For anyone new to this blog, my husband Mike died in 2013 of a heart attack in his sleep. Finding him the next morning is a horrific memory I will carry with me always.
He had heart problems, to be sure, but I didn’t really know the extent of it. I’m not sure whether he did either. He hated doctors and hospitals, and I often wonder if he had sought good regular care he might have had a longer life. I also often wonder if I had known more about his condition and what to do in terms of diet and supplementation whether it would have made any difference.
In life, in culture, we are encouraged to connect with others, with community. As girls, we imagine who we’re going to marry (a high percentage of us anyways). Who will we fall in love with? We date, fall in love, get engaged, marry, and build a deep connection to our person, and society applauds us. Then our person dies and we’re heartbroken, devastated, and we often experience great difficulty in going on, in creating a new life for ourselves. And that same society that applauded our successful connection now sits in judgement and not so subtly encourages us to medicate our grief. We must let go, we’re told. You’re grieving too long.
Father’s Day 2017. For once, we had a weekend day where there was nothing to do. We had visited with both mine and Megan’s dads on Saturday, specifically planning to have an open day wedged into the seemingly constant stream of other events that have been taking time on our weekends together.
Sarah was awake and moving well before i was (a fairly rare occurrence), and Shelby slept until 10:30 in the morning (smashing her previous record of 9:45). We sat out on the deck, listened to music, and did nothing….glorious, breathtaking nothing.
Then Shelby presented me with a letter she wrote.