Two years

Two years. So much can happen in that time. Many joyous moments we often cherish. Marriages. Graduations. New life. Promotions. New house. Achievements. Awards. All the happy events we tend to measure our lives by. The moments that drive us forward and give us hope for happier days. However, just as there are joyous times, there are times of sadness and anger. Losing a job. Facing rejection. Poor treatment. Injustice. Illness or injury. Losing a loved one. These moments shake the very foundation we have built our lives upon. Moments that test our limits. Moments where true personal growth is cultivated.

My late husband was diagnosed two years ago today with terminal brain cancer. He passed away just short of a year on February 3, 2015 and one year ago today we held his service celebrating his life.

In his last year, I took on many roles in ways I never thought I’d have to face. As a spouse, I had to watch my husband go through pain, suffering, and immense sadness. I wanted so much to take it all away, but that was beyond my control. I poured my heart and soul into being the best wife I wish I had been all the years we were together. I wanted him to know that I loved him and cared about him. I helped him fulfill many items on his bucket list. I attempted to keep life as “normal” as possible for him. We went on family outings. We went on dates. I took over running a monthly tournament for him, which I still run to this day. I took him to play games and hang out with friends. I surprised him with small things to keep himself busy when he was alone at home while everyone else was at work and school. I responded to all his texts and calls to ease his loneliness and boredom. I had to handle his emotions. He’d be sadden by his impending death. He’d get angry and throw things. He would be frustrated at himself or at me because of his disability. He would be stubborn and not exercise safety and caution. All of these things rested on my shoulders. I had to try to understand his pain and suffering, without really knowing what he was going through. I didn’t have the surgery. I didn’t have a disability to overcome. I didn’t have to go through radiation or chemotherapy. I wasn’t told that I was going to die. I cannot imagine all that he went through. All I could do was be there for my husband. All of these things weren’t in the plan. I did not think that one day I wouldn’t be a wife and that I would call myself a widow. Never did the vows, “until death do us part” ever have such profound meaning. As a spouse and in his final year, I hope I was the best wife to him in all possible ways.

As a caregiver, I had to do things that never crossed my mind. Clean vomit, bile, fecal waste, and urine that didn’t come from one my children. Attempt to pick up my husband after he fell to the floor. Disassemble and reassemble his wheelchair countless times. Sort medication into pill boxes and live my life with reminders and alarms. Inject needles into his bruised belly. Empty urine bottles. Change his clothes.  Bathe him. Clip his nails. Shave his face and trim his facial hair. Take him to appointments and therapy. Speak with nurses and doctors. Spend countless hours researching his cancer. Constantly adjusting his medications because of the many side effects. Buy marijuana and learning how to use a vape pen. Enlist the help of friends when he was too much to handle. Basically staying on top of everything to ensure his needs were met and his level of discomfort was kept to a minimum.

As a mother of four kids, I had to tell my children something was wrong with daddy. I had to explain to them that he was sick. I had to answer many questions about daddy’s illness, what to expect, why he was feeling the way he was, and, worst of all, is daddy going to die? We had partnership where Scott and I shared the responsibilities of raising our kids and handling all the important things that come with having kids, such as transportation, meals, daycare, appointments, etc. After he went into the hospital, I essentially became a single parent. Everything rested squarely on my shoulders. Scott could not drive and he could not cook or clean. I tried to involve him where I could. Phone calls to set up appointments. Parenting the kids when I wasn’t home. But a majority of parental responsibilities were mine.

Scott’s final year was quite a challenge. It was tough on everyone in the family. It was tough on close friends, as well. I never imagined that I would have to watch him die. Hear him take his final breaths as the life within him left his body. I never imagined that something like this would affect our family.

A year ago, we celebrated his life. Friends and family came to his service to join us as we said our goodbyes.

This year has certainly had its ups and downs. I still have “grief” bursts. Uncontrollable outburst of tears and sadness. Often times, these happen when I see the impact the loss has had on my children or when I am overwhelmed. I am still trying to find my groove when it comes to parenting. I’m certainly much quicker to anger than before. I raise my voice more than I’d like to. My punishments have gotten harsher and my lectures longer. My kids have tested my patience time and time again. They’ve manipulated me, lied to me, hidden things from me, given me attitude, and walk over me when they can. It is hard to balance the soft, nurturing mommy side of me and the strict, disciplinarian side. The kids are all experiencing their grief in different ways. Grades have suffered. Tears and sadness over little, insignificant things. Withdrawn, isolated behavior. Cries for attention – both negative and positive. My life seems to be spiraling out of control again as I face a diagnosis for myself that is tough to swallow. It is life altering for sure, but I will be able to adapt….eventually.

Firsts…

It was a year ago. I remember it clearly. The short, rapid breathing that would last most of the day. People coming and going. The anticipation. And then it happened. He took his final breaths and the life left his body. He was gone.
Today is the first year anniversary of his death. The first 365 days without him in our lives. A year of many firsts.The first week…difficult…a blur…friends…tears…regaining composure. I remember Melayna had hundreds day in Kindergarten. I remember going through the garage and purging some things. I remember conversations with Dani and Jenny.
First Valentine’s Day…girls night out…Fifty Shades of Grey…drinks at Back East Bar & Grill…Flowers and a love bug from friends…still difficult…still in shock…still in pain.
First month…disbelief…doubt…guilt…a mask to hide the pain…hurting…aching…moving on…life was starting to find a new normal. A new status quo. His absense was definitely noticed.
First birthday…worked and worked out…nothing special…just another day. Scott would have wanted to go out. He would have gotten me something geeky I’m sure. But my friends had other thoughts. Painting with a Twist with some of the best people I know. And that was special. I even received geeky things from them. Definitely not just another day.
First geek conventions, first Mother’s Day, first Father’s Day, first family camping trip, first time Tristan mows the lawn, first concert as a family, first anniversary, first summer break, first braces, first kids’ birthdays, first 14er, first Halloween, first Thanksgiving, first Christmas, first New Year, his first birthday, first year. And I’m sure this isn’t the half of it.


This past year has been filled with so many memories, emotions, mistakes, regrets, accomplishments, and joy. All without him. These past few weeks, my grief has really caught up with me. I was so busy living life and filling up my time, that my grief has only manifested sporadically. Moments of breakdown, often because I was reminded of him in some way. But something has been building up. I’ve become more distant. I’ve become more quick to anger. I’ve become resentful. I’ve had bouts of hopelessness. I’ve had the feeling of wanting to finally give up. After all I’ve been through. All that I’ve seen and done. All that I’ve put up with. I am just now feeling like I cannot move on any longer. And frankly, that scares the living daylights out of me. Smiles don’t come as easily anymore. I was convinced this is normal. This is what grieving is. But recently, I was made aware that it could be something much more than just grief. So, I am going to set up counseling. For me and for my kids. I hate feeling this way. I hate how I am. And there is still a spark in me to not give up just yet. I just don’t know how much longer that spark will remain. Until it withers away into nothing.


I can look back on the last 365 days and say that we have done a lot. Our family has made many memories together. I know that Scott would have been happy to see us doing so much. I still think of him. I know that he and I had our differences at times and I have many regrets on how those times were handled. But I cannot change what is past. I can only learn from those mistakes and move forward. I do have many fond memories of him. The moments we shared. The children we began to raise together. So many things I need to cherish and hold on to for my children.
I need to focus on the good and not the bad. I thought I had it all figured out. But now I am not so sure. I only hope that I can move forward from this. I started to move forward in my life. Many good things have happened. But somehow, I was blindsided by my grief and caught off guard. I am hoping that this is only temporary and life can resume. Sometimes you have to fight like hell to make sure you are still alive. Sometimes you fill up your time to keep yourself from falling apart. Life is filled with pain. With sorrow and sadness. It is something we all experience to some degree or another. I seem fine on the outside, but there are some days I don't know how I put one foot in front of the other. I may seem strong to many, but I feel so damned weak inside. The truth of it all: I hurt. My children hurt. And it sucks. But that's what it is to grieve. Some days are better than others. I just hope the better days outweigh the not so good days. I am grateful, though, to have some very understanding people in my life. People willing to hold me in their arms and let me cry. People willing to listen to me. People who have been patiently waiting for me to see what they have been seeing all along. I see it now. And I am going to do something about it.