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.
Namaste.
As always, you move me. Continue on your path and I’ll walk beside you whenever you want. XO
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