My husband died last July 29, 2014. That’s almost three months ago and this is the first time I’ve ever thought of writing about his death, his passing. I have gone back to writing, which is my job – freelance writing my not be a lucrative job, but it’s the only one I’ve got.
With my thyroid problems, I am not medically fit to work and have resorted to staying at home, writing about everything under the sun. Well, writing about whatever my clients ask me to write about. When he died, I stopped writing for a whole month and survived on charity. Our friends extended help, knowing my situation and the fact that our five-year old daughter just lost her father. I admit, my daughter is close with her dad, instead of her mom. It was okay with me. I didn’t get jealous at the slightest because Johnny loves our daughter so much, he was willing to do anything for her and here I was, taking up too much time surfing the net, wasting time away instead of writing as much as I could.
Anyway, he died and left me and our girl with nothing. He had no savings, no insurance, no nothing. I don’t care about any of that. We’ve lived this way ever since we got married on May of 2003. He and I had started our relationship August of 1999, so that’s basically more than half of my thirty-three years of existence.
I’m delaying. I’m stalling from what I really want to share. I broke down. I lost it. I was broken, like a porcelain doll dropped on the floor and smashed into pieces when I heard what I happened. I wasn’t even there. He died and I wasn’t there during his last gasps of air. I listened although I didn’t want to, to the stories they told me about how he died. Then I when I went to where his body was, I first saw his feet and then a sinking feeling in my stomach made me physically sick. I wanted to die right there and then when I removed the white sheet covering his face.
Even in death, he was beautiful. He was such a beautiful man who had gone through the ugliest life could throw him. And I regret every second that I added to the misery which is both his biological and adoptive parents. Why bring a child into this earth if you were going to turn your back on him? And it was this idea that kept me from putting on a show for the people who came to his funeral. I didn’t want to see the body inside the casket. I wanted to remember him as the man who lived with me, who spent his days and nights with me.
There is no point to this post. I just wanted to write about it. How much I miss him… How much I want to dream of him… Can’t his ghost appear in my dreams at the least? Because when he died, he just disappeared… There was nothing… Nothing but my daughter and a couple of pictures to remind me of his existence. Three days before he died, he joked about having his body cremated and his ashes taken up his favorite moutain. I said I couldn’t do it since I’m not a mountaineer… But he insisted. As if he knew he was going to die soon. So I’m doing it on his 34th birthday on October 31, 2014. I’ll be joined by some friends…
After that, I don’t know what else to do.
I don’t want to forget about him. I don’t want our daughter to forget about him… But I’m scared that we will someday.
Lighting candles in front of his ashes, his pictures isn’t enough. I want to hold him one more time. I want to say that I’m happy to be a part of his life, but I can’t because I feel terrible that he was taken away from me without so much as a warning. I want to kiss him and never let him go. I always knew he was the one for me and somehow, the hot guy in our college fell in love with ordinary me and I took it for granted. I had so much excuses… I couldn’t even be loyal to him. I have so much regrets, I want to pull out my heart with my bare hands and just get over and done with it.
There is a greater plan, some say. What the hell is it? Make me feel worse than I already am? Give me so much hardship when my own body is giving in to disease? What about my daughter? How can I raise her on my own when I cannot even take care of my own self? I am so scared of how I’m going to do all this on my own. I thought he was superhuman… I forgot he was mortal. He put me first and this is what he got. He wanted to belong and yet his biological parents abandoned him and the crazy folks who adopted him turned their backs on him as well.
I on the other hand, turned my back on my own family just to be with him. We built a life together and I was truly happy. We got pregnant 2008 and he was so scared that my heart couldn’t handle it. But I’m the one who’s alive now. Weird… I’m the one who is sick and yet he was the one who died…
How could I not hate? How could I be better? How on earth am I going to write this awesome novel I was planning on when the one person who kept me sane and strong was ripped away from me? I know I should put my daughter first, but I just can’t accept it. Is this what life has in store for me? Trials and more trials?
Can somebody please tell me how? I don’t know how to deal with this? Truly, what is the point?