Into the Dark

I sense that I have begun to surpass the traditional '4 month' patience zone of the people in my life. It's a generally accepted phenomenon among widows and widowers that after 4 months, the world moves on. The people that professed to 'be there no matter what' begin to withdraw back into their own lives, and phones that previously rang off the hook with people just checking in begin to sit still for days on end. Helpful knocks at the door subside, and help in a general sense fades from a communal sense of empowerment to a few reliable people who persist past the usual period of acceptable grief. How ironic it is that after 4 months, another generally accepted milestone is reach--the shock begins to wear off. The pervasive fog that envelopes a grieving person, especially with a loss as profound as a spouse, begins to lift, and the shambles of the widowed persons life begin to come into clear focus. Are the two milestones related? Does the fog suddenly lift and become overpowering grief because the support system is suddenly failing, or is it simply the fact that human consciousness can only sustain thought for that brief period of time? To everybody else, life continues on. I noticed this inexplicable trend the day of the funeral. My small apartment went from being literally mobbed with people-to contained only my sister, my children, and myself in a matter of hours. The day after the funeral, all but two close friends had departed, and by Monday I was completely alone for the first time since Ammon's death. Monday, a mere 10 days after the love of my life departed, I was left alone in our home, to care for our children, and expected to function. I'm not complaining. I'm not pointing fingers of blame, because I understand that the functionality of life continues for other people, regardless of my own personal tragedy. In the ensuing months, offers of help have been reasonably frequent. For the first few months, women came into my home twice a week to assist me with the process of getting three children fed, bathed, and into bed at a reasonable hour. Once a week a dear friend brought over dinner, then helped with the bedtime routine before leaving with her family for the night. Several times the husband of this friend attended to the menial housekeeping tasks that had fallen into disrepair with Ammon's departure. Slowly, gradually, but noticeably--most of these things have stopped. My friend still comes over on Thursday when our schedules align, but we have both acknowledged that with the onset of school for our older boys and ourselves--this tradition will likely fall to the wayside as well. As impossible as it seems, the world has moved on. Life continues as normal for the people in it, and my family has decreased it's significance.

I knew when Ammon died that this would happen. I knew that eventually, and probably sooner than I hoped, people would stop being so worried about this. I suppose I should be flattered that people are so confident in my ability to care for my children on my own, but sometimes the loneliness is pervasive and heavy. Days like today--when everybody I know and everywhere I look there are families enjoying a beautiful Sunday afternoon. On other days, I feel free to call and reach out to others when I am having a lonely afternoon, on Sunday's I hesitate. Family time is sacred, and was something that I guarded jealously when I was still a wife. Ammon's church calling as a youth basketball coach ate into our family time, and I sometimes shamed myself with my jealousy for those deserving boys. The time that he dedicated to practicing and playing with those boys took up one evening in a week, and a good portion of every Saturday. I was irate if people called after 7pm any evening--the children were in bed, and Ammon and I religiously spent time together during those hours. Most people recognized our unspoken boundaries, and those who didn't were harassed for disturbing us during those hours. Weekends were especially sacred. We longed for Saturday's with no other obligations, and Sunday's were spent lounging around the house until it was time to go to church, and then more lounging around the house after meetings were completed. Knowing how jealously I guarded these times, I hesitate to disturb them for somebody else. Instead, I come here and spew my grief onto my blog. Part of me hesitates still--what if somebody reading this is offended? What if my pleas for more attention fall on ears that are already giving of themselves, and hurt their well-meaning intentions? I hope that is not the case. Today I'm simply feeling overburdened with guilt. Last night I started working on a project, one that I think in the end I will be glad for. In the meantime, however, it caused me great pain. At some point I will drudge up the strength to finish it and post it here for all to see, but I anticipate many, many tears in the meantime.

Yesterday I was putting away clothes in my bedroom, and caught myself eyeing his side of the closet. I fingered through his dress shirts, and found two that were unwashed since the last time he wore them. There are possibly others, but these two had the cuffs of the sleeves still rolled up. My sweet husband abhorred long sleeves, and would often take a perfectly nice dress sleeve and roll it up until his forearm was exposed. When removing these shirts, he would simply unbutton the top two buttons, pull the shirt over his head, and replace it on the hanger to be worn again. Yesterday, when I noticed anew the two shirts will rolled up sleeves, I pulled the hangers out and held the shirts to my face. I breathed in his odor--a subtle scent that the brain forgets, but the heart never could. I cried again, bitter tears for all that was ripped away from us. I long to rest my head on his chest and pour my grief out to him. I long to have him wrap his arms around me and comfort me in the way only he is capable of. My heart is connected to his. My soul is part of his, and with his departure it is less than one, less than a whole. I wonder--will I ever be whole again? Some urge me to remarry. To open up my heart, and to find love again. I wonder if such a thing is ever possible. I have the assurance from others, and even from Ammon himself, that such a relationship is acceptable, and even desirable for my future happiness. Right now, though, I am so mired in misery and longing that the possibility seems remote and impossible. I don't want to be reminded of my ability to remarry, and I find it offensive when other's suggest that such a match would heal my broken heart. Nobody will ever replace Ammon, and no other person will dull the ache of missing him. What, then, is the point of trying? If meeting somebody else, if opening up my heart again will not ease the ache of missing Ammon, why should I open myself up to more hurt? I simply want my best friend back. I miss him.