Next week will be two months since I lost Den, and the last ten days have been the worst since the day my life changed forever.
Insomnia, memory lapses, indecision, and the mother of all Fibromyalgia flare-ups only serve to exacerbate my grief and leave me unable to move forward… or at all.
There are bright spots when my sons pop up giving me a reason to laugh… and cook, or my daughter calls from the midwest and I remember how blessed I am to be a mom.
But they have lives and their own grief to work through, and as much as I love having them home, I don’t need or want a babysitter.
Not that they haven’t tried, bless their hearts. Their love and support mean everything, but this part of the journey–transitioning from wife to widow–I have to do alone.
So far, I suck at it. Den would not be pleased. He said I was the most stubborn woman on the planet and I bull-dozed obstacles out of my way. Actually, he called me cantankerous.
Who uses that word in the 21st Century?
My late husband, Lord of the Geeks.
So, I must do better.
I have to stop fighting the grief. I must allow the pain to wash over and through me. It will never be washed away, but enough will be spent so the love we shared can fill me and lift me up and help me to move on.
Just as it did for the last thirty-five years.
Image from Pinterest