45 days

It has been 45 days since the accident, 25 since I kissed him goodbye and wiped his last tears, yet it feels like yesterday.  Most days I have to remind myself this is real, this is my new life.  I don’t like it, I question why him? Why not me? Why such a senseless tragedy at all? I’ll never have an answer, I know.

Today I went and picked up the accident report from the Sheriff’s Office, they asked matter of factly the date and where it occurred, I only knew the date so as tears came to my eyes I just said “he was the one that hit the hog in the road”. Instantaneously the lady’s face dropped and she said ok, I know that one and she rushed away to retrieve it. As she brought me the papers and stamped them she just looked at me and said “I’m so sorry” and all I could say back was “Me too…..me too”. As I got in my car, I looked over the report and reconstruction drawing, in disbelief really, and almost in autopilot I went on to the towing company to drop off paperwork.

I’m not sure what I was thinking, I just pulled in and there it was, the gold Prius usually in my driveway, just sitting there, crushed like a tin can. It took me a moment before I could go into the office, I spoke briefly to the company’s clerk and then said “I’m going to look at the car”, all she could say back was “stay strong”. What did that even mean? I wondered. Why does every one keep using that word?   As I walked around the tangled car I could hardly tell which parts went where, there was no glass in the windows and I couldn’t help but become overwhelmed with anger and sadness. As I opened the passenger side door, just to glance, I saw the shirt that had been cut off at the scene, damp from the recent weather but dried with blood at the same time. My only instinct was to grab it and as I slid down beside the glass covered seat asking why,  I realized there is no staying strong, I’m not strong and maybe I never will be. As the smell of blood circled my head, I wiped my tears and hesitantly laid the shirt back in the car and slowly closed the door. I closed the door and with a deep breath I walked away.  I walked away from the one thing I looked for, that intuitively eased my mind every afternoon as I arrived home, in that deep breath I felt my heart sink.

Please don’t worry about me, I know my posts are heavy but grief for me is just that, a weight that is hard to carry. I really only write for reflection later on, hoping for clarity at some point not pity or attention.   For your reassurance, I am getting out of the house more, mainly so people will stop telling me I need to do so (don’t worry if you are one of those people, I’m not offended or bothered by it). I have gone to the gym once, one and a half times if you count the twenty minutes I stood around mostly looking for nothing and not doing much more than that. I went to church again last week, Amaya’s cheer practice and I’ve not cancelled any chiropractor appointments.

Christmas this year, on the other hand, it is cancelled. I’m not boycotting Jesus’ birth but we aren’t celebrating with parties or gatherings. I can’t fake my way through it like Thanksgiving, I can’t put up a tree or buy gifts without guilt so I booked a trip away from the place we’ve always celebrated Christmas. I feel guilty being in a room full of people who love Troy (us) so much, but only have me as a reminder he isn’t there. Everyone is trying to find their new normal and navigate the heaviness of loss and I pray they find some comfort sooner rather than later. Guilt is a weird emotion that takes over and makes me second guess every decision, including getting away but I’m not sure that the bitterness and sadness of waking up on Christmas morning, just the two us, won’t be just as overwhelming. I miss the chaos of tradition and the joy that Christmas has always brought, maybe next year will be different, maybe we will be able to find some peace and happiness instead of pain and heartbreak. We shall see.