One week. Of tears and unbelievable, almost unbearable sadness, of sweet moments with good friends and family, of laughing at things he would have said and crying because I’ll never hear him say certain things again. One week. Of thinking he’s still here every morning, just for an instant, in that hazy, in-between place of sleeping and waking, and longing with all my might for it to be true, then getting out of bed on his side to face the inescapable singleness of that act, of a bed that’s completely undisturbed and still made on one side. One week of wondering how I can possibly live another week without him, of watching the reality that he’s really, truly NEVER coming back sink in like a pebble slowly sinking to the bottom of a lake.
One week. Of flower deliveries and sympathy cards and messages of support and love designed to distract me from the pain. Of meals delivered and kind acts done designed to help where no help is really possible. Of making arrangements, calling insurance companies, writing obituaries and final tributes. Of three trips to the funeral home.
One week of crying uncontrollably for seemingly no reason (but really for all of the obvious reasons). One week of firsts. And lasts. I am floating in unfamiliar water, trying to navigate the rough parts, keep my head above the waves. I feel incomplete and alone and lost. I want some “normal” back in my life but I’m not ready for it yet. So I just have to float.
I’m “leaning in” to every emotion, allowing it to take me, not fighting or trying to control like I normally would. I’m holding no expectations around how I’ll feel tomorrow, today, or even in ten minutes. It’s all un-navigated water. I’m a-drift in this sea of grief with no shore in sight and not even an oar to steer with (because that’s where I have to be). It’s terrifying and inevitable and nothing to be done about it. No action I can take to speed it along or stop it. No plan to be made. I’m just supposed to drift and hang on during the rough, scary parts.