Tag Archives: widowhood

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.

Our New Life

I’m trying to start this post but all I can think of are cliches.

When Michael had his surgery in August 2015, we were so optimistic that it would end his cancer struggle. We were so looking forward to putting cancer behind us and moving forward with our lives.

Well, we did. Just not with our Daddy with us.

But I’m jumping ahead. After his surgery, Mike was trying really hard to get back in shape and get strong enough to go back to work. But no matter what he tried, he just couldn’t get his energy level up, couldn’t get his appetite to improve. About two months after Henry was born in October, Mike went in for a check up at the hospital. They did scans and found that the cancer had come back, his fourth diagnosis. We were crushed. Doctors started him on chemotherapy and radiation but by February 2016 they took away what little hope we had left. They said there was nothing more they could do for Michael and they gave him about 4 months left. By that time the cancer has spread into his liver, spine, pelvis, spleen cavity, lungs, ribs… There was just too much and his body couldn’t take any more, and the treatments weren’t working.

2016-03-16 09.10.05Unfortunately, by that time Michael was so weak, doing any exciting trips or vacations were really out of the realm of possibility. We spent quiet days at home with our new baby, took a couple short trips to nearby Palm Springs (Mike loved sitting in the heat by the pool) and just spent quality time with family and friends.

Less than three months after getting that news, my husband Michael passed away. He died at home on May 5th, 2016 at about 3 in the afternoon on a Thursday. I cried and cried over his body, not even caring who was around or who heard me, I clutched his hands, his arms, his legs, not wanting to believe he was cold and gone. After that outburst I went curiously numb and stayed that way for days.

We held his funeral a few days later on a Monday. I didn’t cry, I just felt numb. I think part of me didn’t want to accept that it was all over, that my life with him was all over. I had been with this person for the past 13 years of my life, since I was 17 years old. I’ve never been an adult without him. I really, really thought he would survive all this cancer and we would go on with our life. It would be a hard life and he would be disabled, but we would still be together.

Our former catering company donated the food for the event and a wedding event venue we used to work with graciously allowed us to use their facility for no fee, as well as a DJ. A lot of our friends and family were there, overall it was a very nice day.

It’s been over a month since he passed away and I’ve already hit a couple of milestones: his first birthday after his passing, the first father’s day. It’s been incredibly hard. Every day I have to convince myself to keep going, to take care of our son who’s just 8 months old. I miss Mike every day and I think about him and the life we had together all the time. I have a new life now, a life I never thought I would have, a life I never wanted.

2016-02-11 14.50.02When I pictured myself having children, I never expected to be doing it alone. I don’t think most single mothers do, but I was confident Michael and I would never split up. I know that Michael didn’t want to leave us and he desperately wanted to be a father. He would have given anything to be here to help me raise our son together. He was so looking forward to all the things he would teach our son one day. But now it will be up to me, and sometimes I’m overwhelmed by the prospect.

This is our new life, for better or for worse. Henry and Mama take on the world.

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