It’s been five long months since my husband died unexpectedly of a massive heart attack. He had left the house on a spritzy cold March morning to take our young cat, Gemma to the vet for a check up. I was working from home. Nothing special about the start of that day. He just never came home.
I am the youngest of five and in my mid fifties. None of my siblings have lost a spouse, neither have any of my friends. It’s not a first to be proud of by any stretch.
I’ve read every book and listened to every podcast. I’ve watch YouTube videos on grief and losing a loved one until my eyes are blurry and I have to head reluctantly to the very lonely bedroom and try to sleep – staring at the empty side of the bed with the pillows intact. Pillows that I change every week with fresh linen along with my own, even though they are not touched by his blonde head.
Five months now, and each day different. Some weeks I can go days in a row riding the crest of the wave and get lots of work done, socialize with friends and think, “hey, maybe I am entering a new less painful phase.” And then whoosh! Carried under the water, barely able to breathe while I weakly fight my way back to the top, gasping.
I hope this blog brings me some solace. I have tried therapy – group and solo and did not feel it was the right fit for me. I know there are many, many of us out there- not young enough to feel like we want to start over again, but not ready to head for the barn either.