It all happened by degrees. But, as much as I hated to admit it, LIFE was still happening.

It was a conscious decision to join in.