Tomorrow marks the 12 week point.
12 weeks since he died. At this time 12 weeks ago, I was sitting with him, listening to the doctors explain how grave his condition was and how one more big dip like he’d had the last couple weeks and it would be doing more harm than good to bring him back at that point.
12 weeks since he told me he wanted to go home.
12 weeks since he told me he understood what going home meant.
12 weeks since I told the doctors that he was done.
12 weeks since we gathered family and friends around to say our final good byes.
Life feels different today. I can stop, take the time to remember him, REALLY remember him, not just constantly think of him. REALLY remember his laugh, his smile, his voice, and his way of being and grieve for all that is lost… but for the most part… the grief is not as raw, not as painful until I do that.
I’m not as foggy.
I’m not as numb.
I feel like I have purpose and direction.
I feel like life will be good again.
I am going to miss him forever, in hugely painful ways.
I hate going to bed alone at night.
I hate not having him there in the evenings to play cards with, to talk to, to watch our favourite shows, to snuggle on the couch.
I hate that he will never see his grandkids, that he will not see his boys graduate, or walk his daughter down the aisle, or see his oldest son make it big in music.
I am sad for those things.
But I feel him all around me, and I take strength from that. I am finding peace in what is… and taking strength from his presence and his love that still surrounds me.