It’s a year since my husband died
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One year living with his absence as an enormous, conspicuous, ever-present backdrop behind our ‘show must go on’ performance.
One year with a physical ache in my chest.
One year with unused shaving gear on his side of our bathroom vanity. A year with his jeans slung over a chair in our bedroom — his glasses up-turned on his desk.
One year of pulling into a driveway beside his car, being tricked sometimes into thinking he must be home.
A year of unlocking the front door of the house where we had our wedding reception. The house where we blended and extended our family. The house he died in. The home that held us through our happiest and saddest and scariest moments, making me love it and hate it and feel both trapped and safe within its walls.
One year of working on my laptop in the family room, just to feel closer to his study. One year of looking up, expecting to see him. Wanting to see him. Fearing I would.
One year of carrying all the things I always carried, plus all the things he did. A year of carrying double the load, plus a whole lot of things neither of us ever had to carry, the weight of which at times is almost unbearable.
A year of slowly learning to live without the lights on, learning to trust the darkness not to take people away.
A year of relentless decision-making. Of finding counsellors and moving schools and spending tens of thousands of dollars untangling the mess a person leaves when they step out of life, unprepared.
A year of worrying where we’ll end up. How we’ll make it through. A year of fumbling for the light. Finding it. Feeling the sun and the breeze on my skin again. Feeling guilty about it.
I couldn’t imagine making it through this far. ‘This time next year’ felt an impossible ask when ‘this time in an hour’ was hard enough. How would we survive, this broken? We couldn’t breathe. We couldn’t stand. A simple trip to the supermarket was overwhelming. All this light. This noise. These people. These products he’d never need again. He’d never need anything, ever again. He would never be again.
I read somewhere that a widow’s only task in the twelve months after her husband dies is to keep herself alive. Fleetingly, but deeply, I’ve wished I was at the end of my life. I’ve wanted to join him.
People said grief would come in waves. But there are no waves at first, when you’re under the surface, drowning.
That first wave, when it does hit, hits hard. You’ve ventured further from the beach than you realised. You think you’re stronger than the rip until it drags you out and people have to save you again. You’re rescued, you try to swim, you’re dumped again, splattered on the sand, choking on it. You stagger to your feet and enter the water again, because you have to.
Repeat. Repeat, repeat, repeat.
This has been the worst and most expansive year of my life. At any moment it might all be taken away. Everything is brighter and more precious. Life is bigger. The world is smaller. People are closer. There’s an urgency and a depth to life that I never could have understood without this. I’ve never let go of so much or taken on more.
In the twelve months since Jeff died, I’ve travelled more than 40,000km. I’ve wandered the streets of New York with millions of other people, alone. I’ve written hundreds of thousands of words. I’ve had a book published, received deals to publish two more, and have a further two in mind. I’ve started rehearsing our musical. I’ve spent hours in interviews on radio and conquered a fear to appear on TV. I’ve campaigned for heart health. I’ve won two awards. The kids have had graduations and formals and first loves and new schools and new jobs…
At every single step, I’ve turned to tell him and he hasn’t been there. He keeps not being here.
On the weekend, I watched parts of the Titanic movie with our little boy, who is currently fascinated with the ship. I didn’t cry when Jack died. I cried at the sight of elderly Rose’s framed photographs of all the adventures she went on to have in her life without him.
That’s the very hardest part. The heart must go on.
This is the latest in a series of articles from Emma Grey. Read others—and discover her back story—by clicking on her author bio.
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