Finding My New Normal

It's been just a little over five months now since I lost my husband to pancreatic cancer.  In some ways, it feels so much longer.  It feels like an endless stretch of days without his input or guidance, his problem-solving skills, his companionship. I miss his laugh. His hugs. I miss watching television together, camping trips, and family vacations. I miss our talks about work, the kids, the grandbaby, and life in general. I miss him. I miss our life together. 

Strangely, I cry less now.  But it takes longer to fall asleep. 

There's a part of me that feels bad that I don't cry as often or as easily as I first did.  My tears seem to be held in reserve, appearing only when I stop to think about how much he is missing.  The main triggers are our boys and grandson. When I stop and think about how much Ken would have loved being able to be here and take part in their lives, my control lapses. It always makes me recall those heartwrenching conversations we had in his last few months. He was heartbroken by what he would miss should the cancer win. 

Weddings. 
Graduations.
Birthdays. 
Holidays.
New additions to the family.
Cheering from the sidelines.
Hunting trips.
Fishing trips. 
Watching Riley grow up. 

There are times when I'm babysitting that take my breath away and I find the tears falling without warning. Bittersweet moments for sure. For me, I feel so blessed to be able to witness our little man's growth, to feel his sticky fingers in mine, or to have his little head nestled on my shoulder while he falls asleep. For Ken, I feel only sorrow that he couldn't experience these precious moments and angry that cancer robbed him of all these opportunities. 

It's still so hard to believe any of this is real. He can't really be gone forever, can he?

Not that I don't have plenty of examples to share that show just how real it all is. Planning his memorial, navigating the financial implications of his passing, honoring his last wishes, dealing with bats in the attic, pre-buying propane for the winter ahead, transferring titles from his name to mine, trading in our camper and buying a small class C motorhome, mowing the lawn and doing some damage to the blades when I hit a giant rock by mistake..the list goes on. 

I think he would be proud of the decisions I've made and how much I've been able to accomplish. 

Granted, he probably is watching from that otherworldly realm and judging my lack of culinary skills.  Not that I mind my efforts, but I'm sure he would be appalled. He was such a foodie and I am not!

Of course, he wouldn't be happy with everything going on at home. He would be pissed about some interpersonal problems we're dealing with in the wake of his death. He'd be knocking heads together, which would likely be a lot more effective than my approach.  But I am who I am and he was who he was. We never approached the kids the same way. We each had our preferred method of communication and conflict resolution. Right now, if I'm honest, I think his way would have been more effective.  Instead, we muddle our way through and try to determine how we want our futures to look and feel. 

Learning to let the kids grieve in their own way has been hard. The one I thought would be angry is depressed and the one I feared would be severely depressed is angry.  Grief is strange. It's such an isolating experience even when you struggle to stay connected to those most important to you. The source of our grief is the same but our emotional and mental states are so different. We are grieving in tandem but from different vantages. It makes his loss even more difficult to navigate.