The necklace with his ring on it is sitting on my bathroom counter amongst a pile of random jewelry that I haven’t gotten around to putting back in its proper place in my jewelry box. I took it off 9 days ago. I thought I’d make it to a year at least before I decided I didn’t need the weight of its security around my neck.
I took it off mainly because I got sunburned that weekend and it was irritating the back of my neck. I had intentions of putting it back on when my sunburned faded. But I didn’t. And I’m okay with that.
At least I feel like I’m okay with it. I haven’t missed it over the past 9 days. I’ve enjoyed being able to wear some of my other necklaces that have been patiently waiting their turn in my jewelry box.
But. Ever the analytical one, I worry that I’m just deluding myself into thinking I’m more healed than I am. I worry that I’m not really working the grief these days, but just putting it on a shelf to deal with later. I’m afraid that I feel too okay about this. I worry that I should not be doing so well. I feel like I should be hurting more. I should be searching for joy, not already finding it. I should be hoping for peace, not experiencing it. I should be wracked with guilt about disconnecting from him, even if it’s only in a symbolic way; not resigned to the quiet acceptance of it.
What I’ve realized is that holding onto the tangible doesn’t make him any less intangible. Wearing his necklace with his ring on it, continuing to wear my wedding ring, keeping his clothes in the closet right where he left them…none of it means that he’s not gone.
My biggest fear is that the more I heal, the more I fear I will forget him.
And that is what makes the pain return and the tears fall.
The thought of him being just a faded memory when all I want is for him to still be vivid,
and real,
and tangible.
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Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Passing through...
I traveled out of my comfort zone today. I drove two-lane back country roads to a small town in Texas with a population of less than 1000. It was the same route I drove countless days to and from work over 4 years ago. It was the same area that Andie once patrolled while on duty. I couldn't help but think that I was following the very path he did on many days. Wondering what he was thinking as he saw the very same things I saw today while he was just passing through...
A bucolic setting; most of the drive picturesque farmland and pastures. I passed some corn fields. Freshly baled hay. Horses and cows grazing. I drove past the house of the deputy who was recently reassigned Andie's unit number and thought about how time keeps moving and doesn't stop on account of the mourning. I flashed back to how sucker-punched I felt the day I found out that his number had been reassigned. Some other deputy would be checking on the radio as unit 146...he essentially no longer existed even as a number.
I drove past an old man driving a tractor down the road. He waved in a true friendly Texas fashion. I passed the truck stop where Andie used to get free coffee every morning that he was on duty. I again pass another old man driving a tractor down the road and marvel that some of the old ways of life still exist. The winding, curvy road takes me through a small town of less than 500. Most of the crossroads I pass are named after people. Mostly of Polish decent. Those who settled this area centuries ago. Again, I am reminded that time keeps moving. None of those who settled the area and had roads named after them are still here. It feels like a whole other lifetime that I once traveled these roads on a daily basis. It was a different life for me then...one I seemed to just pass through.
I traveled this way today to pay respects to a former colleague who passed away earlier this week. Another young husband and father taken too soon from his family. It was the first memorial service I have attended since my own husband's. I held myself together pretty well. My eyes welled up with tears when they played one of the same songs that was played at Andie's funeral, but my breath didn't catch in my throat until I talked to his wife. Until I had to look her in the eye.
In her eyes I saw the shock and devastation. I saw a woman who could not yet comprehend what her life was becoming. I saw what the rest of the world calls "strong" as she held herself together and greeted everyone. I know the truth behind that strength. I know she is merely surviving, existing, breathing. In her eyes I saw the searching...searching for reassurance that she is in a nightmare and none of this is real. Searching for comfort. Searching for answers.
In her eyes I saw me...
A bucolic setting; most of the drive picturesque farmland and pastures. I passed some corn fields. Freshly baled hay. Horses and cows grazing. I drove past the house of the deputy who was recently reassigned Andie's unit number and thought about how time keeps moving and doesn't stop on account of the mourning. I flashed back to how sucker-punched I felt the day I found out that his number had been reassigned. Some other deputy would be checking on the radio as unit 146...he essentially no longer existed even as a number.
I drove past an old man driving a tractor down the road. He waved in a true friendly Texas fashion. I passed the truck stop where Andie used to get free coffee every morning that he was on duty. I again pass another old man driving a tractor down the road and marvel that some of the old ways of life still exist. The winding, curvy road takes me through a small town of less than 500. Most of the crossroads I pass are named after people. Mostly of Polish decent. Those who settled this area centuries ago. Again, I am reminded that time keeps moving. None of those who settled the area and had roads named after them are still here. It feels like a whole other lifetime that I once traveled these roads on a daily basis. It was a different life for me then...one I seemed to just pass through.
I traveled this way today to pay respects to a former colleague who passed away earlier this week. Another young husband and father taken too soon from his family. It was the first memorial service I have attended since my own husband's. I held myself together pretty well. My eyes welled up with tears when they played one of the same songs that was played at Andie's funeral, but my breath didn't catch in my throat until I talked to his wife. Until I had to look her in the eye.
In her eyes I saw the shock and devastation. I saw a woman who could not yet comprehend what her life was becoming. I saw what the rest of the world calls "strong" as she held herself together and greeted everyone. I know the truth behind that strength. I know she is merely surviving, existing, breathing. In her eyes I saw the searching...searching for reassurance that she is in a nightmare and none of this is real. Searching for comfort. Searching for answers.
In her eyes I saw me...
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Survivor
Yesterday I had to get my tire replaced. It had an industrial staple in the side and couldn’t be patched. So I had to buy a whole new tire. This was of course something Andie would’ve handled.
The attendant at the tire store started asking me questions about the car and our previous service there. He looked up the account under my name but didn’t find anything. He searched by my last name and remarked that there were a lot of “Simmons” in the system. “Well, if you have an Andie, that was my husband,” I replied. Before I could catch myself I referred to him in the past tense. The attendant caught my slip. “Did you say was?” he said as he glances at the ring on my finger. Crap. I hate when I do this. I had been referring to him in the present tense to avoid this very conversation.
I tell him my husband passed away 9 months ago. He offers heartfelt condolences and seems shocked beyond belief. So shocked he remarks about how young I am and asks my age. “What are you, 25? 27?” I tell him I’m 30, my husband was only 34. He wants to know if he was in the military. No, he had a heart condition. I’m barely holding back tears at this point. Luckily, he changes the subject back to the car. He goes out to the car to check the mileage giving me a second to compose myself. When he comes back in he asks if I have kids. I think his knees almost buckled when I told him I have 19 month old twins. Again we go through the rounds of condolences and look of utter shock on his face. “You are one strong woman,” he tells me. I chuckle at this thinking to myself that being a survivor doesn't necessarily make you strong. “I just do what I have to do,” I reply. Holding back tears once again, cause when I hear it all spoken out loud it’s just so damn sad. And so unreal...
Yep, I just do what I have to do. Like take the car to the tire store to get a new tire. And tell people over and over that my husband is dead. And tell myself over and over that my husband is dead. And try to remember that when the car hits 55,000 miles I will need all new tires, and will need to rotate the one I bought yesterday to the front. And I keep surviving.
I just do what I have to do…
Cause he’s not here to do it for me anymore.
The attendant at the tire store started asking me questions about the car and our previous service there. He looked up the account under my name but didn’t find anything. He searched by my last name and remarked that there were a lot of “Simmons” in the system. “Well, if you have an Andie, that was my husband,” I replied. Before I could catch myself I referred to him in the past tense. The attendant caught my slip. “Did you say was?” he said as he glances at the ring on my finger. Crap. I hate when I do this. I had been referring to him in the present tense to avoid this very conversation.
I tell him my husband passed away 9 months ago. He offers heartfelt condolences and seems shocked beyond belief. So shocked he remarks about how young I am and asks my age. “What are you, 25? 27?” I tell him I’m 30, my husband was only 34. He wants to know if he was in the military. No, he had a heart condition. I’m barely holding back tears at this point. Luckily, he changes the subject back to the car. He goes out to the car to check the mileage giving me a second to compose myself. When he comes back in he asks if I have kids. I think his knees almost buckled when I told him I have 19 month old twins. Again we go through the rounds of condolences and look of utter shock on his face. “You are one strong woman,” he tells me. I chuckle at this thinking to myself that being a survivor doesn't necessarily make you strong. “I just do what I have to do,” I reply. Holding back tears once again, cause when I hear it all spoken out loud it’s just so damn sad. And so unreal...
Yep, I just do what I have to do. Like take the car to the tire store to get a new tire. And tell people over and over that my husband is dead. And tell myself over and over that my husband is dead. And try to remember that when the car hits 55,000 miles I will need all new tires, and will need to rotate the one I bought yesterday to the front. And I keep surviving.
I just do what I have to do…
Cause he’s not here to do it for me anymore.
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