These last few days I haven’t been able to get out of my own way.  Every two seconds I find myself in tears again.  Every glance in another direction, finds me recalling another memory, another story, another tear.

This weekend my angel was busy.  He brought out all our amazing friends and family to help us get our life back on track.  I’ve often mentioned how incredible the people are that I’m surrounded by, but this weekend reinforced that tenfold.

-Friday night I had dinner with my best friend from high school and his amazing wife.  Good food.  Good wine.  Good conversation.  Even a little laughter.

-I left their house on Friday night to learn that Jim, Chris’ oldest and dearest friend, and his entire family were driving all the way to our house on Saturday from New Jersey to help me get the house clean and in some kind of order.  They showed up Saturday morning, with cleaning supplies in hand, ready and willing to help!  They hung out with Shane, dusted my house and cleaned my floors.  They even got the garage in order and then moved Chris’ car inside - something I haven’t been able to bring myself to do.  They left late Saturday afternoon with smiles on their faces and tears in my eyes.

-My phone rang early on Saturday morning, and my Aunt Kathy was on the other end with an unbelievable offer.  45 minutes later she was carrying laundry baskets filled with our dirty clothes and linens out to her car.  Yesterday she returned with baskets filled with clean, folded clothes.  Amazing.

-The Buesing’s, once again, made the drive down to CT for the weekend.  Jamie took Jerry golfing yesterday morning; Sue and I took the kids to a park for a couple of hours; and we all met back at the house for a late lunch before Sue had to run off to Chuck’s to work.  By the time Sue and I pulled into the driveway with all the kids, Jamie had all the tree and flowers planted in Chris’ garden.  I walked out into the backyard and cried.  It was beautiful.  This garden is going to be exactly what I need for it to be.

-Late last night, after a few emotional phonecalls, my lifelong best friend, Katie, showed up at my door after having just gotten out of working a double shift.  She spent almost an hour with me, letting my cry and reassuring me that life, somewhere down the road, would still hold some happiness for Shane and I.

Add to all of this the phonecalls from concerned friends, the nightly visits from my mom and sister - often with dinner in hand - to help get Shane to bed and to help get the house straightened up, the precious gifts and cards that still arrive in the mail; and we’re reminded on a daily basis just how loved we are, and how loved Chris was.  It doesn’t begin to make up for not having him in our lives anymore; but it’s nice to not feel quite so alone.  Every time something nice happens, it’s like getting a big old hug from Chris.  I haven’t had a hug like that from him in months - and I welcome them.  Every.  Single.  Time.

Thank you all for that gift.

Shane and I are 90 minutes away from having completed our 2nd week having rejoined the world.  While we are a LONG way from having things go smoothly, I suppose I can say that this week went slightly better than last.

The biggest problem is that I just feel so damn overwhelmed.  I get that single parents do this all the time, and I know there are young moms out there with a lot more on their plates than I have on mine, but when you’re used to being part of the best team imaginable - losing your co-captain makes even brushing your teeth seem like a challenge.  That is where my problem lies.

It’s not that I think I can’t do these things without Chris, it’s just that I plain old don’t want to.  I don’t want to be making lunches and breakfasts at 10pm the night before.  I don’t want to be scrambling in the shower (and getting razor burn to boot) so I can be out and dressed before Shane wakes up.  I don’t want to skip my coffee in the morning because I ran out of time to make it or to stop and get it.  I don’t want to find ways to occupy myself at lunch because it’s too sad to go home.  I’m so damn busy running around during the week, and too busy making myself be busy on the weekends, that laundry and housekeeping have taken a MAJOR back burner lately.   I haven’t cleaned our house since Chris has been gone.  There I said it.  And laundry?  I’ve actually had to take a pair of pants out of the hamper last week, IRON THEM and then wear them!  Who does that?!  Shane is leaving the house in pajamas or un-matched outfits because I’m too tired to have the “great clothing debate” with him every morning when he’s only been up 5 minutes and we have to leave in another 5.  I SUCK at being a single parent!  Add to that the financial worries of trying to get bills paid (on less income), trying to keep the fridge stocked and making sure the dogs have their two meals of the day and I’m BURNT out!  I miss my co-captain.  I miss being part of the world’s best team.  I miss us getting things done in 1/4 of the time because we both knew what we were supposed to do - and we just did it.  Our life was a well oiled machine, and now my gears are sticking at each turn.

I miss that quiet time we used to have at the end of the day.  During the week, when you’d walk in the door at 11:15 and we’d catch either other up on the day’s events.  The weekends when we’d sit on the couch munching on some popcorn, catching up on our show’s from the week and just being cozy and enjoying each other.  I miss that time.  I miss having an hour to ourselves, to myself.  I miss the quiet.  I miss you.

I’m so beat by the time I crawl into our empty bed that all I can bear to do is cry.  Cry enough so that I just fall asleep from the sheer exhaustion.  And when I awaken in the morning, I know I have to do it all over again.  Without you, again.  What I wouldn’t do to have you back.  You truly are the other half of me.

I.  DON’T.  WANT.  THIS.  LIFE.

I want my life.  OUR life.  And I want it back now.

There are VERY few good things that have come out of Chris being gone.  Actually, there may be only two; the fact that he is no longer in pain; and this:

Sue tells me this last picture was taken at the same spot where Chris once stood taking pictures on their wedding day.  Appropriate that his son is there now with his best friend’s kids.  Things like this really mean something when you’ve lost someone close to you like we have.  Shane can look back at this photo and feel like he’s shared something special with his Dad.  Thanks, Sue.

Shane has two, new, best friends.  Jake and Ryan.  Not only are these the twins that were born on our wedding day, but they’re Chris’ best friend’s boys, and their sister is one of Chris’ God daughters - I know he’s up there smiling as he watches the 3 of them together.

Jamie left CT and drove all the way back to PA late last night (bless him) and Sue stuck around with the kids so we could do lunch today.  She foolishly happily offered to take Shane for the afternoon so he wouldn’t have to go to daycare and be separated from his buddies.  She sent me these pictures from her cell phone while they were out enjoying their hike.

I love that these three get along like they do.  I love that they look forward to seeing each other.  I love that Shane can enjoy being three with them.  I love that he gets a break from all the crap in his little life.  I know that’s a gift from his Dad.  I love that most of all.

Coming off of a fairly good weekend, this morning caught me off guard.  Spending so much time with so many great friends and family members this weekend was really nice.  Life was busy for a few days and there wasn’t much time to let myself be sad.  Add to that the joy I felt yesterday when I was lucky enough to meet my new bird friend, I just wasn’t expecting to wake up this morning and feel this sad.  I feel like someone deflated the air from my tires.  I’m missing you all over again and the pain is worse than I remember it being.

Our son woke up this morning, walked in our bedroom, climbed up into my lap, wrapped his little arms around my neck and said “Want to kiss Dada”.  I immediately felt the familiar sting in my eyes and knew right then that the knot I felt in my stomach when I first put my feet on the floor this morning, wasn’t one that was going to go away.  Not today anyway.

I knew I had to do something to help our son.  This was the second time since Friday night that he’s referenced you in this way.   I remembered a conversation I had recently with Sue, and the advice she shared with me that came from one of her therapist friends that works with children, and I gave Shane his own little private version of you.  We rummaged through your drawers this morning to find one of your special t-shirts (your orange Mets shirt would’ve been perfect, but I couldn’t bare the thought of having to see that shirt on a daily basis - it would’ve brought back far too many memories and special days for us) and so we selected one of your Rangers shirts and put it on the big blue bear that your Dad got for Shane the day he was born.  Shane now has his very own “Daddy Bear” that he can love on and squeeze to bits when he’s feeling sad or is just missing you.

I wonder if it’d be strange for me to have a life-size version of “Daddy Bear”?

So today, my heart is heavy.  I look at the photos of you that are sitting on my desk and I want to jump into them and relive those moments again.  I don’t want to feel this way anymore.  I don’t want to feel the pain of missing you anymore.  It’s too much, too real.  Too raw.  I’d give anything to have another day with you.  Another hour, even.  To feel your arms around me one more time.  To have you whisper you love me in my ear again.  I miss those arms.  I miss that voice.  I miss you.  And today, I’m just very, very, sad.

Today Jamie & Sue came over with the kids again (thank you!), and while the boys played, and while Lily wandered around, Jamie started the beginnings of our memory garden, a place where I can be with you (blog post and pictures to follow).  And while we were out in the garage this morning, I came around the back of the car, and stopped in my tracks.  A little bird sitting on the garage floor had startled me.  It was a second later that I realized birds don’t usually stick around when people are there so I became concerned that the bird was hurt, which is why it wasn’t flying away.  We - Jamie, Katelyn, your dad, Shane and I - walked out into the driveway and the bird shortly followed suit.  By this time we were all thinking he must’ve been really hurt and we felt bad for the little guy.  We grabbed the stuff we went into the garage to get and went back out into the backyard.  Five minutes later, Katelyn noticed the same bird sitting on top of the lawn mower, right next to where we were all standing.  Now we knew the bird could fly.  Jamie and I shared a look and at that moment, we both knew that bird was you.  You hung out in the yard with us for the next 15 minutes, happily dancing around at our feet and letting us get closer to you than any other bird ever had before.  I could’ve picked you up and held you if I chose to.  You spent a few minutes with each of us, and then, just as quickly as you were there, you were gone.

I’ve been waiting almost 6 weeks for an honest to goodness sign from you - something to let me know that you were still here with me, still watching out for us.  It seemed like everyone else close to you had gotten their sign, and I was still waiting.  But today, today my heart felt lighter than it’s felt in almost a year.  Today, I got to stand next to you again.  I got to look at you and talk to you.  Today I understood just how “at peace” you really are now.  And, I know that you’re still with me, that’s one of the greatest gifts in the world.

We hung a bird feeder on the fence in the garden today, and tomorrow I will go and pick up a bag of bird seed.  Come back and visit us again soon.  It was nice to feel that close, and connected, to you again.  Thank you for saving the best sign for us, and for a time when we were all together to enjoy it - to enjoy you.  I look forward to visiting with you often in our spot in the backyard.  I love that you were there today to help us get it started.  I know you’re happy, and that you approve of what we’re doing, and that makes me happy.  I love you.  Always.

(Thank God for cell phones!)

We did it.  We got through our first week without you.  I don’t know how we managed to pull it off, but we did.  A lot of “brave faces” during the day, a lot of tears and meltdowns at night, but we did it.  And we have a weekend ahead filled with family and friends as our reward.

I’m hoping (I’d pray if I still thought someone was listening) that every week won’t always be this difficult to get through.  It’s not possible, right?  It just HAS to get better.  Eventually, it just has to be better than it is now.  It has to be true, otherwise, how in the world would anyone ever be able to live after a loss like yours?

Jamie (God bless Jamie), and your Dad (God bless him, too), are helping me (or maybe I’m helping them) design a beautiful memory garden in our backyard.  A place where Shane and I can go.  Sit.  Reflect.  Visit.  A place where we can be with you.  This week has proven that it’s damn hard to get to the cemetery every day when I’m working and being a mom.  There’s just not enough hours of daylight, and there will be even fewer soon.  Given how much we LOVED our yard (I don’t love anything anymore the way I once loved it with you - with the exception of our son - ) and given how much time we used to spend back there, it seemed like the right thing to do.   I’m envisioning fountains and white wooden benches with big, bright, cozy cushions.  Memory stones with your name on them.  Stepping stones and lights dispersed throughout.  A birdhouse and windchimes that, when the wind blows just right, lets me know you’re there with me.  Visiting with me, as I visit with you.  It’ll be nice.  To have a place to go to in the middle of the night when sleep isn’t taking hold.

Maybe having a place that can be OUR place will make the weeks more bearable.  Maybe I’ll actually be able to go home at lunch again.  Maybe you won’t feel so far away if the furthest I have to go to get to you is right out our own backdoor.

We have some of the best friends and family in the world - and I do plan to dedicate a blog post to them once my head clears a bit more - for that, I am thankful.

http://www.thehour.com/story/473564

Thank you to Sue (and Jamie) for SO many things,  may you know how lucky I feel that Chris chose to surround himself with people like you in his life.  I love you.

Today marks a new start for Shane and I.  A start that I had hoped, had prayed, to never have to make.  A start that doesn’t involve Chris.

This morning, we did the impossible.  We made an attempt to rejoin the world.  Today was my first day back at work, and it was Shane’s first day of all-day daycare.  It was our first morning of waking up, getting dressed and getting out on our own.  To say the lack of Chris’ presence was felt is an understatement.  I still have to choke back tears when I think back to what walking out that door felt like this morning.  What not having anyone to go home to felt like at lunch time.  What no phone calls during the day from my husband means.  What going home to an empty house will feel like.  It’s a not a feeling that can be explained.  It just plain old hurts.

Trying to lay out a new routine is always difficult, but trying to do it - for the reasons we’re doing it - damn near impossible.  And tonight, after I leave work, I’ll be making another change to the routine.  I’ll make the solemn drive to the cemetery to spend a few quiet moments with my love before heading home to be a single parent for the night.  How in the world did we get to this place?

Today, we faced reality.

According to the calendar, you’ve been gone a month today - though my heart feels like 6 months have gone by.

The agony of not having you to walk through life with seems to be getting worse instead of better.  So many things just don’t make sense to me.  We had such a nice life planned for ourselves.  I don’t understand how it can all really be gone, how, just like that, it was all taken away from us.  I miss you every second of every day, still.  I look at our son each morning and I try to rationalize how I’m going to get us through the day - I have no idea how to get through the next 30-40 years.

Things I used to love to do, things we loved to do, are never getting done anymore.  They’re just too painful.  Even pulling out the camera this weekend, all I could hear was you telling me how much the photos of our life meant to you - how much they did for you during your battle.  That battle, that struggle, seems so pointless right now - as do all the photos.  I feel like I’ll never be happy again, that life will never again be good.  I don’t understand how a person is expected to get over the loss of their spouse, to enjoy life again.  Add to that the rarity of the kind of relationship that we had, and the kind of guy you were, and I feel like I’m up shit’s creek without a paddle - I feel like there’s no hope for me.  For us.

You’d be proud of our family and friends.  They’ve been an amazing support to us during this last month.  But as nice as it is to be with the people who loved you most, it doesn’t even come close to making up for not having you.  At the end of the day, I’m still going home to a quiet house.  Putting our 3 year old to bed on my own, sitting in our dark family room with the TV on trying to pretend like life is normal while I wait for him to fall asleep.  And then, at the end of each night, I slowly walk into our dark room and crawl into our cold and empty bed, by myself.  I lay there awake and crying for a few minutes every night trying to figure out how a room, once filled with so much love and bright light, can feel the way it feels now.  It’s still comforting, but it’s only comforting because of what we shared there, not because of what it is now.

My heart breaks into a million pieces a thousand times each day when I think of you, of us, of our family - and what we’ve all lost.  I see the pain in your parents eyes and I hear it in your sister’s voice.  I see the pain written all of your best friend’s face, and I see it in his wife while she tries to hold it all together to bring comfort to me.  I can see the sadness in the text messages I receive from your oldest childhood friend.  My heart breaks for all of us.  I know all to well the anguish that they’re all feeling and I wonder if life will be happy again, for any of us.  These are the moments I want to dig a hole in the ground and crawl in next to you.  It is you and Shane that keep me going.  Everything I do,  I do because you would want me to, or because Shane needs me to.  I see you everywhere, and my heart aches for you constantly.

Know what you mean to me, what you will always mean to me.  Know how much I miss you.  Know I would do, or give, anything in the world to have you back.  Know I love you every second of every day and know that will never change.  You are the love of my life, for the rest of my life.

xoxo

He’s missed every minute of every day.  It’s a pain unlike any I’ve ever known before and I hope to never know this kind of pain again.  I feel like half a person.  I’m afraid that life will never again hold happiness for me.  Life was fantastic because he was a part of it, because we were together, and because we were a family.  Life will never again be the same.  I will never again be the same.  Our family is changed forever.  All we’re left with are memories and tears.

Love you always, my love.

The other day I downloaded pictures off of Zita’s camera and found the last pictures we have of Chris. 

Our last family picture.  Taken the week before Easter in April 2009.  The difference between this photo in April and the ones taken two months later are amazing.  We never thought this past Easter would be our last together.

These next photos I debated whether or not I should share.  They’re the last pictures we have of Chris before he died.  They were taken in the hospital on his 40th birthday.  They’re tough to look at, for me at least.  I don’t ever remember him looking as bad in person as he does in these images.  And he looked better than this when he was in the ICU, on a ventilator, two weeks later.  I decided to share these pictures because I think they show how hard he fought.  They show the will of a man who wasn’t yet willing, or ready, to give up and leave his family.  They show a man who wanted nothing more than to be around to watch his son grow up.  I want to be sure he’s recognized for the battle he fought - it was never an easy one.  I want everyone to know how hard he tried to stay here with us, to be here for us.  I love him even more now BECAUSE of these pictures.  I will love him always.

The group of friends that came to celebrate his birthday with him:

Chris. 40 years old. 3 weeks before he died:

With his mom:

And, finally, with me.  Our last picture together as husband and wife:

I wish there were more.

I still expect to wake up and find that Chris’ death was just a nightmare I had while asleep.  It isn’t until I sit up to put my feet on the floor that I see his picture on my nightstand - it’s that moment that I realize I’m actually living the nightmare.  It’s that moment that I realize he’s really gone.  That I’ll really never see him or talk with him again.  It’s still a tough pill to have to get down.  I miss him every moment of every day.  And I don’t see how that’s ever going to change.  That scares me.