There is a wholly and completely different kind of grief that begins to happen after the dust settles on a loved one’s passing. One that happens slowly and transformatively over the years that follow. It is an open wound of everything we miss out on together as a family. Some of the most monumental and even happy days of my life have happened in the almost eight years since losing my husband, and that is a painful fact. The anticipatory anxiety of these events is sometimes enough to put a chokehold on me. Our daughter will soon be graduating from my husband's alma mater; just the thought of watching her walk across the stage without him by my side leaves me with a lump in my throat and tears welling in my eyes. She will continue her academic journey following a childhood dream that her dad knew well. Watching her hard work and endurance to get to this point would make him so proud. Yet he is not here, so I carry the weight of his love and pride for her and my two other beautiful children on my shoulders. And I carry it proudly.
I love them fiercely as any mother does, but I also embody another kind of love as a solo parent, perhaps guided by fear and loss. As May begins to approach, the bandage is ripped off, and my wound is left open once again. That dreadful feeling begins to settle in, waiting for his Yahrzeit, reliving the 21 days he spent in hospice. It is a pain that can't be described in words, and only those who have survived and been transformed by it can fully understand. We will all be faced with the loss of loved ones in our lives, as love is a gift and not one for us to keep. Death teaches us to hold on tightly for the time we are given and be grateful, for the days are counted. This time can never be given back.
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