It’s hard to believe that you have been gone for 5 years now. You are still so much a part of me. Back when you first died, I didn’t understand how pervasive this grief would be. I didn’t know how it would evolve and deepen. I’ve since realized that there is no “getting over it.” I’ve learned to live without you, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t missed.
After 5 years, I’ve definitely gotten better at dealing with grief. I’ve learned to “ride the waves” or, at least, how to swim through them. I often feel happy, enjoying our children and the simple things that bring pleasure to my life. Every single day, I choose life, and I know that is how you would want it to be. However, the grief beast is never really tamed. Like a person who keeps a lion as a pet, I never know when or if it will show its true nature. Sometimes, the tamest, most mundane things can be a trigger. Most often, the sadness comes from knowing what you are missing in this new life Daphne, Henry, and I have created.
I cannot erase you from my heart and mind because that would be like erasing myself. We happily chose to build a life together, and for 19 years, you slept beside me. You were the first person I saw and spoke to every morning, and the last one I shared a word with every night. You were my lover and best friend. We were so close that we often finished each other’s sentences. We created and raised two beautiful children together. I am the person I am today because of you.
Daphne, Henry, and I still have rough days. There are still many days when I simply miss talking to you, about both simple and profound things. I miss your perspective. I miss learning from you. When you died, I lost the other half of 19 years worth of joint memories, and at times, that still makes me ache with loneliness. It’s also heartbreaking how your death was so tragic and sad, and so avoidable. It still makes me cry for you at times because death is so permanent and there are so many questions that can never be answered. I feel as though our children, in particular, are missing out. As a mother, that breaks my heart. I know the smart, rational man that I knew would not have wanted that.
Most of the time, though, the optimism you loved about me is still there. I think I am actually making progress, whatever that means. When I look back, I can see that I have. There’s never going to be a cure, though. As long as I can remember you, I will love and miss you. Therefore, grief will trot beside me for the rest of my days.
