Grief, Grace and Growing

Dear Rob,

Yesterday was an incredibly busy day. The kind of day where I was exhausted, yet I couldn’t give up or say, “I’m done.”

Because I have staff to supervise. Decisions to make throughout the day. IT issues to solve. New employees to onboard.

My emotions and exhaustion don’t get to exist—not really. I have bills to pay. I have to keep the house going. I have to make sure our babies are taken care of.

There is no option to simply stop.

I left work early for the first time this week to drive to therapy. When I arrived, the receptionist told me that my appointment was actually by telehealth.

It was 4:45 p.m.

My appointment was at 5.

So I quickly drove home, logged in, and there she was.

“What’s been going on?” my therapist asked. “The last time we talked was July 28.”

“Too long,” I replied.

I told her that my “Jeany’s container” has been full lately. Full of emotions, grief, stress, frustration—the usual.

I’m ready for garbage day to come so I can empty out all my thoughts.

She laughed.

Sometimes I wonder if she thinks I’m too sarcastic. But after a year, I think she has realized that throughout my grief and trauma, humor and sarcasm are part of how I survive.

You knew that about me, too.

You would sometimes shake your head at me when you were trying to be serious. I’d say something funny, and you’d try so hard not to laugh.

But you always did.

Then you’d tell me, “You need to be more serious.”

I miss that.

“How has it been for you?” my therapist asked, this time in a very serious tone.

Without thinking twice, I opened my container.

I told her about my new life as a widow.

Last year was about surviving.

This year has been about learning how to live inside my new life.

The new life I never asked for.

I told her how frustrated and sad I am that this is where I am now. That there are so many things I never imagined I would have to think about, learn, or do on my own.

Like yardwork.

Rob, yardwork is not my jam. You knew this. 

I hate it.

And yes, I’m still mad at you for dying and leaving me with the yardwork.

I’m mad that you never taught me how to do it.

I’m mad that my brother takes no part in my life. He doesn’t check in. He doesn’t help me or the kids. 

My poor dad wants to help, but his health is declining, and there are things he simply can’t do anymore.

And then there is Bob, my neighbor, who comes over every week to mow my lawn. He takes my yard waste bin down every Tuesday night for me.

God placed him in my life because He knew I needed family.

But the yard isn’t the only thing that has changed.

The inside of our house isn’t the same either.

I didn’t realize it when you were here, but you made our house a home.

All of us were so annoyed when you asked everyone to clean every Saturday. Or when you sometimes lost your shit because the kids didn’t take the garbage out or left food sitting around.

I was actually shocked when you started making the kids do chores at such a young age.

You were determined to make them independent and responsible.

You wanted them to know how to take care of themselves and contribute to the house.

And let’s be honest, Rob—you had absolutely no patience.

You wanted immediate results.

The kids, especially Charlie, would sometimes just stare at you when you told him to clean something up.

When we argued about it, I wished you understood that I grew up differently.

I didn’t have to do chores.

I didn’t do my own laundry until I was 21 years old—and you helped me.

I didn’t pump my own gas until I was married.

My dad always filled my tank.

Even now, if he had the chance, he would still fill it for me.

I was spoiled rotten.

And you were completely confused by the fact that I had never had to do any of these things.

But now I understand something I didn’t understand then.

You weren’t just doing chores.

You were taking care of us.

You were creating order.

You were creating a home.

Our home was meticulous because of you.

We had beautiful plants in our sunroom because of you.

I never cared much about home décor. My parents didn’t either because it was expensive, so I never really learned to care about those things.

You did.

You made the decisions.

During COVID, you bought a couch, and I remember you asking me what color I wanted. You showed me a color wheel.

I was so confused.

I looked at you and said, “Just buy a beige couch, Robert.”

You loved color.

Your favorite color was orange.

Mine was black.

I didn’t understand then how much of you was woven into the little things around our house.

Until you weren’t here anymore.

Last night, I was fighting with the bedsheets when I finally shouted,

“Darn you, Rob!”

You took care of this, too.

You were meticulous about how our bed was made.

Everything had to be perfect.

Smooth.

No wrinkles.

The minute the dryer went off, you’d grab the fitted sheet, the cover sheet, and the pillowcases. You’d run upstairs and make our bed.

You hated when I tried.

It wasn’t perfect.

I didn’t care.

We were going to sleep in it, and no one was coming into our bedroom anyway.

But it mattered to you.

Neatness mattered.

Order mattered.

Taking care of things mattered.

And now all those little things you did while you were here on earth have become things I have to slowly learn to do without you.

That’s the part people don’t always understand about widowhood.

You don’t just lose your husband.

You lose the person who knew how the house worked.

You lose the person who knew what needed to be done before you even noticed it.

You lose the person who carried the little responsibilities you never realized were being carried.

And then one day, you’re standing in the middle of your house, holding a fitted sheet, realizing there is no one coming upstairs to take it from you.

I don’t like it.

I liked being spoiled.

I liked being taken care of.

I liked knowing that you were there.

We were a team.

You cooked.

I put away the dishes.

You mowed the lawn.

And when you were done, I had a nice meal waiting for you and a cold glass of water.

We had our rhythm.

Our routines.

Our unspoken understanding of who did what.

Now I work all day and come home to another shift.

Laundry.

Dishes.

Yardwork.

Garbage.

Bills.

The house.

The kids.

Everything.

I never asked to be a single mom.

You promised me forever.

When we bought our house, you told me that yardwork would be your thing. You told me I should stay inside and take care of our babies.

You made promises about a future we both believed we would have.

And there is something incredibly cruel and heartbreaking about having to live in that future without you.

I am doing things I never thought I would have to do.

I’m learning things you were supposed to teach me.

I’m making decisions you were supposed to be here to make with me.

I’m becoming someone I never planned to become.

A widow.

A single mom.

A woman starting over.

Alone.

And yet, somehow, I’m still moving.

As I drove to Anoka today for my supervisor meeting, I thought about the progress I’ve made.

Long-distance driving doesn’t cause me nearly as much anxiety anymore.

I didn’t take the backroads today.

I got on the highway.

And I arrived 30 minutes early.

I was proud of myself.

That may sound like such a small thing to someone else.

But it wasn’t small to me.

A year ago, I couldn’t have imagined this version of myself.

And then, on the drive home, I thought about you.

A lot.

I wondered what it would be like if you were still here.

Would you like my job?

Would you pick up my call while I was driving home?

Would you ask how my meeting went?

Would you have dinner waiting for me?

Would you have the house picked up?

Would you have made the bed?

Would you have noticed the wrinkles in the sheets before I did?

Would you still shake your head at me?

Would you still tell me to be more serious?

Last year at this time, I was sitting in a supervisory meeting feeling shy and reserved.

I hadn’t told many people about your death.

I was carrying this enormous secret that wasn’t really a secret at all.

You were gone.

And I was trying to figure out how to exist in rooms where nobody knew that my entire world had changed.

A year later, I’m different.

I’m getting to know more people.

My leadership team has become a pretty close-knit group.

Today, sitting there with my three coworkers, I realized something.

I’ve grown.

Professionally.

Personally.

As a mother.

As a woman.

As a widow.

What a difference a year has made.

But growth doesn’t mean the grief disappeared.

The grief still stings.

I still love you as if you’re still here.

I still miss you.

My mind still plays tricks on me sometimes, making me think you’re simply away on a trip and that you’ll be home soon.

I look at your pictures on our wall, and sometimes I still can’t comprehend that you were once here.

That you walked through these rooms.

That you touched these things.

That you made our bed.

That you mowed our lawn.

That you cooked our meals.

That you drove our kids around.

That you annoyed me.

That you made me laugh.

That you loved me.

That you were real.

And now, you’re a photograph on the wall.

A memory in my mind.

A name I say out loud when I’m frustrated with bedsheets.

As I put new pink bedsheets on our bed, I couldn’t help but think about how strange life is.

I’m single.

I can buy pink bedsheets if I want.

I can decorate however I want.

I can choose the towels.

The dish towels.

The plants.

The colors.

The little things.

And somehow, those choices bring me tiny moments of joy.

Simple decorations.

A dish towel I picked out myself.

Pink bedsheets.

Little pieces of a life that is becoming mine.

But even that comes with grief.

Because having the freedom to make these choices isn’t something I ever wanted to have.

I didn’t want to have to choose everything alone.

I wanted you here, telling me that beige was boring.

I wanted you here, complaining about the wrinkles in the sheets.

I wanted you here, telling the kids to take the garbage out.

I wanted you here, mowing the damn lawn.

I wanted you here.

That’s what I’m learning about widowhood.

Starting over doesn’t mean starting fresh.

It means carrying everything with me.

Our memories.

Our children.

Our home.

Our routines.

Our love.

Our life.

And somehow learning how to build a new version of myself around the enormous space you left behind.

Some days I feel strong.

Some days I feel proud.

Some days I laugh.

Some days I even feel a little joy.

And other days, I’m standing in the bedroom fighting with a fitted sheet and yelling at a dead man because I don’t know how to make the damn bed the way he used to.

Maybe that’s what healing looks like for me.

Not forgetting you.

Not moving on from you.

But learning how to move forward with you living inside my heart.

My life looks different now.

Every day, I’m learning.

Every day, I’m adjusting.

Every day, I’m becoming someone new.

But the pain still lingers.

Because I didn’t just lose my husband.

I lost my partner.

My teammate.

My caretaker.

My home organizer.

My children’s father.

The person who made the ordinary parts of life feel safe and familiar.

I lost the man who promised me forever.

And now I’m learning how to live in the forever he left behind.

I don’t know what this life will look like yet.

But I’m still here.

I’m still driving on the highway.

I’m still showing up to work.

I’m still taking care of our babies.

I’m still putting clean sheets on our bed.

I’m still figuring out the yard.

I’m still laughing.

I’m still crying.

I’m still loving you.

And somehow, I’m still becoming me.

I just wish you were here to see who I’m becoming.

Love always,

Jeaney