Tag Archives: grief

My First Wedding Anniversary without My Husband

As you may know, my husband passed away last May after a prolonged battle with cancer. Our wedding anniversary was on January 17, and I wrote this on Facebook to mark the occasion.

Today would have been our 8th wedding anniversary and 14 years of being together, since we were seniors in high school in 2003. It’s the first one I’m spending without you and I have to admit, it’s hit me harder than any of the other “firsts.” On this day 8 years ago, we thought we had the rest of our lives together. We thought we’d grow old and die far, far in the future. It wasn’t as far away as we’d hoped.

Today I planned on cooking a good meal that you would have liked and thinking back on our wedding day (what an awesome wedding it was!) to honor you and your memory. But, life happened. Grief has been clouding my mind, making it hard for me to sleep and keep up with life so I spent most of the day watching Henry play from the couch, and napping while he napped. Now Henry is down for the night and I have to do some chores that can’t be put off any longer. I know going on living my life is honoring you, too, because that’s what you wanted Henry and me, and everyone who loved you, to do.

This first picture is of you seeing me at our wedding for the first time. I’ll never forget how amazed you looked and how loved you made me feel. After this we went for a walk on the beach and took some pictures, then went back to the hotel and started the ceremony. I was so happy and excited to marry you that I couldn’t stop laughing throughout our vows. I’ll always remember our wedding day as one of the best days of my life. Thank you Michael for loving me so well and letting me love you, too. I miss you every day.

Henry’s First Birthday

Henry and I on his birthday. We had a Halloween costume party.

Henry and I on his birthday. We had a Halloween costume party.


Our son Henry’s first birthday was a couple of weeks ago. My late husband Michael has a huge family so we ended up having a pretty large party. I usually enjoy party planning but I have to admit, I didn’t put as much effort and joy into planning this one. It’s understandable and I’m not beating myself up about it.

I was really dreading both days, his actual birthday and his party, from a grief perspective, but both ended up being a good days. I was afraid that I would be overwhelmed by grief and feelings of loneliness and sadness, and those feelings were there, but they were manageable.

Another milestone behind us. From here on out it’s a milestone a month until May. Thanksgiving, Christmas, our anniversary, Valentines, my birthday, Easter, and then the one year anniversary of Mike’s death. Although it sounds difficult and I’m sure it will be, in some ways it won’t be much different. Every month I realize that another 30 days has gone by without my husband, I grieve for time passing. Every day takes me further and further away from a time when my husband was alive and we were happy. A time when I felt whole and hopeful.

When Michael died, I lost that hope that the future will be better. Now the future just is. I don’t know if I can be happy as a widow, without my husband by my side. But I have to try, for my son’s sake. Even though I have every reason and justification in the world to let myself live in sadness and grief, I don’t want my son to grow up with a perpetually depressed mother. Sometimes I will be sad and that’s unavoidable, maybe I will even be sad more often than other mothers, but I have to try to be happy, too. I want him to have a happy childhood despite not having a father. And the only way to do that is to be happy myself, too. So I’ll try, one day at a time.

Almost Four Months Out

Just a warning: there will be expletives ahead. I’m not apologizing because I’m an adult and I can use expletives if I want. Just fair warning if that sort of language bothers you. On with the show.

I’m almost four months out from my husband Mike’s death and it still gets me every once in a while: this feeling of utter disbelief that he’s dead and gone. I’ll be doing something mundane and it will just hit me, I can’t believe he’s fucking gone! I can’t fucking believe this is my life now! I’m never going to see his smile again, hear him say my name, hold his hand. That part of my life, the part I shared with my soulmate, is over and done.

Today my son was playing with some toys while I dozed nearby (give me a break, he woke up at 4:30am for the second day in a row). All of a sudden, I’m not sure if it was a combination sounds made by the TV, a toy and/or him, but I could have sworn I heard my husband calling my name. I jolted awake, sat bolt upright and looked around. My heart was pounding and my throat constricted. It sounded so like him but I soon realized it wasn’t, it was a combination of my drowsiness and environmental sounds that came together and tricked me; it wasn’t real.

That moment of realization, of remembering your life is missing a core element, can be very painful, especially in the beginning. In first days of my bereavement it could absolutely gut me and sometimes it still does. I wished for death more than once, not because I wanted to die, I just wanted to be wherever he was. As an agnostic this part is even more difficult. I don’t want to think that my husband just ceased to be, it’s incredibly painful to think there’s no part of him still existing somehow, somewhere. So I waver between letting myself believe his consciousness is in some kind of afterlife and facing what I believe to be the truth, that he really is just gone. Some days it’s too painful to be truthful with myself, so I believe the lie for a little while. But it never lasts.

I know this is all normal, as my therapist and multiple bereavement books tell me. But sometimes I get tired of being sad and crying; it feels like I’ve cried everyday since November 7, 2013 when the doctors told Michael and I he had cancer again after 11 years of remission. I want to move on, but at the same time I am not ready yet. I always feel this push and pull. I’m learning to be patient but it’s always a challenge.

This time last year I was heavily pregnant, just about six weeks away from delivering our first child, our son. Michael was recovering from his last surgery and we were hopeful it would be the end of cancer treatment. What a difference a year makes.