Round and Round and Different It Goes

The extra chill is here. That busy time of year. The start of the birthday and holiday season for my family. Now we also have the dates and memories of my husband’s death mixed in among the rest.

I recently celebrated my birthday. This year I received three different bouquets of flowers from three different people in my life who are special and supportive to me and my children. I will always be thankful for them. I received so much love from the women in my support and empowerment group that it brought tears to my eyes. And even with all that love and all those sweet gestures, there’s still that voice that’s missing. I can hear it when I think of him, but I’ll never hear it in-person again. And I shed many tears that day in its loud absence.

Widowing isn’t easy. Grief hurts. We learn a lot and we move accordingly. It’s ever-changing, it’s different.

I was apprehensive about this day since soon after my husband died. He died when he was 36. And now I’ve caught up to him. And I hope I will be able to celebrate my next birthday, also, and maybe that one will feel even more strange. I’m not sure, but I welcome it all the same.

This was my second one without him. Last year, I slept most of the day. It was all I wanted to do—sleep. I took my kids to school and came back and crawled into bed. I had dream after dream about my husband. I often wonder: If I would have had the foresight to silence my phone, would it have been one nice, long dream? Because, instead, it was nightmares and sweet ones mixed up through the day.

Most of my dreams about him we never communicate. If I’m speaking, he isn’t looking at me. If he’s speaking, I can’t hear him. If I’m screaming for him, he can’t move. But that day. On my 35th birthday. One quick dream, unlike any other, happened. And based on how I remember it, it was right after I closed my eyes. And he appeared. He was right there. And he kissed my lips. We actually touched. And it was soft and sweet, but sent a chill through my body and I woke up. And I was cold. And I just curled up and cried. I didn’t fall back asleep after that. I tried. The dream only lasted a few seconds and I wanted more. But I got up, took a shower, and went to pick up my kids. Put on my happy face.

I took them to dinner, the same place we went this year. But this year I didn’t nap. I did something small for myself. Visited with a friend and enjoyed time with my kids. And I thought of the kiss he’d given me the year before. I am so glad I chose to sleep that birthday and was given the gift of a dream where we actually touched. One that wasn’t confusing or scary. We touched. And I’m thankful for that.

As a widow, we become thankful for our dreams. We hold onto them. It’s weird. It’s different. It always gets different.

Earlier this month, I posed the question: If you could ask your late spouse/your partner/the one who made you a widow one question, what would it be?

The answers varied. Some with anger, some with love. A couple people said they would ask nothing. I said I would just ask how he was feeling. How he was doing. And I stopped there. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the question all day. If he appeared to me right now, what would I say? And in my deepest heart of hearts, I believe I would simply say: Hey. How are you?

And I’d smile. And then we’d lay in bed togther, I would rest my head on his chest and we’d fall asleep. I would sleep deep and peacefully.

There are so many questions I could ask. There are so many issues left unresolved I could question him about. This and that and all that over there. But do those matter? If my husband appeared from the dead and I was given one question and a short amount of time and then he would vanish again, my stomach would drop, my heart wouldn’t know what to do, and my eyes would well up.

How are you?

Or

Are you okay?

And then lay down together, rest my head on his chest, place my hand over his heart, wrap my leg around his.

Breathe together.

And then I’d wake up and he’d be gone and I would know he was okay.

When I imagine that scenario, I still don’t hear him speak. He doesn’t respond. He appears. I smile and ask if he’s okay. We communicate with our eyes and body language, and then we breathe together one more time. He would know that I was okay. Even with everything thrown at me. Everything thrown on my kids. He would see what he’s always known: my life with him was always a choice and never a need.

And while that’s something I should be proud of, or something my feminist heart should gleam with joy, I still struggle with it everyday. I always chose my husband. He was always my choice. I still would choose him today. And I often wonder why.

It’s different. This widowing thing. It’s difficult. It doesn’t get easier. It doesn’t get harder. It keeps getting different. New firsts. New wonders. And instead of it filling you up, it empties you. And you feel that. That hollowness as if the wind could blow through you and you just keep walking. The chill is there. And it’s strange. And as soon as I get comfortable and accept the empty spots, it gets different again.

It’s a fucked up cycle of nightmares and sweet moments, confidence and insecurity, and embracing forward movement while resisting change.

My birthday just passed. I’m now the age my husband was when he died. I’ll soon celebrate my son’s birthday that he wasn’t able to do at 36. I’ll enjoy the holidays that he missed. We’ll bring in another new year. We’ll celebrate our first born’s birthday that he didn’t get a chance to do at 36. And then his birthday. And it’ll be another year that I say, “Daddy would be…”