Missing you and loving you. When Someone You Love Dies and You are Far, Far Away.



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Michael Bolton - Missing You Now



Missing you and loving you

Never Over A year ago today was the last time I heard my husband say my name coherently. It was a year ago I sat with him and wondered how much longer I could go on. I figured I still had lots of time. I have learned so much in the past year. I have learned about friendships. I have learned about empathy and kindness and I have also learned about selflessness and selfishness. I have learned about the kind of loss you think you understand until you actually live it. I felt a perpetual sadness that there is nothing in this world to compare to or which can lighten. The only relief is sleep, but then you wake up. I have felt helpless as I watched my kids mourn their father. I have buried my husband and yet I still cry for him, long for him, ache for him and miss him. I thought I had cried as much as possible before he died. My eyes now have dark eyelids and seem to be constantly swollen. Yes, a year ago I was struggling to be a caregiver and a mother and somehow keep myself sane. Now I am struggling to recall all of the memories I am terrified of losing and a few I should probably forget. And now I face the challenge of a future alone, without Jim and starting all over. It is like being fresh out of college and trying to decide a path that will best lead me forward to whatever my future holds. That is what I do best and I what I want to do. I look at photos and watch videos. I see our love and our excitement together. I see our hopefulness in a future laid out before us. I see Jim as the disease progresses and it all triggers the same feelings that crept in each time he showed how much he was changing. So I stop looking and I stop watching. Then I start to feel a void. Trying to move on. Trying to stop the pain and misery. And I go back to the darkness. There are good moments. The kids and some friends have made sure of this. Something always seems to be missing…. And yet, we were lucky. A year ago Jim said my name. He knew his name. He still wanted to watch the kids play ball another regret which equals guilt: It is rare, it is special and I cannot express my sorrow for no longer having that kind of support and unwavering adoration. It only comes along once in a lifetime and there have been moments I wonder what I have to look forward to. It seems it will all be a wash from here on out. Yes, we were so lucky in so many ways. The support from our community. The friends who rallied round. The strength we gave each other. But here I am a year later and I am just as lost as I was on that fateful day I got that dreaded call. I have the kids to watch grow and to parent and to comfort along the way. They had a great one and he wanted nothing more than to live long enough to be there for their childhoods and young adult lives. That was the one thing that would make him tear up and cry. Jim was such an amazing man and even better father, it is such a loss for them on so many, many levels. I can only fill in so much. He was so handy and smart and funny and witty and dropped everything to do something with them. And there is guilt for not knowing what was just around the corner. And guilt for losing patience. And guilt for not fulfilling bucket lists and guilt for worrying about the wrong things and not having the right conversation at the right time and not being ready and not knowing that the very conversation you are recording and taking for granted would be the last. For falling asleep when you should have been awake, even if it was 4 am. For letting go but wanting deep down inside to hold on forever. Being in a hurry to get home to fix dinner, or do the laundry or relax…. There is no more relaxing and now you only do laundry for three. And you only cook for three. You only travel as three and only need three tickets for a show. When you finally decide you want to do something, either the kids have plans with friends or your friends have plans with their husbands. I know I will. It is my life. I can go hiking by myself and travel unescorted and do whatever I want to do, just sans a partner. Mourning is a process. A long, slow process. No matter how much you want to get over it, how much time you had to prepare, how ready you thought you would be…. A year ago I could go visit Jim. And bring his laundry home to wash. And the kids could come with me and see him, talk to him, tell him about their day and what they were doing. They could play catch with him or sit outside in the rocking chairs. We could see his smile and know he was still with us. And then I know I am so very selfish for wishing another day with him. I want the old Jim. The one I fell in love with. But the sick Jim, the one who left me once and for all, he taught me more than anyone ever has. He taught me grace and acceptance and tenacity and patience and the real meaning of love. He showed me each and every day. I am forever a changed woman and forever grateful. So now I am alone with the kids and no longer have the worry of his care. Or what is coming around the bend. Or what his wishes might be. Or when will it all be over. It is never over. Missing you and loving you

Fairly are lots of vigour families online. Before are lots of wiliness tricksters online. Jun 02, 17 10:43 AM.

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5 Comments

  1. It was a year ago I sat with him and wondered how much longer I could go on. Thanks to the generosity of others and a kind-hearted husband, I will be with these my people for about 3 days.

  2. When you finally decide you want to do something, either the kids have plans with friends or your friends have plans with their husbands. Death sucks and being far, far away from the people in mourning double sucks.

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