6 months - 10/20/14

Today marks 6 months. 6 months ago I woke up and you were here. And that night when we went to bed you were gone. Killed in an instant. Never coming back. There are still moments daily that bring me right back to that day. A song. A photo. A memory. A voice. And there I am, finding out that you were gone and wondering what we were going to do. I don't really remember 4/20. I remember the morning a little bit. Easter egg hunt with the kids. Then I remember being told what happened. The rest of the day is a blur. The next few weeks are a blur.
6 months later and the fog has finally started to lift. The reality is here. You aren't coming back, and this is our life now. I accept it. But only because I have to - not accepting it means living in a world of denial and sorrow and constant pain. And I can't do that. I accept it, but I don't think it's right or fair. I accept that we have to keep living without you here. I don't like it. I would do anything to make it different. But what choice do I have? None. This is my life now. I have no choice. Denying you are gone or living in grief only makes my life now even more difficult. So perhaps it's more denial that acceptance. I'm not certain.
But now I become selfish. For the past 6 months my thoughts and energy have been focused on a lot of other people. Mainly our kids, and with good reason. But now - what about me? What will become of me? I can't help but wonder if I'll be alone for the rest of my life. I hope not - no one wants that -  but I have to imagine that it is a very real possibility. I have to be prepared for that. No one would or could ever take your place.  And if by some chance I do meet someone one day how can they compare? They can't. So I have to deal with that first. The fact that no one can replace you. Once I'm OK with that and I'm ready, how exactly do I move on? Still loving you but possibly finding someone to spend my life with again. The thought of it is tiring, honestly. The work that goes into meeting people and building a relationship. It's daunting. It doesn't sound fun or exciting or in any way remotely enticing. And who wants to take on this kind of a situation anyhow. The baggage that comes with me and my kids is enormous and more than most people would want to tackle. Or even touch with a 10 foot pole. So I have to be OK and prepared for the fact that this is it. It's me and our kids, end of story. And once the kids are grown.... then it's me. There may not be any more chapters for me. So I have to be satisfied and fulfilled with the one we wrote together. Like most things that completely suck this year, I have to accept this and live with it. 13 years wasn't nearly as long as I hoped to have with you, but I have to be grateful for the fact that we had them. Looking ahead is bleak. Mostly when I look forward it has to do with Gunnar and Adella and living for them. Making sure they are happy, taken care of, and loved. And that is what my life is now for. Before it also involved us. What we would do as we grew old together. Which of course is now completely gone. So now what do I do as I grow old... alone.
This is where my mind takes me 6 months after you are gone.

Gunnar's 6th Birthday

Ah. 9/30. Gunnar's birthday. The next in a long line of 'things Mike isn't here for' when it comes to our family.

Gunnar's is especially hard for me. Gunnar is our first born child. He's the one that made us parents. That changed our lives forever, taking the focus off of ourselves and putting it on being parents and raising children. If you have kids, you know the transformation that takes place when this happens. Everything about your life and your relationship with each other shifts and changes. He is also our only son, and will carry on Mike's family name. Our relationship changed that day as we now navigated the world of parenthood together, discovering how much we had in common... and not in common! We didn't know what we were having, so when Gunnar was delivered and Mike said 'it's a boy!' it was one of the most magical things I'll ever remember. I was convinced it was a girl so I said 'are you sure?!?' and he laughed and probably made a comment about having seen a penis a few times before and knowing what one looks like. The next week was a blur, as I had a c-section and couldn't get around easily. Mike was the ever doting new dad, running around getting things done at home with me still in the hospital, and staying over with Gunnar and I at night so as to not miss anything, if possible. He dealt with my own issues surrounding my disappointment in how the birth had gone and that I had to have a c-section, to being a very overwhelmed new mom not quite sure of what I was doing. He made me feel confident I was doing a good job. Like I was a good mom. And still a good wife, too. And here we are - 6 years later - and again I'm an overwhelmed mom, only this time I'm overwhelmed because of him. Because I miss him and he's not here to help. He's not here to comfort. Not here to even make some rude comment and make me laugh. And so after a pretty good stint of thinking I was doing OK and trying to keep it together, I'm back at square one. Remembering the day we lost him. All that this loss means to me... and our kids.... and our families and friends. Losing your husband at a young age is something I never even thought about. The only time I ever really worried about losing Mike was long before we were married, when he was serving in Iraq in 2003. Home in Connecticut I never imagined that I would one day be met by a police officer in my kitchen and told that my husband had been killed on his motorcycle. Never in a million years did I expect this kind of news. The thing about losing him so young is that there is so much we never got to do. I suppose that's true for all couples when one passes away. But there were years... decades even... that we never got to live out together. There are 2 kids who aren't even close to grown who now have no father. There are trips we will never take. Conversations we will never have. Goodbyes we didn't get to say.
I can't help but think of what the future holds for Gunnar and Adella and myself. What will his 10th birthday be like. His 20th? His 50th? Will every one be such a harsh reminder that his dad is gone? Or will it fade in time... as his memories fade and our lives continue to move on... all the while glancing back over our shoulders from time to time to check and see if maybe he's still there somewhere?

The whole world seems empty

"When one person is missing, the whole world seems empty."
This was in a book I read to the kids tonight, and it hit me like a truck. This is the feeling. This is what goes through my head every minute of every day. Life is empty without Mike. Don't get me wrong, I am making a point to live life to the fullest now, because this has reminded me of how special and precious our lives are. But my life is still empty. Everything seems to have less meaning and be so much more temporary. Yes, I have our kids to keep me going and living. Yes, I have our families and friends around us keeping us afloat. Yes, I go out and have fun with lots of people and celebrate life the only way I know how - by living it. Our daily lives go on, but he's not here to share anything with. Not here for a quick text with an 'I love you' in the middle of the day. Not here to call with something funny that happened at work. Not here to sit down with at the end of the day and unwind, drink a beer, and relax together - reminding each other of how lucky we are and what good lives we really do have. And how much we appreciate each other. Not even here to fight with. The person I shared my world with is gone. My world is empty right now.
For some reason the past couple of weeks have been particularly hard. Work has been busy. I've needed more help with the kids. It's been stressful. And the one person who I would come home to at the end of the day and talk to about all this is simply not here anymore. The person who supported me all these years, and who gave such great advice like "fuck all of them, who needs them!" isn't here to bring me back down to Earth with a big laugh and a reminder that I really shouldn't give so much of a shit all the time. The person who put up with me, not matter how crazy/bitchy/ridiculous. So I sit here and I write. I've even started bringing work home with me, to give me something to do and make me feel like I'm doing something constructive rather than sitting here doing nothing with no one to talk to (Mike would be so pissed at me!). I've got a couple of books to keep me company. But my world is empty. How did I not know? How was I so unaware of how important this person really was to me? I mean, I knew I loved him and I wanted to spend my life with him - but our marriage wasn't perfect and there were definitely some times we had wondered if maybe we'd be better off apart. I was so completely unaware of how deep my love for him ran. That without him my world would be empty. And it took this, of all things, to make me see it. And he's not even here now for me to tell him of this amazing revelation I've had. Because I know he'd laugh and say "I know. I told you so, Ab."

The happiest people are often the saddest

If I can say one thing about the past (almost) 5 months, is that it's absolutely exhausting putting on a happy face all day. But I cannot walk around all day moping about, unhappy and acting like others need to feel sad or badly for me. Quite the opposite - I don't want anyone to feel that way. My pain and suffering is mine to bear, not anyone else's. So I require myself to put on a happy face, smile through the pain, and push forward day to day. When Mike's life ended, ours did not. It often feels like it did. But it didn't, and we have to go on without him.
When someone asks me how I'm doing, I'm often tempted to say 'do you want the long or the short answer'. The short answer is I'm doing OK. Some days are good, some bad, but it's one day at a time and I guess things could be a lot worse, honestly. I have to keep reminding myself of that. It could be worse. Many can't imagine what that might be - but I remind myself daily of how many things in my life that are GOOD. It's the only way you can get through a tragedy like this. I have 2 healthy kids who love me. I have a roof over our heads and I have a good job that I love. I have amazing friends and family surrounding me. I have plenty of things in life to be happy and to smile about. So I'm doing OK. That's the short answer.
The long answer would go something like this. I suck. And not just any kind of 'oh I had a bad day' kind of suck - I mean I realllllly suck. I want to tear my own hair out, drive my car off a cliff, and scream at the top of my lungs until I have no voice left. I have 2 kids who constantly remind me of my dead husband when I look at them. Who ask for their dad and tell me they miss him or want him daily. By the end of the day I'm so exhausted of dealing with everything from the kids, to the dog, to my job, to finances, to home issues that I want to fall over and go to sleep and never wake up... and then I remember the 5 loads of laundry and grocery shopping that I forgot to do (hey kids, you're alright with pizza again, right? Yeah.) I live each day having regret upon regret of things I never got to say or do with the man I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with. When something happens in my day, I go to call Mike to tell him about it - and a split second later have to remind myself that he's gone. I have a house I can't keep clean, a 'to do' list that gets longer by the minute, and kitchen counters that look like a hurricane came through. And the person who should be here for all this - to help, or even just sympathize... or laugh about it- is simply gone. And of course everyone says 'don't worry about this stuff' and that's very easy to say. But when these things bother you, it's hard (if not impossible) to ignore. It's hard to convince myself that I really don't care about the piles of laundry that aren't done, or are sitting there clean but not put away. It's stressful to not have my partner in crime here to help me with all these things. I sit alone at night and I don't want to do any of these things that need to be done. I want a moment of peace and clarity.

So if you ask me how I am, and I smile and say 'OK'... rest assured, you are getting the short answer. And that's alright, because I don't want or need to saddle everyone with the long answer. If you are married or have a long term partner, imagine them just being gone one day. Just for a second - not having them there any longer for the love, support and reliance that you come to count on them for. And now it's just you. If you can imagine that for one second, then you can imagine what my days are like now. But as I said above, life does go on. And we all have choices about how we go on. I have my moments when I dwell on the stress of being a single parent and of missing Mike. But mostly I choose to go forward with life and continue to enjoy it for the wild, crazy, unpredictable ride that it is - while always keeping Mike close to my heart. 

Changing my spirituality

I'm fully one to admit I am not a 'God' person. I grew up with an episcopalian reverend for a grandfather, but didn't go to church a ton - did a few bouts of Sunday School and would go to church sometimes on Easter and Christmas when I was a teen. Now I rarely (if ever) go to church. Mike didn't either (raised Roman Catholic). We both had our feelings about heaven/hell/God etc. but didn't talk about them much. Mike had a cross he wore around his neck fairly frequently, and one he wore with his dog tags when he fought in Iraq. So he definitely believed in God. For much of my 20's I considered myself an atheist. I didn't necessarily believe in this mythical being who created everything and had these places for people to go when they died. I studied Geology in college. I believe in the Big Bang theory, I believe the Earth is billions of years old. I believe in science. While still holding on a little bit to the spiritual world. I have often said that I experience extreme Deja Vu. To the point where I will be doing something or saying something and I KNOW I've been there or said that before. A vivid recollection, if you will, that has been played in my mind before - I assume in a dream at some point. That feeling and experience has kept me tied to a little bit of the 'other side'. I really got in to Native American religion when I was in college. I took courses on it and wanted to know a lot more about their spiritual beliefs. So have a curiosity about religion without really being tied to one or a full 'believer', if you will. And they say that when something like this happens, it challenges and even changes your beliefs entirely.

In many ways the loss of Mike has pushed me back into a limbo world concerning my spirituality. When you lose someone so close to you, there is a need, and a want, to believe that they are in a good place and still around in spirit. That they have gone to heaven and are watching over us (I can see how this all came about - it's extremely comforting). That there is more to life that just being here for a few decades and then POOF! gone. My kids also are looking for answers. They ask me where daddy is, and if he's in a good place. Gunnar even asked me what he looks like now. The thought of him being an angel and being in heaven with God is comforting to him. Makes him feel like he's still around, in a sense, and that his death isn't so final. In a way that helps us get through all this. Talking to my almost 6 year old about death isn't easy. At a young age he now has learned how fragile life is. He asked about his own death and if he'll die. And then started to cry about it, because he doesn't want to die. How do I tell him that he'll be OK, he's got a lot of years ahead of him to live. But can I guarantee that? No, I can't. So I lie and tell him to not worry. These are difficult questions and even more difficult answers.

I'm convinced that Mike has been 'around' us at various moments. Little signs here or there make me believe that his spirit is still lingering with us. Songs come on my radio that I haven't heard in many years, that he introduced me to and have to do with love and loss. A bald eagle flew right over my car in Mass the other day while driving home - I haven't seen a bald eagle in the wild in I don't know how many years. I pull into my driveway and see a red cardinal at the bird feeder. When I pull in all the birds but the cardinal scattered. I'll get a feeling that he's right there behind me. He's visited myself and some others and communicated with us in small bits. And not in a dream. Although he comes in our sleep, but he actually referenced what happened, and let us know he's OK. Perhaps it's my mind trying to make some sense of a senseless situation. Perhaps there is more, and my skeptical mind has a hard time processing it. Perhaps we all have this kind of conundrum when someone we love is lost far too soon. Perhaps I'm full of shit - oh wait, I am, there's no perhaps there haha! I've always been a glass half full kind of person. And I've always believed that everything in life happens for a reason. But this is one situation that has put that belief to the test. So perhaps God and religion is where I'm finding answers that bring me a little bit of comfort in a difficult time. Perhaps we all just do what we can and let our mind go where it needs to when something so terrible happens.

3 months... and a birthday

7/20/2014 (much of this written after 7/20)
3 months have passed since the accident. 12 weeks (actually it might be 13, silly calendar). I'm heading to the zoo with the kids today. Because it's summer and they don't need to be sitting around the house on electronics with me sad. I will also go down and visit the crash site, because I haven't been there in a few weeks and I feel the need to go. I need to sit for a bit and talk to him and remind him how much we miss him. Tell him what's been going on. Remember him. At first the site was a place I felt him around me. I felt like he was there with me, sharing in my sadness and grief. Because I do believe he's sad. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to leave his kids or me alone without him. He is missing his life, no matter how crazy it might have been and how stressed he might have gotten about it. I think that's the irony of death. In it we remember how lucky we are to be alive. But then we lose that feeling again all too quickly and get back to the mundane day to day of living. All the while forgetting how thankful we should be that we are even here. What a blessing our lives are. How lucky we are that we are healthy, have a roof over our heads, have a job, and have love and friendship in our lives. I don't feel him at the site as much anymore. I don't imagine it's a place he wants to be now. Although signs of the accident remain. The cross his best friends made remains there with his name on it. The marks on the tree where he hit are still there. They shock me back into that day when everything happened. Remind me of how quickly things can change. I hope that if he is around, he's at our houses with us - at his parents, his brother's and his sister's house. When I put the kids to bed I imagine him laying there with him, pretending to hold them. Giving them goodnight kisses. That's where I want him to be. Not at that sad place.

Adella's birthday was 4 days ago. That was a hard day. Adella's first birthday without dad, and nothing but wonderful memories of that day when Mike was with me. I labored all day at home, with Mike by my side. And I'll never forget how disappointed I was to find out that night I would need another c-section. And there Mike was comforting me and holding my hand, reminding me of what was really important - our baby would be here soon. And I will never in all my days forget the moment the doctor told him to stand up and he yelled 'it's a girl!' - the amazement and excitement in his voice. Me asking him if he was sure :) - since I really thought we were having another boy. Seeing him hold her, bring her to me. The wonderment of such a day. We were now a family of 4. One boy, one girl and us. Complete. And as Adella's birthday came it reminded me that we are now incomplete.... and always will be. A 3 year old who only had 2 birthdays with her father. How will I explain this to her when she's older? How will I make it OK for her? Her father won't be there to see her off to her first dance (and lets face it, he would have done that with a shotgun in his hand...) he won't be there to walk her down the aisle. That alone breaks my heart. I'm so sorry, my girl. I'm sorry you won't have many active memories of your dad. I'm sorry he'll be a photo on your wall and in albums for you. I'm sorry he's gone. But he will always be a part of you. And when I call you chunk-a-monk and Delly Bean, remember that is daddy talking. 

Abi's Army of Love

There is a group of people out there who love us. Really love us. I mean there's lots of folks out there supporting us, some who I don't even know. But there's an Army of people who are keeping the kids and I lifted up and smiling just about every week.

Abi's Army of Love started just after Mike passed. I got a card in the mail, from an unknown person (I recognized the handwriting though... and that it came from MASS *cough* Katy Foley! :)) telling me about the Army of Love. Since then we've received gifts for the kids, keep sake items for Mike, flowers and other things. Cards, donations, you name it. And there are people outside the 'official' Army who I think are still a part of the Army :) I head home to NH and an old high school friend gives us tickets to Story Land and a gift certificate to dinner. My son got to go to soccer camp for free this summer thanks to the head soccer coach at UConn. He got a 4 day trip to the cape too! I come home and my lawn is mowed and my kitchen has been cleaned. I have a suite of people who have given their schedules to a central person so that they can all help with kid duty of I need a babysitter for any reason. It's absolutely amazing. And humbling. And awesome. And they are a part of my Army as well.

I can tell you all right now - even if you are reading this and are not an official part of the Army, or maybe you don't even know me or my family. If something like this happens to someone you know - do an act like this. The smallest thing means the world to me and my kids right now. That knowledge that we are loved and cared for and supported continually is incredibly comforting.




But really, this isn't about the 'stuff'. That's all fun, nice and neat - and it means the world to me, believe me. And especially to my kids - the surprises keep coming which makes them have these huge grins that are hard to beat. But really, this is about the love. The support. Knowing that even though time is going on, our friends and family haven't forgotten Michael, or us, or what happened. I think that's the hardest thing about time going on after a tragedy. Everyone's lives start to go back to normal - as they should - and here I am with my head against the wall stuck in April 2014. The world keeps spinning while mine is standing still. Things happen, we all move on. But those of us close to Michael are still left with this void. This hole that cannot be filled. The puzzle piece that is forever gone, making our world incomplete. That will never go away for as long as we live. We may come to not notice it as much, or to feel it as sharply. But it will always be there.  Because they are anonymous, I can't thank them personally. I thank them here, and on Facebook. And I  know who a few of them are, but I don't know who's been sending what, really. And so I can't write thank you's (which actually takes a huge burden off of me, so THANK YOU!!). My guess is that they don't care about the recognition. Their happiness comes from knowing they have put a smile on some grieving faces. The fact that months later our 'Army' is still at full force behind us and thinking of us - well it is absolutely fantastic and reminds me of what life is all about. Taking care of each other.