It's July. On the 18th Bill would have been seventy-one years old and in September he will be gone five years. Another year has nearly passed. I say that like it's no big deal, but it is. Nearly every single day is a big deal. It's another day I've survived. I continue to breath, eat, sleep sporadically and strive to function as an author.
I try to be there for my family and friends. It's not always easy. Some days I am trapped in the past, uncertain of the future. Mike is still loyal and loving. For that I am grateful for I'm not the easiest person to live with. My kids fear my death. Having already lost the most influential person in their lives they dread my passing. They fear a sudden and unexpected blow, another one, but I know what will be, will be. Their love, worrying or prayers will not save me when my time comes, just as I could not save Bill. There is no bargaining at that point. No promises to God will change the outcome and I reassure them all the time. I am not afraid to die. Naturally, I would prefer to avoid any suffering or great pain, but other than that, I'm ready. Everyone dies. There is no escaping that fact and I hope they understand how much I loved them and how hard I tried to be a good mother and grandmother, even though I know I've failed miserably in the last few years. There was a time I was good at it. A time when our home was filled with love and laughter, and those are the times I want them to remember. Some days I wake up with a song in my head. Today is was I Will Remember You, by Sarah McLaughlin. Usually, if I play the song, it will go away. Not so today. Today I remembered the exact moment, the first time I looked into his oh so blue eyes when I got into the car and the overhead light came on. I remembered him carrying me into the house on a cold November night with the rain falling on us after we got married. I remembered the way he sat by the bassinet when Cathy was born, like a guard dog and the way we danced at her wedding, years later. I remembered how he used to call Jillian, "his little rosebud" because of the shape of her mouth and how she cried when he shaved off his beard and she didn't recognize him. He grew it back and only shaved it off one other time in more than 40 years. I remembered the boys, barely tall enough to see what he was doing under the hood of a car, but eager to hand him tools and preferably get greasy like their father. I remembered going out to dinner with friends and dancing to a slow song. Something happened that night, something odd for a couple who had been together for so many years. Overcome by passion we ended up leaving the dance floor, throwing money on the table and racing to the car. We couldn't get home fast enough. I remembered using a hair dryer to thaw out his face and beard when he raced home to change into warm, dry clothes while fighting a barn fire on a bitter winter night. I remembered him carrying my dying mother to her bed when my sister and I could no longer move her. I remembered the times me made me laugh when our world seemed to be crashing down around us. And I remember the last words I whispered in his war as he was leaving me. The song says, "don't let your life pass you by...weep not for the memories." I don't weep, ever, and haven't for more than two years. I'm trying not to let my life pass me by.
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This page is now my blog/journal about Widowhood. I'm not qualified to give advice. I'm new at this. I don't want to be qualified. I don't want to be a widow, but no one asked me. These are my thoughts, fears and feelings. Please don't equate them as anything but that. Archives
October 2022
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