10 Months Ago

This week's post from Mari shares some raw memories of the moments she shared with her husband in the hospital just after his death.  If you are feeling vulnerable in your own grief experience today, please either proceed with caution or know that as an act of self-care it's OK to choose not to read today's post.  

It’s been 10 months since I saw you leave this world. It still doesn’t feel real that you are no longer here. Flashbacks of that horrible day haunt my mind every day. I try not to think of it, but those memories keep coming back. I remember that day when the hospital nurse kept calling me to go see you. I didn’t even want to answer the call, because I knew you were leaving me. I didn’t want this to be true. I remember driving to the hospital to go see you with our baby girl. I remember being in a state of shock and disbelief that this was even possible. That you were not going to make it. All I kept hearing on that drive was our daughter say “papa, papa”, as we were going to you. I remember stopping at a stoplight, and something felt different. I looked at the sky and feared the worst. As I parked at the hospital, I couldn’t bring myself in to go see you. I knew that if I went in there, there was no going back. With help, I was finally able to enter the hospital. As I walked into the area to enter your unit, I saw two individuals standing in front of me. They said, “He passed away at 9:05 am”. 

My body, brain, and heart went into shock. My worst fear and reality had come true. You had left this earth. As they walked me to where you were, I sat outside your room with our baby in her stroller. I cried so much, and I couldn’t have the strength to face your lifeless body. I sat outside your room, which felt life forever. I finally walked into your room, and you didn’t look like the man I had said goodbye to that October morning. Part of me died that day. 

I remember seeing the look in your eyes, it was the same look my father had four months prior when he passed. It was a look of emptiness and peace. You were no longer struggling and suffering. I remember kissing the stubble on your face and feeling your cold cheek. To this day, I remember that moment and feeling exactly as I felt it that day. I could never touch you or feel your warmth ever again. My life from that day forward would never be the same.

Seeing you that day still haunts me every day. I will never understand why this happened, but part of my soul went with you that day. And part of it stayed here on earth, with our baby girl. It’s hard to live without you every day, but somehow, someway I am doing it. I want to honor you in the best way possible. And that is to be the best mother to our daughter. I want to enjoy her for the both of us, and raise her how we had talked about. Ten months ago, your physical body left us. But your love and the memories you gave us will forever and always be with me. Till we meet again, my love. 

 

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  • Mari Posa
    commented 2019-09-01 22:46:05 -0700
    Thank you for your comments Cathy and Youn. These memories will be with us for the rest of our lives. Thank you for sharing with me parts of your vivid memories. Your comments help me feel less alone with what I’m going through.
  • Youn Lee
    commented 2019-09-01 08:11:01 -0700
    I feel what you are going through Mari. Your post reminds me of the heavy look on the policeman’s face before passing the news and my husband’s warm cheek that I didn’t want to let go. The determination to honour him and try to raise the boys as similar to how it would have been with him as possible (although impossible) has varing analgesic effects over the past 53 months, ranging from mountains to valleys at different times. I am not sure why fine people are taken far too early from us, although some say there’s a reason for everything.
  • Cathy
    commented 2019-08-29 19:37:31 -0700
    Welcome, Mari, so sorry for your loss, and your daughters’, and that you are joining us. No matter 10 days 10 months or 10 years (which is looming in front of me) I can go back to the day he died and remember the day vividly, thinking “this can’t be happening…but it is”, and it did. It’s forever etched in my memory, 9:05 pm for me. It’s not in the forefront every moment of every day anymore, but yes, life is never the same without them here.