This one is hard to explain unless you've lived it.
Nobody is waiting for you.
I don't mean that nobody loves me. I have people who love me. I have my boys. I have family and friends.
I mean your person isn't waiting for you.
Nobody is wondering when you'll be home.
Nobody is getting the completely unnecessary text saying, "I'm on my way."
Nobody is lying beside you at the end of the night while you tell them something that could absolutely have waited until morning.
Nobody is automatically your plus-one.
You don't realize how many tiny parts of life belong to being somebody's person until suddenly you're not anybody's person anymore.
And sometimes it hits in the strangest places.
A wedding invitation.
A table full of couples.
A school event.
A holiday.
Watching everyone get into their cars together at the end of the night while you get into yours alone.
I'm not looking around wishing those people didn't have what they have.
Quite the opposite.
I know exactly how precious it is.
I had it.
That's why I notice it.
There Is No One to Share the Weight With
People talk about missing the big things.
I miss the ordinary things.
I miss saying, "What do you think?"
I miss having another person who was equally invested in the answer.
Because now every decision eventually lands with me.
If something happens with one of the boys, I decide.
If something breaks, I figure it out.
If there's a financial decision, I make it.
If I'm worried at two in the morning, there isn't another parent lying beside me who understands exactly why I'm worried.
People can give me advice.
They can help.
They can love us enormously.
But at the end of the day, I'm the one responsible for our little family.
And sometimes I don't want advice.
I want Paul.
I want to look across the room and say, "What are we going to do?"
I miss we.
Your Children's Grief Can Break Your Heart All Over Again
Losing your husband is one grief.
Watching your children lose their dad is another.
Sometimes I'm doing okay.
And then one of the boys says something.
Something simple.
Something they probably don't even realize is going to hit me.
And suddenly I'm grieving for Paul, for myself, and for everything my boys will experience without their dad physically here.
The games.
The graduations.
Learning to drive.
The first heartbreak.
The big decisions.
The ordinary Tuesdays when a boy just needs his dad.
There are moments when I can handle my own grief better than I can handle theirs.
Because I chose Paul.
They didn't choose their dad.
He was simply theirs.
And they should have had more time.
You Can Want Someone Beside You Without Wanting to Replace Him
This one is complicated.
Nobody tells you that someday you might miss having someone as much as you miss having him.
Those are two different things.
I can miss Paul with every part of me and still miss companionship.
Someone to have dinner with.
Someone to call.
Someone to travel with.
Someone to laugh with.
Someone who notices if I got home.
Someone beside me at the wedding.
Someone to dance with instead of sitting at the table watching everybody else.
Wanting those things doesn't mean I loved Paul any less.
And anyone who ever saw us together knows there is no replacing him.
I'm not looking for another Paul.
There was one.
I got him.
I loved him for all of his days.
But I'm still here.
And admitting that I might not want to spend all of my remaining days alone isn't a betrayal of the man I loved.
Maybe it's simply admitting that being loved by him taught me how wonderful sharing a life with someone can be.
Sometimes You Don't Want to Be the Inspirational Widow
There are days when I can find meaning in all of this.
And there are days when I absolutely cannot.
Sometimes I don't want to turn grief into growth.
I don't want to find the lesson.
I don't want someone to tell me everything happens for a reason.
I don't want to be told how inspirational I am.
Sometimes my inspirational message is:
This fucking sucks.
That's it.
That's the lesson for today.
And strangely, I've learned that those days count too.
I don't have to turn every hard day into something beautiful.
Sometimes getting through it is enough.
Tomorrow I'll put the kettle on and try again.