At this exact time, 8:36 am, three years ago, I was preparing for a funeral. The most difficult funeral I have ever attended. My husband’s.
I remember vividly the details of Mike’s funeral, from what I wore, what I felt, what our baby boy looked like, and more. Someone who is reading my memoir texted me the other day and said, “I can’t believe you remember this much detail. I can’t imagine what you must feel.”
The memories of Mike’s death and of his funeral are seared into my brain, my heart, and my soul forever. No matter how much I try to will them to lessen, they flood me just as strongly three years later as they did the day they unfolded before me.
In the sorrow and shock of losing my best friend, I could not fathom a thought of it being New Years Day. “Normal” people were partying the night before, oblivious to my family’s and my pain. They were dressed up, kissing their significant other as the clock struck midnight on NYE. I was in my days old pajamas, awake with sobs, when a New Year, 2015, rolled over. I was lying in our bed crying to God to help me just make it through the day. I could not believe I was about to bury my husband.
So much of me died that first day of January, 2015. So much of me went into that dark hole with Michael. So much of me was left in the wind that whipped through the cemetery as cows bellowed at the fence. I died with him. I became so much less than I used to be: less happy, less vibrant, less cheerful, less sure, less strong, just less everything.
With each passing year I have fought to bring parts of myself back to life. I have cried more tears than I knew a human body held. I have felt depression in my bones and in my muscles, something I never realized was so physical. I have sat in silence, shutting myself off emotionally and mentally from everyone, including my son. I have turned down more invitations extended by friends or family than I care to count. I have left our church and have not found a new one yet. I have neglected my relationship with God, with my son, with Mike’s family, with my own family, and with just about everyone I know. I have promised to “come back” and have failed to epic proportions.
Wow. That is a lot of sucking at life I have done.
But here is the good that has filled my life the past three years, against all odds.
I have watched my son grow into an amazing teenage boy, who is so funny and smart and kind and thoughtful and resilient beyond my expectations. He has made me laugh, and cry, and yell (his room is a disaster and he is a teenager, so mouth = high speed), but he has also saved me. I have watched Mike in Conner. I have seen my husband in Conner’s ornery grin; I have heard him in Conner’s chuckle and seen him in the way Con tilts his head back and claps his hands when something is really funny. That has brought me joy.
I have prayed. Every single day I have prayed. Multiple times I talk to God, asking Him to bless our family and friends with good health, safety and happiness. I have asked Him to tell Mike how much we love and miss him. I have thanked Him for blessing us with a home, my job, our vehicle, our groceries, our family and friends, our own health, safety and happiness, our everything. That has brought me peace when nothing else could.
I have had experiences I never imagined would come to fruition: serving as a high school principal; driving to Chicago, Florida, Alabama, Oklahoma, and more all by myself (seems small, but Michael drove all the “big trips”); publishing our love story for our boy; humbling myself enough to return to teaching when my principal life was not good for my son; repairing things in my house and on my farm (from spraying and mowing fence rows to replacing a car orator in my weed eater to replacing the bake element in my oven). I have dated again (that wasn’t easy at all); I have allowed myself to feel; I have developed new friendships and rekindled old ones. This has all brought me strength.
Three years. Wow. No part of me can believe the calendar has rolled over that many times since my life changed drastically, in a horribly debilitating and final way.
I have never been one to make, well to keep anyway, New Years Resolutions. Sure, I always think in my head: I have GOT to get in shape and lose some weight (ha, fat chance...pun intended), or I will do this or do that. But the truth is, I simply have learned that with each new year since Mike, my goal is just to survive. To grow from this tragedy. To be a better mom. To have a better relationship with God. To just BE and DO better.
But God has me and He loves me just the way I am. I have experienced enough failure and sorrow in my years to not set myself up for more by setting goals I’m not sure I can meet. I just want to continue on my path of loving, living, and hoping, and through God all that is possible. With my son by my side, all that is doable.
So I send good wishes to you all for a happy, healthy, safe, and prosperous 2018.
As for me and my boy, we will just keep keepin’ on. And heal every step of the way.
