Death is so absolute.
I’ve been thinking about how absolute death is. There’s no coming back. There’s no taking anything back. There’s no more of anything. The day you passed, all I could think about was all the things you would be missing and would not be able to see or do anymore. And even to this day, it pains me when I see something that I know you would want to see or do but knowing that you will never have the opportunity. I think about all the things you are missing out on and will miss out on. Like your girl Mindy Kaling, she’s in two different movies that are coming out this year. You love her and will never be able to watch her on the big screen. You won’t be able to see the Black Panther movie that just came out. You will never be able to see the amazing photos from your mom’s 70th birthday party the week before. You will never get to see the house completed. You will never get to plan and design that dream backyard you wanted. You won’t be able to hear the rumor that LeBron James wanted to join the Warriors (which would probably make you roll in your grave if you were buried). I also think about all the moments we will no longer get to share together like going to the movies, traveling to new destinations, bike riding, wine tasting, or just simply staying home and watching TV and eating dinner together. I will never get to hear your voice or laughter ever again. I will never get to see you or tell you how my day was or whatever new gossip I have to share. I can never tell you how much I love you or how desperately I so want to see you again and feel your embrace and kiss. But the one thing that gives me comfort is knowing that we would never question whether we loved each other or not. We always told each other, “I love you” every time we parted and always before going to bed (that was one of our golden rule just in case something ever happened to one of us--it was like we were planning for this day without knowing it). Even if we were fighting and hadn’t resolved our issue, I would say to you, “I’m still mad at you, but I love you” before I went to bed. I could always go to bed mad at you, but I could never fall asleep if I didn’t tell you “I love you.” (Yes, there were a few times I tried to see if I could do it, but I was never able to.) And, on days when I rushed out of the house and forgot to give you a kiss and say goodbye and I love you (even if you were sleeping when I left), I know I would get a call from you to scold me about it (and you didn’t care if there were other people in the car with me and you were on bluetooth, you’d still let me have it). There’s never a day that goes by since you passed that I would ever question whether you knew how much I loved you or how much you loved me. The only question that remains open is, “who loved the other person more?” Now, we will never know since this was a debate we’ve never been able to resolve. A few days before you passed, I remember telling you, “I feel that I love you more than you love me because I’m always the one who says ‘I love you’ first.” But you told me, “I like it when you say ‘I love you’ first.” This was the first time you ever said this to me in all the years we’ve been together and it made me cry. That’s why it’s so hard not to think the universe was preparing us for this. There were too many deep and philosophical conversations that happened between us the few months before you passed. I just thought, “Wow, my husband is finally getting ‘deep’ after all these years; married life must be suiting him.” It’s really hard to accept that this is how our story ends, but at the same time, it’s so hard not to look back and see all the signs that the universe was preparing us for this. You will never know how much I miss you babe. How much I just want to see you one more time. How much I just want to hold your hand and hear you say, “I love you too.”
There are days where I don’t even know how I find the strength to get out of bed and continue living; waking up and going about life as if nothing has happened or changed. The world continues to move on and I’m slowly starting to move with it, but there’s never a day that goes by that I don’t think about how strange and odd it feels. Some days, I feel like there’s nothing wrong at all. Other days, I can barely breathe. My therapist says it’s all normal. Grief makes us appear psychotic because we’re so sad and in great pain at times that we can barely move or breathe while other times we’re still able to function in the world, laugh, and smile as if nothing has happened. For me, I feel that grief comes and goes like the ebb and flow of the waves at the beach. Most of the time, I feel like I’m standing waist deep in the ocean and looking out into the horizon. I see how vast and serene the water is and I’m ready to swim out further (yes, I know I don’t know how to swim, it’s just an analogy babe). Just when I’m about to take a step and move forward, a large wave from my blindspot hits me out of nowhere, knocks me off my feet, and pulls me under water as I’m desperately trying to find my footing and catch my breath. I’m pulled under water fighting to breathe until I can find my footing to come up for air. This is what grief feels like for me. There are days that are harder than others and some that are better than others. Some days I move forward while other days I move backward that it just feels like I’m standing still where I started; barely able to move forward or backward. I know I can’t go backward (even though that is all I want to do where time freezes and we are together forever), but moving forward is scary as well. I’m scared that I can’t move on without you and I’m stuck in this surreal and bizarre world, but the thought that one day I can actually move on and live and breathe in a world where you don’t exist is also very scary and frightening. It’s like I can’t win either way.
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A grieving widow who is trying to find meaning and purpose from her tragic event.