Metamorphosis

It’s like a horrible metamorphosis, this new life I didn’t ask for. I read that I’ll never be the same again. I’m already not the same. I don’t think I can even remember what ‘the same’ used to feel like, it’s been so long since I did something as boring and predictable as sitting on the same sofa with my husband.

My husband. My partner. My love. My world. Gone.

I can’t describe how hard it is to take this in. I keep trying for . . . some reason. But every time I look at his photo, he looks so alive. Except he’s not really looking at me now. Every time I pick up his favorite shirt and smell it, it’s almost, almost, as if my face is against his shoulder again and I’m breathing in his scent. Except the shirt is empty and folded and in a second I’ll be sobbing and put it back in my drawer until the next time I decide to torture myself again.

I’m watching a funny movie, trying to distract myself, laugh again, and suddenly something reminds me of what we once had and I’m bawling. Missing Rob. Right in the middle of a punchline. A light went on in my mind and I saw as if for the first time that he’s not here. Only it’s the millionth time I’ve seen it for the first time. He will never be here again. I say it out loud so that maybe I’ll believe it and maybe when the light goes on the next time I can answer, “I know. You can’t shock me anymore.”

But it doesn’t work. It just makes the hole in my heart bigger and the pain deeper and I wish I’d never repeated that five times out loud. There must be a short in that light—every single freaking time it goes on, it shocks me all over again.

I’m moving forward. At the speed of sloth. I’ve come far, I guess, but I think it’s only because of how many days have passed since Rob . . . passed. God, I can’t believe I’m writing that. Some nights, like this one, I just weep and wait, hoping for hope, praying I’ll stop crying, find some calm in this storm.

I know I’m not alone. Jesus lives in me. God is holding me. My family is here and we support each other. But the one I most want to be with is missing. And I miss him. I keep saying it into the air, hoping it will reach him and he’ll hear again how much I love him and wish this had never happened.

There’s no way around this grief, my counselor says, you can only go through it. Be compassionate with yourself, she reminds during every session. It hasn’t been that long. You’re doing it. You’re doing great. The encouragements . . . encourage. They help me allow this grieving to take as long as it takes, even though I feel like I’m never going to get through it.

But there’s a sad irony in knowing I’m normal. That this is what grief looks like. That I’m doing great.

I don’t want to be great . . . at this.

My gratitude to the talents of Richard Leeming and for his permission to use the above photo for this blog post. You can view the original by following this link: light | Richard Leeming | Flickr