Transitions

The numbness isn’t here anymore and the memories are clear. As I approach three years of my husband dying, I find it harder and harder to talk to people who recently lost their partner.
I can do it with a deep breath and a crack of my neck. Roll my shoulders and shake the memories to the side. But even with all the progress I’ve made, my chest moves faster and my eyes well up quicker when I read a story in the news, watch a scene in a movie, or speak with widowed people who lost their person within months. I know the heartache that lies ahead and it’s difficult to look them in the eye without revealing that truth. 

Right now I’m running for a seat on my local school board. I’ve done this before. It’s a passion of mine that remains with my core. The last time I ran a campaign, four years ago, my husband was here. As I look at the calendar of all the dates ahead, I first see registration deadlines, voting dates, social events, and Election Day. Then I see my birthday approaching when I’ll become the age he was when he died, our anniversary, the day of his accident, the day of his death, the weekend of his funeral, and my children’s eyes throughout it all.

Once I shake my brain away from those images, I think back to four years ago: What we were doing together while I was looking ahead to registration deadlines, voting dates, social events, and Election Day. How our family laughed. How our dinners looked. I remember every argument and every laugh. I remember it being one of the most challenging times in our marriage. And I remember the words and laughs shared on election night. I remember how he helped and how he didn’t. I remember the fall season of 2017 and when he bought me roses and why. 

I also remember the white orchid my friend gifted me that year for my birthday. My husband always bought me roses. While roses are beautiful and I appreciate them, orchids are my favorite flower. And I remember being so happy about that orchid. It was such a sweet, unexpected and thoughtful gift. When I showed it to my husband, he didn’t say anything. I rolled my eyes as I made it the centerpiece of our table. 

The woman who gifted me that orchid is the same friend who drove me to and from the hospital, hours away, a little over a year later, knowing we were driving for me to say goodbye and let him go. She took care of my kids that night at the hotel while I sat next to my husband and talked to doctors and nurses and tried to explain as much as I could to family. She’s the friend who sat in the car while I told my boys daddy wasn’t ever coming home. She’s the friend who is now one of my main supports through my campaign. 

I’ve always been one to say that your eyes do not lie. Mine tell a story with every picture I take. And I notice that in the pictures of so many others. The depth. The warmth. The sorrow. The joy. The aches. The beauty. We can control our smiles, words, and posture; but we cannot hide the story of our eyes. Not from those who know us. The horror and beauty of intimacy.
And sometimes, after meeting someone newly widowed, I briefly wonder what story they noticed in my eyes. 

Those dates and memories and flashbacks that are currently happening when I look at the fall calendar—the joy and the sorrow, the hope and excitement, the missing person to bounce my plans off of as they come to me late at night—have a blooming white orchid jutting out between every scene. It’s a quick, maybe 15 seconds, slideshow with an orchid as its transition. And while I know my eyes say so much, I hope they only catch that white, blooming orchid with hints of yellow. Completely natural, growing, and excited for the days ahead.