Stepping Out of the Fog

"Sometimes, only one person is missing, and the whole world seems depopulated. "   –Alphonse de Lamartine, Méditations Poétiques

Five months. This week will mark five months since I held Kerry's hand, heard his voice in person, laughed at something he said, or told him some story about the kids.

It's also been five months since I saw him wasting away in a hospital bed, lying confused and scared because of medication, suffering in silence in order to lessen my worry, or told me some story about something in the hospital room that isn't there.

Now you can imagine the crashes of waves that hit me. They are sometimes selfish, because I want one more day, one more moment, one more hug. Those waves feel like I'm drowning over and over as I know I won't get those things this side of Heaven. Then they become tall and painful because I'd never wish for him to experience one more of ANY of the things he endured for two months in the hospital - and an entire month prior. Those waves are much harder and hurt more as I know letting him go was the right thing to do - and I have to accept God's (terrible, in my opinion) plan. 

This past month, since The Great Thank You post, has been an awakening for us all. I think the fog is lifting more with each week, and we as a family are realizing how much we just existed on autopilot for a while. It's like waking from a dream and not being knowing where you are. 

I realized it when I was reading back through cards and letters we received. I kept getting surprised by who they were from because I didn't remember reading what was written. And yet I KNOW that I read every single one. When the kids and I started talking, we all agreed that we could remember bits and pieces, but most of the day-to-day things are gone. Even some of the weeks leading up to his death are a blur. I don't know if it's from sheer shock and dismay, pure heartbroken grief that felt like it would never ease up, or just the way we protect ourselves in times of trama. 

Some days it feels like five years. Some days it feels like five minutes. Mostly, it just feels like forever. And coming to terms with that is a work in progress. 

Austin with some HHS friends! 

There are fewer moments of taking my breath away, though. And driving home for work is really the only time I find myself crying out of nowhere (almost every day). My friends are AMAZING when I just need a minute to catch my breath when I'm telling a story or remembering something that chokes me up. 

I've taken time to travel and reconnect with people, and by doing so, I've found laughter and happiness. It doesn't mean I've lost my grief, but I've been able to live. I'm finding out who I am now that I'm alone. Scary most of the time - but exhilarating to see that I'm truly braver than I ever thought possible. 

We had to..

The kids and I make points to do random things for fun and not be afraid to joke around about what Kerry would be saying or doing. We miss him, but we keep his spirit alive by talking about him. He's part of my every day conversations, and I'll never hesitate to speak his name out loud or mention something about us. Because it IS still "us". 

We are still a thing. Not even a new person in my life would ever take about the "us". We were so good together, and we loved fiercely. I know I will love again someday because I know what it feels like to be loved perfectly and to love perfectly. (I also now know what it's like to be left with all the stuff a pack rat spouse leaves behind. Who knew someone could prepare me for the Coronavirus scare with all his extra cleaning supplies with zero knowledge it was coming?!) Those lessons can't be wasted. 

Five months. 

I wonder what the next five will bring. I hope they bring more laughter, more memories, and more healing. I believe they will bring a lot of new experiences and probably a lot of tears. But without a doubt, they will come. 

I can make it. My kids can make it.

If you see us smiling and laughing somewhere, know we're making it.