Before & After

Four years ago today, in a sunny hospital room around noon, I became a widow.  As I was busy setting up my laptop in my"space" in my husband's room, chattering away at him about dropping the kids off for their first days of school (4th grade and pre-K), their outfits and hopes and fears about their days, how the morning had gone, and dinner plans - my husband died.  With me prattling on about my day, he took his last breaths on this earth.  At that moment, my life became two parts: the Before and the After. 

Before, I was going to sit by my husband's side all day, talking to him as I always did - sure he could still hear me, though medication and active dying had rendered him unconscious, bristling at the uncertainty of how much time he had left; hoping to catch up with my favorite nurses; getting a report from the doctor; and looking forward to hearing about the kids' days after I picked them up. 

After, nothing.  I sat, laptop long forgotten, doctors and nurses in and out, expressing their sorrow to me, their kindest voices and saddest faces on display. Knowing I needed to call people, but also needing to just sit and be in this moment. 

 

Before, I was part of a family - mom, dad, two kids, a dog, a house, a mortgage, two cars, a garden.  

After, I was a widow.  A single parent. No need for that second car. No time for the garden. 

Before, I had plans for the future: house renovations, craft projects, how to swing that Disney trip for the kids, girls nights, date nights.  

After, I had other plans: a funeral,  a wake, a will, find all the pictures I could, see if I could keep my job without being in the office for 40 hours a week, find counseling for the kids. 

Before, I was a normal girl headed for middle age, worried about the work-life balance and what to make for dinner every night.  After, I was the most not-normal girl - a widow in my early 40s worried about every single thing under the sun.  

It's said life changes in the blink of an eye, and it could not be truer.  The finality of a death, no matter how expected, is jarring. Its' ripple effects continue to rock and unsettle us for longer than we think.  Years later, the most innocuous thing will jolt us back to that moment with alarming clarity.  

The good news is, with the passage of time, those jarring moments are often tempered by the sweetness of memories and love.  You remember the shock and overwhelming sadness, but you also remember the love.  You remember why this person's loss is so deeply felt. I call it the Bittersweet. It's when the sweet of your love and memories are felt before the bitter sting of the loss.  It takes a long time to get to the Bittersweet, and it's normal to backtrack from there, too.  But, you can always find your way back....because where there is grief, there is love. And love is too sweet to ever be lost.  

After, I remember the love every day. I see it in the faces of my sweet children, I hear it in their memories and the memories and stories of their dad I share with them often. I can see pictures and smile remembering when they were taken. The love is often accompanied by waves of grief, and the bitter still stings before the sweet often.  But there is always love, and that makes days like this, the anniversary of the day my sweet husband died and my life became The After, easier to bear.  

So today I honor The Before - the life and love I had with Mike, our children, our hopes and dreams for our future. I smile at the happy memories, and I cry at the sad ones. I weep for a life cut too short, and I smile for a life I was blessed to know.  I am grateful for the journey...the memories....and always, the love.  

"As long as we can love each other, and remember the feeling of love we had, we can die without ever going away. All the love you created is still there. All the memories are still there. You live on in the hearts of everyone you have touched and nurtured while you were here. Death ends a life, not a relationship."  - Morrie Schwartz