Remembering is Good - Anniversaries Suck

Two years ago this month my husband Bill died, leaving me, his family and friends to mourn his loss and find a way forward without him. To say it’s been difficult is an understatement as any widow or someone who’s lost anyone close instinctively knows. I have been forever changed by this experience and while I am still me, I am different now, in many ways.

Over the last two years I’ve spent a lot of time ugly crying and sad.

I’ve spent a lot of time afraid and scared about what my future looks like alone and how to keep going.

I’ve spent a lot of time asking why us? Why him?

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how I may have missed things - small things and big ones too- wishing I was more present with him.

And, I’ve spent a lot of time just trying to move ahead and keep going - to will away the deep and profound sadness and loss all the while trying to understand who am I now - no longer a wife, or someone with a big, distracting career or children to raise.

Over the two years I planned a funeral, delivered his eulogy, closed his business, sold his car, packed up a lot of his stuff, participated in holidays and milestones alone while seeing years of photos and reliving memories of trips, dinners, holidays, birthdays and Sunday morning coffee and conversations - how he smelled, the sound of his voice, his smile.

Over these 730 days, I have plowed ahead looking for signs and insights to help me cope and keep going.

Many of the days I faked it until I made it.

I know this because each day ended and another day began and over time the days accumulated into two years and I’m still here.

I have been fortunate to have the resources and ability to travel - a lot.

Sometimes traveling felt like I was running away but it never changed the fact that I am a widow and my husband died.

But, being away provided me deep insight, perspective, and wonder, which has been accompanied by feelings of happiness and joy - things I once feared might be forever gone.

Traveling created space for me to not be mired in the loss and take time to figure out some important life stuff which kept me going and made me stronger and resilient, shifting my thinking about what I do with “this one precious life.”

So, some days I wear the red dress, eat the dessert, buy the shoes, pay for the upgrade, go to the concert, say “yes” to South America, Costa Rica, Portugal, Hawaii, Mexico, Palm

Springs, New York and anywhere else that presents.

Some days I try to be open and talk about everything because my view is there no benefit in leaving secrets or things unsaid to the people I love.

And most days I’m trying to love deeply - to see and hear people, to connect and have a profound or really funny conversation.

Many days I’m working on sending love and simply “being” love.

This is the way I’ve filled the hole left by the death of my husband.

So while Bill is gone, life has continued even though some days that seemed impossible.

I still miss him deeply.

I long for his presence and his affection. And deeply wish this hadn’t happened to us.

But, what has been extraordinary and totally unexpected was how the love we had remained and evolved.

It’s helped me to be strong and explore my new identity - to find ways to fill the emptiness.

Turns out it’s not an especially complicated or paradoxical path, though if you miss the turn it can send you to a dark corner.

Turns out for me it was a “Dorothy” moment and was there all along.

It’s all of you.

It’s my kids who have made this journey one of deep connection and profound love.

And it was Bill who left me in love, with love, and by love.

So while my heart was broken, it has also opened and changed.

It has not entirely healed but has definitely reformed as I continue to be a work-in-progress.

No one wants these life lessons but I am grateful for the insights.

So today, as I travel home from New York flying through the clouds on the day you left us, I remember and honor you as I do every day.

Rest in peace my love.

Rest in love.

Rest in laughter and know you were, and are, deeply loved and missed.

And, as you predicted before you died, I’m doing okay and still dancing in the kitchen.