About grief.

My husband, Shane, died.  He died in our bed on Tuesday, October 28th, 2008 @ 5:43 a.m.  He died while I held him.  He died while my 12 year old son tried to help me revive him.  He died whilst our 4 year old son danced around the end of the bed and while our 2 year old son slept in the room next door.  HE DIED.  Sometimes, I still can't wrap my head around this simple fact.  Sometimes, I can.  Most of the time I just feel like I am living on a different planet.

Grief for me has been fleeting.  It has been an emotion I *try* to face head on.  It comes and goes and has never entirely held me in it's grips.  I have always carried on and gotten out of bed to face everyday since he left me.  I don't remember crying much that day.  I do remember them taking his lifeless body from me with the kind of clarity I can remember my babies being born.  I do not remember every single person that came through the line at the funeral home, but I remember those people who were just as upset as I that they had also lost a best friend, a brother because if you knew Shane you had a brother in him.  He gave all of himself to everyone.

I have thought of him every single one of the 413 days he has been gone.  I still expect him to come home to me, even when I know he isn't.  I miss the laughter, the hugs, his wise cracks, his smell, his voice, his cooking, his sometimes general laziness, how good he was at golf and baseball and being a dad.  I miss how fantastic of a husband and person he was.  Everyone who knew him loved him.  He was so smart, loyal, kind, funny, trustworthy, and my God he remembered everything.  EVERYTHING.

I have only been to the cemetery 3 times since he passed.  I feel like he is not there and I do not need that piece of land that houses his body to be how I remember him.  I remember him in my children's eyes, because every time I look at them I see him.

But I do find myself forgetting things and this crushes me.  Only because I want to be able to tell the kids everything about their dad.  They won't miss him in the way I miss him,  because they do not understand loss at this age, but I can remind them of who they are through him.

When he died his boss asked me if seeing his pictures around the house bothered me?  Honestly they didn't, the things that bothered me were the things that didn't move anymore.  His wallet, his shoes, his watches.  Those are the 1st three things I packed up.  And I kept all of them, every last shoe.  In my bathroom cabinet I still have 1 stick of his deodorant and two small bottles of cologne.  I get them out sometimes just to smell him.  I still haven't washed the clothes he wore the last few days before he died. They still smell like him and sometimes I like to smell him.  I have gotten rid of most of his things.  I actually got rid of most of his things a couple of months after he was gone.  The things I felt that were most important are all packed away nicely in a couple of large totes for the boys.  It makes me sad that his life fits into those totes.  It makes me sad that when we are gone possessions do NOT define us, memories do.  The most upsetting thing is that possessions continue to be the same year after year, and memories fade.  This has more upset me than most any other one thing.

Sometimes I feel him around me.  I feel like when I am at a bad point in my life, I hear a song on the radio that makes me smile or see something on TV that we enjoyed together.  When I was trying to decide where to move after he passed.  The hardest decision I think thus far, but one I knew the answer to in my heart he gave me a sign.  I feel like when you lose someone you look for anything, just anything, to make you feel like you are still connected.  That has comforted me, and is my own personal way of dealing with this.

I am going to continue with these posts here and there as I feel I need to.  I hope that, for me, getting it off my chest and putting it out into the world will help me to A.) remember how I felt down the road and B.) help me to deal with some of these repeating thoughts in my head, just to sort them all out.  Most importantly putting these thoughts here will help me to *remember* him just as vividly as the day he was here with me.  And just as vividly as opening those tubs of *things.*   For the children.