Year 2

I’m halfway through my second year without my Joe, and I can tell you without any reservation that year two of this grief is harder than I expected.

The first year I walked around in a fog, unable to process the trauma of everything. The flashbacks have come back in full force. Performing chest compressions for ten minutes straight in the middle of our living room on my beautiful man. Watching the paramedics carry him out the front door, his face so blue, so sure he was gone forever. Spending twelve days in ICU holding on to hope that he would recover, not wanting to admit he went without oxygen for way too long. Signing the paperwork that took him off the vent. Letting the love of my life go in the early morning hours of that random Friday in September. Those are the memories that overtake my mind these days.

The first year of grief affords you a veil of sorts. Your brain protects your heart by masking all of that trauma into muddled, hard-to-recall moments. Moments clouded by utter exhaustion, high anxiety, and a sadness so deep you’re certain you can’t go on. In year two that fog lifts, and suddenly you are faced with the brutal reality of what happened. The reality that your life has been forever changed. Everything you do, you do differently. Everything. The loneliness is unbearable. You’ve lost the only person who was truly invested in you, in how your day was, how you were feeling, what you were stressed about, sad about, happy about. Your trusted confident is gone. The person you talked to the most is gone. Your self-worth and sense of value is gone. Laughing and enjoying life are quickly followed by feelings of guilt. You no longer feel loved. There is no one to give your love to, and the thought of anyone else loving you seems unimaginable.

Year two has brought back tears I thought were subsiding. After I hit publish on my last blog post about being ready to move forward, the tears have fallen uncontrollably for weeks now. The more things seem to change, the more they stay the same. And yet, I still want to move forward. Is this how it’s going to be forever? And if it is, what kind of man is going to be willing to deal with me carrying such grief? Carrying such love?

I’m grateful none of my friends or family understand what I am going through. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. But when those closest to you can’t identify with you, the road feels long and empty. Yes, there are other widows and widowers to talk to about it. I’m grateful for those connections. But I’ve always held my deep feelings close to the vest, sharing only with those closest to me. I know it’s frustrating for them because they don’t know what to do or say to help. Honestly, I don’t think anyone could do or say anything that would actually help. And there will always be those who think you can just choose to be positive, choose to be happy. If only it were that simple. They mean well. I just smile and file their platitudes in the “I hope they never have to understand” box.

So, for those new to this journey, be prepared. My year two is proving to be a challenge. I hope yours doesn’t become one. This song reminds me to find happiness in the little things and stop focusing too far into the future. For now, I can’t wait for spring so I can plant my flowers and work in my garden. The hummingbirds and butterflies will surely bring me joy.

If you are struggling, please seek professional help. Find a local or online support group, lean on others who understand. Take care of you. I think that’s half the battle. Accepting the sadness and being willing to work at finding joy again.

“You’re gonna find yourself somewhere, somehow.”