Here I am alone on Monday night. All the kids (and parents!) are asleep and I’m listening to the music I chose for this Web site while, in a new tab, I am reading through the pain and anguish of other young men and women on an internet bulletin board for young widow/ers. So much hurt everywhere.
I normally would be spending this time with Pat, relaxing, talking about our day, about our children, making plans for the future. His belongings are STILL all around me. The boys finally have moved into rooms of their own. Laura tried her own bed for a couple nights, but neither of us could stand the loneliness. My first night alone in bed had me so cold, shivering, desperate for Pat’s body, always so warm.
By now, Pat would have a new nursing job, most likely in emergency or intensive care. He’d finally have much more time to spend with us. He’d probably be settled in a routine of exercising with the kids and teaching Danny and Joey chemistry and physics. He always said that I should go back to school when he finished.
The whole mourning process is about getting used to a new way of life and letting go of all I thought we’d have. It’s also about figuring out who *I* am without the love of my life. We spent so much time and energy and sacrifice becoming one. I would have it no other way. But, now who am I without him? How do I incorporate his soul and spirit into me without losing me?
Mourning is also about filling that gaping, raw, oozing hole with all that Pat was for me–in a positive, growing, life-giving way. I truly would like to crawl into myself and simply stop. I like the following quote:
“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” ~Anais Nin
Wednesday night, before Thanksgiving, the kids and I came home from my sisters to find our house decorated with paper stars all over our windows and garage door!! How uplifting! Thank you to whomever did that. The kids and I definitely received joy from such a thoughtful, mysterious action.