Still Standing

That was me. The one who had a fever, too. Sitting on the couch, unable to eat for days. Knowing I was sick and thinking about him. Would he get a meal for himself? I really should get up. Take out the trash or get dressed or unpack another box or go back to bed. The “shoulds” swirling around my brain like the fog I was living in. Finally, when I couldn’t find the strength to walk across the room anymore, leaning on the bathroom counter for support, I whispered, “Uncle.” 

Making it back to bed in the middle of that night, I told Rob, “We have to go to a doctor tomorrow.” “We do?” he replied from deep inside his own fog. “Yes, Baby,” I told him in weariness, “it’s time.”

It was past time. The first doctor sent us home and added to the lost time. When the ambulances came the next day, we were out of time. And now time is all I have left of Rob and our life. Time to think and blame myself for not acting sooner. I have faced my own condemnation and wondered how I will survive this. For seven months, I’ve relived it all again and again, and this morning as I woke up in neck pain, surrendering to insistent daylight and a rainy morning, I got out of bed and watched my perspective unexpectedly shift.

There is no blame.

For the first time, it dawned on me. Rob didn’t tell me to go see a doctor about my fever. Nor did he look someone up to treat his own symptoms. We just didn’t know. We were living in a fog.

I took off my wedding ring the day he died and replaced it with his. It made me feel close to him as I remembered the way it looked on his finger. I didn’t feel married anymore. I felt lost. Stunned. Caught up in some kind of tornado that wouldn’t let me go, twisted in guilt over a loss I couldn’t stop but thought I should have. This morning, after all I’ve had to live in the aftershocks of his death, I set his ring on my shelf and replaced it with the one he gave to me. And I stood up straight.

Listen to me, baby girl, I told myself this morning. You don’t have to be strong.

You don’t have to be brave. Or courageous.

You can be weak. Broken. Hurting.

You can sit in the confusion for as long as it takes.

Grieve for as long as you live.

Miss him and his beautiful eyes for the rest of your life.

You don’t have to explain anything to anyone. Their approval is a luxury you can live without.

You know your heart. You know what happened. You know his heart. “We don’t owe anyone any explanations,” he always said. “This is our life.”

He’s still yours. Your one and only. You’re still his. His one and only.

This story belongs only to you. No one else has the right to edit it. Not unless they want to switch places with you.

You’ve walked through the fire. Lived through the pain. You wear the scars. Stood at his grave, winced as they rang the bell, and listened as the last call for Chief Robert McLeod echoed, unanswered, across the cemetery.

You left half your heart lying at the base of the headstone bearing his name. And yours.

You have faced your worst fear and you are still standing. Leaning, sometimes, but still standing. No one else could have handled this as you have. No one else knows what it feels like to have been loved by Rob and then to lose him.

For all you have walked through and suffered and faced in this, the biggest tragedy of your life, stand tall, knowing he’s proud of you.

Be proud of yourself. You were the wife and lover and best friend he adored. And he still does.