This is far and away the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
The grief sits in my chest like a knot. Sometimes it’s small and quiet, others its huge and expanding and tight and overwhelming and boiling over. But it’s always there.
I’m still on the floor of the hotel room hearing the sentence and feeling the worst adrenaline rush anyone can ever feel. Hearing myself wail, watching my friends watch me on FaceTime, collecting my children as they fall.
We all have time with the therapist tomorrow. I hope she can help me leave that place. It’s the last place I ever want to be. It’s the worst moment of my life, and I need to leave it. I’m aware of it and I’m talking about it and I’m not going to be there forever.
Alexa called him a father figure tonight. She told me the story of how he put together the large foreign currency puzzle on his own and glued it, mounted it, and hung it on his wall. I said, “I hadn’t heard that story. I love that I can still learn about him from other people even after he’s gone.” She started crying and we just held each other.
I’ve been reaching out to other widows. Can I call myself that? I feel like a widow. 30 years of off and on friendship, one year in love and planning our future together. I’m a widow at 45. I’m Rupert’s widow. I wonder if these women and I can build community. Support each other as we grieve, slowly step back in to life, eventually living but always remembering and loving and hurting.
I made it through another day.