Three Months

91 days, 2184 hours, 131,040 minutes, 7,862,400 seconds

Three months ago at approximately 9:15 a.m. Chris died.  I will meet that moment face to face in just under 12 hours.

The days immediately following Chris' death were by far the most difficult during the 9 a.m. hour.  I would wake up already dreading passing the moment when his life ceased to be not only because it was by far the most terrifying moment of my life but also because it meant that one more day was put between my old life and my new life.  The separation was physically painful.  As the hour approached, my mind would automatically retrace the moments I could piece together from that moment trying to find the crumbs I had left on the path to find my way back.  Of course, as I have said hundreds of times, it was a normal morning thus my mind is foggy about the series of events I did not physically see.

Instead, I hear the thud.  I remember the loud cough.  I can see the discoloration of his face.  I can feel the coolness of Chris' chest as I did compressions.  I can hear my frantic voice telling him not to leave his kids.  I get pissed thinking of the 911 operator telling me to calm down because little did she know, I already knew he was dead.  My CPR efforts were futile. 

Prior to Chris' death, we had only spent time apart on four occasions that I can remember for no more than two nights each time.  It was a shocking reality to believe that I would be spending every single night alone for....ever.  I often explain Maya's grieving in terms of her lack of understanding in regard to what forever is.  In reality, do any of us really know?

Tonight I am looking at the three month mark with slight disdain, a smidge of relief and a strange sort of self-congratulations.  The disdain does not require much explanation.  The smidge of relief has surfaced because I didn't think I could make it this far.  In the days immediately following Chris' death much time was spent truly believing the world would just stop spinning and I would fall right off as if gravity could not contain my grief.  On some days I feel darn proud of putting one foot in front of the other, managing to maintain my household, feeling mostly successful about the growth of my children as well as felling like I am truly, well, feeling this.  Within hours of Chris' death I realized I needed to face this thing head on; I couldn't shy away from places, events, situations, dates, people.  My first mission I faced was going into the bathroom in which I found him dead.  I even stood in the shower because I realized if I didn't do it then I might not ever do it.  Of course, as I stood there, I looked down and saw the soap he had dropped on the shower floor....I had not realized it was there when I found him because it would have been under his right leg. 

Many of you have told me this is masochistic behavior but in all honesty, my entire life could be viewed that way.  Chris clothes are still in the closet, his wallet (with the exception of his license) is just as he left it receipts and all, he still has toiletries in the bathroom, his drawers are still full of clothes, his shoes are still in the garage and his shaving kit is still under my bathroom sink.  It is all just stuff.  They are all just places.

This past weekend I stayed the night in Seattle, at the last minute by myself.  The next afternoon I drove to the park Chris and I walked to on our first 'real' date (no, not the horrible blind date!).  The park is on the water in Kirkland...that night we had sushi, got a drink (mojitos) and went for a walk where we sat talking on the dock for hours.  As we were leaving the park, he grabbed my hand and I smiled...feeling the tingling in my stomach.  Maybe it was masochistic.  I sat and cried.  However, I faced it, I remembered and now I can keep moving through.  I was sad sitting there but in reality the memory is vibrant.  It was the night I started to fall in love with Chris. 

All of this and truly I feel like I am writing in circles especially in light of the fact that grief relents for only moments and takes that opportunity to regroup and sneak back into my physical being.