"How are you doing?"

 

"Taking it one day at a time."

 

This has been my automated response for the constant question that coworkers, friends and family ask over and over again.  How am I supposed to be doing?  I still hurt.  The pain hasn't magically disappeared.  I don't appreciate the constant reminders of my loss.  I hurt.  You can see in my face that I hurt- you can look into my eyes and see just how empty I feel.  Why ask?  Can you take this hurt away from me?  If you can, just do it.  Stop asking me how I am.  You know how I am.  Or do you get some benefit of knowing that I am still miserable?  Is that why you constantly bring it up everytime that you see me? 

 

I am angry at the world.  I am angry with God.  I hate feeling like this all the time.  Everyday it gets a little better, but worse at the same time.  I still cry at night, some days I cried before I made it to the comfort of my own home- but it is better now.  I have stopped hiding my tears from my children, and they have started comforting me more.  We haven't talked about my husband in a couple of days, but the air is thick in the house. 

 

I feel guilty when I look at the clock and I can rrealize how much time has passed since my last thought of him.  I haven't thought of Condrick in two whole hours.  Then the tears flow.  I will not ever forget him.  I remember his scent, his smile, his touch.  I remember his laugh and how ugly I thought it was, but thinking it cute at the same time for being so odd.  I remember him putting the garbage cans on the curb on Tuesday night for the Wednesday morning pick up.  I remember him putting on Jagged Edge or Avant when it was our quiet time.  I remember him loving his Sunday morning liver mush sandwiches.  I remember him cutting the grass, fixing the car.  I remember the first and the only time he barbequed hamburgers and chicken.  I remember how his hands shook when we got married.  I remember how he slid on his wedding ring everytime he left the house, even if just going to the store.  I remember how he loved red nail polish.  I remember how we fought to get the mirror hung up in the living room.  I remember when we painted the kids rooms.  I remember Thanksgiving at his Grandma's.  I remember how he hated me walking outside barefoot.   I remember him monopolizing the television during Basketball and Football seasons.  After watching movies in the den for a year or so, I finally began watching the games with him.  Not following the plays, but enjoying his excitement of the sport while laying on his chest or cuddled beside him.  I remember our daughters performing only for him, me just there as an added audience.  The show was all for him.  Daddy's little girls singing and dancing and smiling for his praise.  I remember football in the front yard with the boys, and the day he brought the big trampoline home in the backyard.  It is still there, but he is not.  The excitement is gone and so is he.  That giant blue monstrosity sits alone, covered in leaves.  The children have no desire to jump on it now.  There is no Daddy to watch their flips. 

 

My husbands eyes could see right through a person.  I could tell what he was thinking just by looking at them, and he could do the same for me.  They were dark and deep- mysterious.  I remember the "I love you" look, the "I'm hungry" look, and my favorite- "It's our time" look.  I see his eyes in my sleep, calling out for me.  Wanting me not to miss him, not to hurt.  Wanting me to be stronger, but I can't.

 

I thought I was doing so much better.  I finally washed my hair and began getting up on my own in the morning (my daughter had been waking me up with my clothes already ironed each day so I can go to work).  I polished my fingernails and toes so they wouldn't look so bad peeking through my sandals (Red, of course).  I even smile at customers, sometimes.  I'm getting back to my old self slowly.  I don't cry at work as much, and I even washed a couple loads of clothes.  My house still looks like a complete wreck, but I see a faint ray of hope that things might start getting back to normal.  When I do realize this, I feel guilty again.  I don't want him to think I am forgetting him, like I am living as if he never existed.  I break down completely as soon as I realize I am making progress.  The grieving process starts all over for me on a regular basis.

 

A friend told me that I am holding it in too much and I need to just let it all out.  Another friend says that I cry too much and I need to get it together for my kids.  One pastor says he is at peace in heaven with God, another tells me he is dead in the ground asleep waiting for "The Resurrection".  I just want to run away to a quiet place with my children and have peace.  No job, no school, no bills, no worries.  I can cry whenever I want to, Lay in the grass and look up in the sky if I want to.  That's my dream.

 

I talk to him everyday, all the time.  I talk to him more than God right now, because I am still upset with Him, so I talk to my husband.  I know in my heart this is wrong, but I love him and I miss him so I don't care what anyone thinks.  I had a pastor tell me that was worshipping the dead- but I will write about that some other time.

 

I still haven't heard him talk back, yet.  I had a few brushes with unusual coincidences, but nothing direct enough for me to know that was my husband trying to come through.  A few things were eerie, and one dream was very realistic. I wear his wedding band on my right pointer finger.  I kiss it when I am thinking of him.  I ask him all the time to show me a sign, maybe he has and I am just brushing it off.  I still need that sign, though.

 

I thought about suicide a few times.  If only I could be sure that I would be reunited with him and the children would be okay.  I wouldn't dare put them through my death too, and that only leaves me to hurt continuously.  Suicide is so selfish and would not solve anything.  I might be able to be with my husband again, but there is no guarantee.  I am stuck here to suffer for a little while longer.

 

I hate the grieving process.