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.
For the past month it has been difficult to ignore the father's day cards that existed on stands in shopping centres almost everywhere I looked. Mentally trying to prepare for the day “it’s just another day, no different from any other”.
When the day arrived I woke with that mindset, it’s just another day. I called my dad to wish him a great day and with that the memories from last father’s day flooded in.
Leaving the house to visit family, tears flowed and my mood became dark. Families were out and about riding their bikes together down the street, having breakfast in the park and living out their lives.
It hurt! Seeing smiling faces everywhere, I felt angry that I no longer have what they have.
My complete family.
I wondered do they even know how lucky they are.
Father’s day around our house was never a big production. I was usually the first to wake up in the house on any given day, creep downstairs, make myself some coffee, and watch or read the news until everyone else started stirring. I preferred it to be that way. I didn’t relish any extra attention placed upon me.
I appreciated every card or “Happy Father’s Day” I got, and every coffee mug or shirt that Shelby and Megan gave me on that day, but Father’s Day was just another Sunday to me, and I was just happy to have my family with me.
Last year though, it was different. I didn’t have my entire family. I woke up from an empty bed and walked downstairs, trying to have a “traditional” father’s day, but it wasn’t happening. I didn’t even write about it on here last year.Read more
For the past few weeks, I have become weary of this grief. It’s not that I want to deny or forget my husband. I am still talking to him and kissing his photo in the mornings. I still think of him many times throughout the day and remember his words and his mannerisms and the unique way he walked down the hill toward the car. It is just that the weight of grieving is so exhausting and relentless that, sometimes, it feels good to turn toward something else. My grief has felt, lately, like I am trudging up a steep path with a sack full of rocks upon my back. These days, I am still trudging up the path. But I have wanted to set aside that bag of rocks for awhile.Read more
It is now 3 years and almost 11 months (next week)since my beautiful husband left for work and never came home. In that time, I have (and still do) been to grief counseling weekly, tried many different widowed support groups, become a member of several online and in-person groups for widowed people, found support through Soaring Spirits and have given my comedic presentation at Camp Widow 6 times, written and performed a one-act, one-woman show about my husband's death, and - oh yeah - I'm still smack in the middle of writing a book. I have found many, many ways to grieve and process and begin the path to healing. On most typical days, I have the knowledge and feeling that although this is devastating and life-altering and the hardest thing I have ever been through, I will be okay. In the beginning, I did not believe this. I could not see that I would be okay, for a very long time. Until one day, I could. It will never be okay with me that he died, but I will be okay.
And so that leaves me with a very new kind of grief. It is a feeling I have felt before, many times actually. But it's stronger now. Lately, it is stronger, because my own grief is weakening and making room for other things. And right now, the main thing I keep asking myself is this: What about him? What about Don?Read more
Last Sunday was Father's Day.
A day that I try to put on a happy, life-can-still-be-good smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. A day that I try to acknowledge with the children in a way that is not morbid. A day that always makes me feel sad.
Not long after I woke, I heard sobs coming from my son's room. This is the child who was 5 when his hero died. This is the child who asks me to help him remember what his Daddy sounded like. The child who loves being compared with his father.
So I was gonna try and ignore Father’s Day.
It’s Father’s Day and my kids don’t have one.
I was gonna just treat it like every other Sunday only….