They lied. It’s not so hard having no reason to get up in the morning. I can stay in bed, under the influence of sleeping tablets and sleep all day. There is no need to think about him because I’ve drugged myself past all that.
It’s not so hard feeling free to leave the house. The tough part is to stop looking at my watch and panicking when an hour has passed. The really tough part is having nowhere to go and nothing to do once I’m out.
It’s not so hard knowing he’s not here. The hard part is constantly looking at where his hospital bed used to be and wondering why I can’t bring myself to fill the space with anything else. It’s hard to stop calling the pharmacy to see if his medications are ready when he no longer needs them.
It wasn’t so hard, okay, maybe it was, letting the men from the crematorium take his body. The really hard part was receiving the ashes in a tiny box, to try and understand that the physical man I loved, who gave me children, who laughed and cried with me, who held me through the tough times and celebrated the good could fit in that tiny black box.
It wasn’t hard to accept the condolences of friends and relatives once I got past the crying. The worst was the hugs that felt strange because his arms should have been around me. Theirs held no comfort.
It wasn’t so hard laughing for the first time after his death. The hard part was the guilt that ripped through me and turned the laughter to hoarse sobs wracking my body.
Getting rid of his clothes? Easy, once I screamed at him “You left me! Why did you leave me? You promised to be with me until do us part, but I thought we would have so much longer. I tried, oh, my God, I tried to make you better, but you died anyway. Why did you go?” As I screamed, I ripped his clothes, the clothes he would never again wear, from the hangers wanting to hurt something as much as I hurt. The hard part was watching my children’s faces as I ranted at their dead father while throwing his clothes across the room, sounding like a banshee, when pain shredded my heart. After that they took over sorting and getting rid of his belongings, so see, it wasn’t that hard.
Getting over him being with his Heavenly Father wasn’t that hard. Giving him up completely to his Heavenly Father was hell – necessary, but hell. Listening for him to call me at night, hearing nothing, but waking anyway, that was hard.
Being a good mother for my children wasn’t hard. It was impossible after my heart was ripped out on April 25, 2012 when my husband gave up his long fight. Thankfully, they waited patiently for my mothering instincts to rise once more.
Deciding what to do with his ashes wasn’t hard. He loved the ocean and all the life there. He would have loved becoming a part of a new reef bringing new life to the Gulf of Mexico. The hard part was knowing I would not be there with him.
So, you see, they, the mysterious ‘they’ lied. Losing a loved one is not hard. Continuing to live without them is the hard part. For awhile you believe you died, too. Then the searing guilt for even thinking about doing anything other than crying for them renders you into rags. Anger strips you of any dignity and sadly, rips it from him, too. Depression takes over from the anger and drags you to the point you care about nothing and no one around you; you want the peace he reached.
My dad gave in to depression over Mom’s death and five years later took his own life. I hope I find the strength to live, gather my babies close and spread the love I had and have for their father over them.
No, it’s not hard losing my husband. It is a challenge I never wanted to face.
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