Two years ago, I was at the hospital, trying to wrap my head around the news that my husband was gone. There was no warning, no way of possibly knowing that he would just collapse, and that the doctors would never be able to revive him.
How does a person who is so full of life, one who had been such a huge part of my life for more than 20 years, just suddenly cease to exist? It makes no sense.
I was chatting with a friend today, when she mentioned I've basically been through ten years' worth of changes in the past two. That sounds accurate. I feel like I have aged at least ten years in the last two or three.
I am mostly okay. During the first year or so after his death, my most common response to "How are you?" was to say that I was "Okay-ish." Not completely okay, but -ish. I'm not saying that there aren't people out there who want honest, genuine responses when they ask someone how they are doing, but I tend to feel like a lot of people say it because it's part of the script that we have been socialized to follow. A lot of people could use "How are you?" and "Hi" interchangeably, and they are thrown off by honest, open responses. On that same note, even if I did feel like the person asking me really wanted to know, I'm not exactly willing to unleash all my woes and vulnerabilities in the pet food aisle at the Dollar General. So, the most honest, genuine response I could usually give was "Okay-ish."
I am proud to say that I have changed my standard response to "Okay" most of the time. That feels like an upgrade to me. I tend to save most of my pity parties for my therapist, anyway.
A lot has happened in these past two years. Food once tasted like sawdust, but I can appreciate it again. I finished my master's degree. When I received the actual degree in the mail, I felt nothing. I put it back in its little box and set it on a pile of junk mail. I pretended it wasn't there for a long time, because nothing about my life seemed like it was the way it was supposed to be at the time. I eventually unboxed the damn thing, and set it on a shelf at my desk, where it sometimes even makes me feel a little good to look at it. I did that. I had to trudge through a lot of grief, trauma, and brain fog to earn that damn piece of paper. But by the skin of my teeth, and down to the last possible day to submit my research project, I did it.
And then I rewarded myself with a puppy.
I finally got a job, but it's not anything like what I was hoping to do with my degree. The job is remote, so I am saving a ton on clothing, fuel, and food. The pay is insulting, but the fact that pants aren't required almost makes it all worth it. I also enjoy not having to face people every single day, even if I sometimes feel like more forced socialization would probably be good for me.
I started a knitting/crochet/whatever group at my local library. We meet once a week, most weeks, and make stuff. I have met some fantastic, talented people there.
I learned how to unclog a sink. I also learned that I had never actually taught my youngest daughter what she can and cannot put down the drain. I guess she and I both learned stuff that day.
Meanwhile, the world has continued to spin. My heart has continued to beat. Everyone and everything is changing and evolving the way it's supposed to. And I am left to restructure a completely different future than the one I was looking forward to just two years and one day ago. The heavy sense of emptiness left by David's absence is still there, but I am getting a little better at carrying it. I don't imagine you ever truly get over a loss like this, but you learn to build and grow around it. We are meant to keep growing anyway, even when it's hard. Even when we don't want to. Learning about ourselves and the world around us, and the resulting growth, is a part of living.
If losing David has taught me anything, it's that tomorrow is never promised. If you can find happiness and a sense of purpose in life, chase it, grab it, and hold onto it with everything you've got. Many days, I can even convince myself that this is true.
I'll get there.
