He's been gone 2 years...how can that be?

I've heard that the second year after the death of a loved one is even harder than the first year. I don't feel that way. It wasn't harder, but it definitely wasn't any easier. That first year was so raw. Everyday I would wake up and couldn't believe he was gone. It was like walking through an awful, bad dream. It hurt so badly and I didn't know how to navigate life when he wasn't in it anymore. Everything was heavy. Everything was painful. Everything was hard. Everyday was a new first without Kevin. I was determined to walk through it. To feel all of it. I knew that there was no easy way out of grief. I was also determined to show my kids that I was there for them. I was completely vulnerable in front of them. I didn't hide that I was devastated, or mad, or confused or that I felt overwhelmed. I was not shy in sharing any of that. I wanted them to know that all of the feelings they were having were valid. And I also knew that saying that I didn't know how I was feeling or why I felt a certain way could be validating for them too. I kept my head above water, but I felt SO heavy. I felt incredibly overwhelmed. I cried every day on my way to work. Every time I opened the mail, I was nervous to see what was in those envelopes and did I know how to handle what was inside? We had some doozies last year when it came to parenting and I hated doing it alone. Middle school boy stuff, off to college stuff, car stuff, launching a college grad stuff, health stuff. I had so many willing ears surrounding me and for that, I am thankful. But there's no one like your spouse, who loves those kids as much as you do, to help navigate all of that. 

Last year I felt like I was out in the middle of the ocean, treading water and holding the weight of my own life and my kid's lives above my head. It was awful. I never felt rested no matter how much sleep I got. I was constantly exhausted. My body ached every day. My hips, my feet, my neck, my jaw. I am not exaggerating when I say that walking up the two stairs to my classroom everyday was painful. I had to stop and breath before going up those two stairs. Last year the staff at my school did a dance routine at our talent show for the kids. It included jumping and I COULD NOT launch myself off of the ground. That is how much grief affected my body. And somehow, everyday, I did the next right thing and I made it through. It all is a blur. One day at a time. 

The image below is called "The Weight of Grief" and I have included it in a post before. It shows so well the way losing a loved one feels. 

The second year, the rawness ebbed. There were fewer firsts. I didn't expect him to walk in the door anymore. I rarely picked up my phone to call or text him. Every once in a while, I'll see someone or hear something that I HAVE to tell him and I will think, "I've got to call Kevin!" and then I think, "He can't answer the phone" so my brain says, "I'll text him" and then it hits. "Oh, there is no way to get ahold of him.". So I tell him in my head or call someone else who might be shocked like he would be or laugh or be appalled or saddened. But that happens less and less. 

I made it through by the support of my community. Family, friends, neighbors, and people I don't even know that well have reached out and helped. The prayers people sent up and the love they have shown us has been remarkable. The second year for me has been more about, "Well, now what?" Now that my other half has left early, what is the next thing for me, for our family? In life we have so many chapters. Finishing elementary school, finishing high school, going to college, getting a job, maybe marriage, parenting, empty nesting, retirement, etc. I am always thinking about how finishing a chapter is embarking on something new. But when Kevin died, I feel like I have had to start a new book. The story arch we had planned together, the the outlines for the next chapters we had sketched out and dreamed about were obsolete. So now what? What do I do? Where do I go from here? What needs to change? What needs to stay the same? Do I keep this house where he is still in every corner, where memories can be sweet and comforting or sometimes haunting? I don't know what to do. I take it one day at a time. This last year has been a slow realization of the impact his death has had on the day to day and how we plan for the future. 

Our family has discussed that if Kevin was going to die, we are thankful that he died when he did. We said goodbye to him at the beginning of the summer so we were all together and no one had to work. We had time to rest and grieve and hold on tightly to each other. I had a full summer to get logistics in order. You would NOT BELIEVE how much paperwork there is when a spouse dies and you have four dependents. Even with a will. Even when you have discussed where all the money is. (Another friendly reminder to sit down with your spouse and give them all of your passwords - especially phone and email. And go over financials - you both should know where everything is!). 

I have been doing a lot of yard work in the last few weeks. When Kevin first went into the emergency room in Northfield and was admitted, we were in the throws of planning Greta's grad party. There was a lot of landscaping and planting that we planned to do. So, while Kevin was in the hospital, I would go and visit him and then on my way home I'd buy some hostas or stop at a friend’s who had some extra ferns she was willing to give me. My sister Kristi came down and helped me dig up the ground and lay the fabric. My sister Missy came over once I had collected all of the plants and helped me plant them. It turned out beautifully. That garden came together as I watched Kevin dying. I didn't know he was dying, because when Kevin Christopherson got sick, he ALWAYS defied the odds and came home, got stronger and got better. But not this time. Kristi made a sign for the garden and we call it Kevin's Garden. It always grows and is at its best at this time of year. Right at the anniversary of his death. June is a beautiful time to die. Greta came home from college at the beginning of May. Fargo/Moorhead was still pretty brown when we left there. We got home in the dark and the next morning, waking up in Northfield, she was astounded. "It's so green and beautiful. It's so hopeful!" That's how I feel about this time of year. There so much rebirth, so much newness, so much color, so much exuberance, so much life. 

Kevin's Garden

Once Mother's Day hits, there are so many anniversaries that have to do with his fast decline. The day he went into the emergency room in Northfield, the day he came home from Northfield Hospital with a port to do antibiotics via IV, our anniversary as he lay on the couch and we watched our wedding video, the day I took him to the ER at Mayo, his rapid decline, his last request of strawberry ice cream from Flapdoodles, the last words he said to me and the drive to Rochester with the van full of my kids in the early morning hours of June 4th to say our last goodbyes to Kevin. May into June is hard. And it is hopeful. It is both. 

We are especially blessed this year that Kevin's niece is getting married in Texas on June 7th. All five of us will meet in Dallas this coming Saturday and spend the weekend together with Kevin's sister Stacy and her family. We are all so excited for that joyful celebration. We are so excited for the happy couple and we love spending time with all of Stacy and Phil's kids, their spouses and grandchild. We know that we will laugh and cry and do a lot of dancing. They are starting a new life together and that is hopeful. There will also be a new baby at this wedding that belongs to my niece, Alanna. That too is hopeful. So many new chapters for so many people we love. I choose to be hopeful about this life I’m figuring out. I KNOW that Kevin is with us. I KNOW that he will be at that wedding. I wish we could see him dance again. But we know he is there. We will all have Kevin in our hearts. We will do some signature Kevin dance moves on that dance floor. And we will be joyful, because he wants us to live abundantly. 

I took the day off yesterday to take some time for myself, visit Kevin's grave, and do some writing. I sat  on my porch, listening to the birds and squirrels chatter, surrounded by the lush green trees, the smell of fresh cut grass, drinking my way through a pot of coffee. Today, I feel hopeful. I feel like I can imagine a rich life ahead. I'm not as scared to go to big public gatherings anymore. I'm no longer crying everyday. I know that I will continue to miss him. I know that his absence at events and holidays and even on Saturday nights when all the kids are busy and I am home alone will always be felt. It will always feel like someone is missing. On the bright side, I’m not as achy as I was. I can walk up those stairs now without pain. I feel happy more often. I still replay that time period from May 9th, when he first started complaining about his red and sore foot until June 4th when he died. I have a long road ahead in healing and in grief. I'm still trying to figure out my trauma as a care giver and watching the Kevin I married disappear little by little over the last five years of his life. I've got some anger to process. And it is still overwhelming to do this on my own. Yet, I say this in most of my posts and it still is 100% true, we live a beautiful life. We are not short on joy nor laughter. We are loved by so many people, we love where we live, we have a cozy home where we can all gather, we have so many people willing to help in so many ways. We are all so grateful. 

 I meant to come to this blog site and just post the words I spoke for his eulogy at his funeral, but all of this spilled out instead. Maybe I'll post the eulogy another day. I'll leave you with this poem by David Harkins 

He is Gone

You can shed tears that he is gone

Or you can smile because he has lived

You can close your eyes and pray that he will come back

Or you can open your eyes and see all that he has left

Your heart can be empty because you can’t see him

Or you can be full of the love that you shared

You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday

Or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday

You can remember him and only that he is gone

Or you can cherish his memory and let it live on

You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back

Or you can do what he would want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on.