Letting Go

The first big fight we ever had was epic.
We'd been married for about 6 months and I was pregnant with Krystopher- I was in that nesting stage.
Ok- I have to give you some of the backstory about our lives before we married just so you can get context.
Sheldon had lived in his house for quite some time- and he hated to throw anything out. He had boxes of power cords and piles of car manuals and containers of "stuff" that he just couldn't discard- in case- you know, he needed it one day. Me? I was just finishing up a uni degree and everything I owned could fit in the boot of my '79 Corolla.
And so the two became one. I moved my one box and suitcase into his/our house... fast forward 6 months and here's the situation.
I'm ready to nest.
I'm looking to clear out the "stuff" and make room for baby.
Sheldon has to go away for work for a few days and I decide (in my pregnant wisdom) that I would use the opportunity of an absent husband to have a spring clean- and when I say spring clean, I mean spring it on him- "Surprise... empty house!!! Clutter free!!!"
Well-  I started in the kitchen.
Oh- the kitchen.
He had 75 plates.
32 cups.
156 saucepans.
I exaggerate slightly- but you get the picture.
My theory was and still is- you can fit three baking dishes into the oven at any one time- so three baking dishes is all you need.
And so I took my theory and I put it to work.
I de-cluttered.
First the kitchen.
And then the office.
Oh- that man and his office.
If the zombie apocalypse ever happened- rest assured that you could find enough white paper, envelopes, pens and staplers in the office of one Sheldon Gakowski to write a million disgruntled letters to the Zombie invaders.
I loved the man fiercely, but oh my goodness he had some frustrating qualities. (She says smugly, because after all- she is practically perfect in every way.)
And his capacity to hoard (there- I said it!) was one of those infuriating qualities.
So here I am- newly married, pregnant and so incredibly proud of the way I'd revolutionised our cupboards and rooms.
I'd even found time to potter in the garden and get rid of all of the weeds.
Cue the husbands return.
Everything smells like Mr. Sheen furniture polish. The garden beds are dark with freshly turned soil. The cupboards are beautifully clutter free.
And he is simmering mad.
It starts slowly.
A bewildered shake of the head.
A shocked look.
"Where. Are. My Grandmothers. Plates."
He says it slowly.
"Ummmmmmmm.... what?"
He continues... through the rooms. Opening empty cupboards and looking for his "stuff".
"And what the hell did you do to the gardens? Why did you pull out all of the plants??"
Apparently the "weeds" that I had painstakingly removed were actually succulent groundcover plants- as in, real, actual plants. Who knew?

Let's just say that I learnt a lot about my darling husband and his connection to the "stuff" that I had discarded. He forgave me- and we ended up laughing about it years later. In fact, every time we moved house, I would get into "throw it!!" mode. And he would stand guard at the door, checking over what I was deeming throw-able.

And this last week has been epic.
Sheldon never lost his capacity to hold onto "stuff".
Our carport has been full of boxes of manuals for tractors and folders full of "stuff" that he just couldn't part with- and trust me, I learnt my lesson all those years ago with Grandmother's plates.

And so for the past 10 months, I have locked the door to the study and the carport and ignored the "stuff".
But it weighed me.
And while I craved for a clutter free existence, I was aware that the removal of the "stuff" was also the removal of physicality. His boxes of folders, his containers of odds and ends.
And so I ignored.
Until last week- when I could ignore no longer.
I have reached a new place in this path of grief and transition.
I'm ready to let go of the physicality of the "stuff".

You all know Aunty Heather- the personification of kindness in those last long, painful months of the goodbye.
Well, I called her again last week...and she arrived.
She organised my linen cupboard and did the baskets of ironing that were piling up.
And then, I said- "You know that show Hoarders??" as I unlocked the study door.
And then Aunty Heather went to work.
She started by holding up every object- "Keep or throw?"
She soon discovered that, unless it was obviously precious- throw it.
I have discovered that the physical "stuff" is not him.
Throw it.
Let it go.
It has been cathartic and cleansing to empty and to clean away.

And while I have sorted and discarded, I have felt my heart lighten with each load that has existed my front door.

The physicality of "stuff" is not the only changes I've made.
I'm taking a step back from work- I'm transitioning from full time to part time.
I need to find a balance and it's just not here at the moment.
I'm going to focus on being PRESENT for my three champion sons.
Not just a physical, adult presence in the house- but actually PRESENT.
And, for now, that means that I need to step back from work.
Now- for those of you who know me well, this has been a tough call on some level. I adore my work. I find validation in my work.
But I'm learning a lesson here-
It's ok to take what you need when you need it.
Life is forgiving and people will step up and lean in. They will stand in the gap when there is gap to be filled.
And right now- I need to take time.
Time is a precious commodity.
And so I'm taking time..

Listen- life is amazing and horrible and beautiful and fraught with ebbs and flows.
And it's here, to be grabbed and felt and consumed.
It's too short, this life we live- to be weighed with "stuff".

The release of his "stuff" has not meant a diminishing of him.
He is, and forever will be, so much more than a box of manuals or a cupboard of plates.
He is the tilt of my sons head and the resonance of my eldest boys laugh.
That's where I see him.
Not in the "stuff,  but in the flesh and blood of his legacy.

Find the precious- and treasure it.
Find the important- and value it.
Find the moments- and be present.
Find the release from the weight of "stuff"- be it physical or internal: and just be free.

And in the words of Princess Elsa: "LET IT GO!!"

What happens when...

What happens when it hits hard- this losing and this loss and this lost physicality of him?
What happens when I just can't... I just can't fathom another iota of this grief?
What happens when I am tired? Tired of keeping myself busy enough to beat back the absence of a life I tremendously loved?
What happens when I try to forget? And then I crave to never forget...
What happens when I wake and reach for him still.. still. Oh my heart.
What happens when I'm ready to laugh and smile?
What happens when I'm ready to run into the distant horizon and leave this place that echoes him?
Echoes the life we treasured and built and agonised over?
What happens when I'm empty of everything?
What happens when I don't know how to parent by myself?
What happens?
What happens when I suddenly realise that I'm doing really ok and I just might be ready to take another step without his hand on the small of my back, fingers sweetly entwined with mine?
What happens when I'm ready to unravel myself from the fading future that we will never own?

I know what happens.
Because that's what I've seen and known and felt these last moments and days.
Because that's what I have breathed and sighed.

Here is what happens.

I stop.
I mean, I have no choice but to stop.
And when I say stop, I mean I slam headlong into the stop sign that loomed in my way.
Oh yes... I stop.

So.
I've stopped.
I stopped so suddenly that my world ricocheted with the sudden nature of my stop.
I heard it.
I put my weary head down on the lounge chair- and there I decided to stay.
I just stopped.
I stopped and let the water of chaos and grief and running and being stupidly busy just close over me... for just a moment.

And here's the thing- because there is always a thing.
I could have gladly stayed there.
Under water.
Under the calmness of the stopping.
I could have stayed and just watched the world that I am trying to keep together disintegrate into a gazillion shards.

But I have these people in my life who refuse to let me stay under water.
They blatantly, down right refuse.

They knew that I couldn't move. So they moved me.
They knew I couldn't speak. So they spoke for me.

Listen, I'm not saying that I'm totally, 100% broken.
But right now- I'm a little broken hearted.
I'm not shattered beyond repair- but I am shattered in the most beautiful way.

A lot of people who love me have been watching this happen.
They have been standing sideline and have been cringing as they watched it unfold.
There's no stopping it- this outworking of grief.
There is only a watching and a waiting and a being there- ready with outstretched arms and no platitudes, but with a sigh and a tight-squeeze-the-life-out-of-me- type hug.

I'm ok and I'm tired and I'm facing a new stage of this grief.
Oh grief- you stand like the faceless figure on the shore, ready to collect the payment that is required to step foot in a new place. Grief- The gatekeeper.
And I'm ready to step ashore a new place.
I am.
A place that features me- the Suz that knows how to live days and nights without my mum and my husband.

I sat in my doctors office yesterday- and I told him that I can't sleep.
And I am tired.
And I'm ready to step forward in this life.
Because that's what life demands.
It is what Sheldon demanded of me.

And in my desire to be functional, faith filled and fine- I forgot to be real to what I have been through and what I have seen.

My doctor said, "I'm gonna be a doctor and label you- you are experiencing complicated grief and a bit of post traumatic stress disorder... You need sleep."

Traumatic. Hmmm...

On the 20th April, 2014 at 1:16 am I watched my mum, my best friend and my holder of smiles and memories...go. She left. She ceased to be a physical presence that I could run to and shelter myself in.

On the 5th September, 2015 at 2:23 pm I watched my husband go. He left... He ceased to a physical presence that I could cleave to and find adoration and protection in.

And in those in-between days- I watched him fade away.
A hard fade.

So yeah- I'm tired.
And I'm done being busy to try to fill the echo of empty arms.

And I'm ready to step forward and be Suz without them here.
They would kick my arse if I stayed laying on the lounge chair.
But the lounge chair is good for a while.
Just so I can sleep.
And remember how to breathe again.
And let the loss and the losing and the lost physicality make it's home on my world.
It's a part of me now- this loss. It's not something I want to wear around my neck- but I'm finding out where it fits.

So- if you see my around.
Yes. I know- I look tired. I am.
And yes- I'm broken hearted and beautifully being heart mended all at the same time.
I'm sleeping- finally.
And I'm laughing sometimes and crying at others.
I'm taking some time to stop.
Just stop.
And breathe.
And listen to great music and watch fantastic sunsets and meet new faces.
And I'm working out this only parent deal.
And I'm ok.

But if you see me- just hug the life out of me. And breathe some of your life in to me.
And smile deeply into my tired, weary, ready to step forward eyes and just say nothing.
Just hug and smile.

300 nights ago.

I’m standing outside in the dark. The cool chill has crept into the air and it’s the season of fire pits and rambling conversations over a glass of Shiraz.

300 nights ago. That's where I am.
300 nights ago- he is still here.

He knows that his time is slipping fast through the hourglass of remaining moments and hours that are allocated his. He knows.

I’m standing outside and it’s dark. It’s cold tonight. Inside the house, the lights are on and there is movement. The flow and ebb, the lull and the chaos of dinnertime.

She is standing in the kitchen. Pouring a glass of wine. She tilts her head to the side and listens for the shower. He can’t stand up and shower anymore. He is just so very tired. The sallow in his face has snuck in and settled, severe and apparent over the past weeks. She listens and knows that he is sitting on the shower chair- letting the warmth and the solitude of a veil of warm water soothe him.

I’m watching her- the strain of knowing he is leaving soon is etched so deeply into her face. Into the lines around her tired eyes. Into the set of her mouth.

I am her.

She is me.

I am outside.. Standing in the dark and I see her.

She sips the wine and closes her eyes for just a moment as it slides in warmth down her clenched throat. She can’t relax. He is having such a bad day. The morphine isn’t enough to ease the pain that he is in. He is tired and in pain. She calculates how much more morphine she will give him so that he can rest. Her life is dosage and medication and watching him fade.

I reach out my hand towards the cool glass of the window. I know her. She is me and I can see her. The pain of his going is etched deeply tonight.

“It’s going to get bad…” I want to whisper to her. But I can’t and I won’t. Let her think that tonight and the moments she is enduring now are the hardest parts. This pain that he is in… The slow goodbye, bittersweet and heartbreaking.

“So much worse..”  I would whisper.

 

I look around the room- people are there and they love her fiercely. They are beside her as she walks this goodbye. It is their goodbye as well- they love him wholeheartedly. He is loveable.

I know the way they love her, this me who is watching her great love fade away, because they love me in my now just like they loved me on this night.

The shower stops and she puts down her wine suddenly, so that it spills on the bench. Her movements are hurried as she steps around the kitchen bench and goes towards the bedroom. Eyes follow her and she slips into the room.

I’m standing outside. It’s cold tonight and he is going.

He is leaving her.

He left me.

I can see her, this me who is heartsick with the longing to never let him go.

I know her.

It’s been nearly a year since I was her. Hundreds of days and nights since those hours we spent around the fire pit with our people. Those hours and moments of saying goodbyes in each kiss, each smile, each whispered conversation late at night. Bodies turned towards each other, her fingers stroking and memorising the contours of his face.

The bedroom door opens and he leans heavily against the wall. The soft shuffle in his slow stride moves him forward to the chair that is left unoccupied for him. He is tired. The final fade has arrived- He knows.

I’m standing outside and I see him. The way he slowly lowers his failing body into the chair. The way she lingers slightly to make sure that he is comfortable enough. The way she fixes a smile onto her face, and gives him a cheeky mouthful about something.

He knows. He knows that he is leaving her.

She walks past him and his eyes follow her. They follow that me who I am watching. She picks up her wine and takes another sip. He watches her and his eyes close in a heavy weariness.

I can see them.

Walking towards this end with no option but to be together.

No option but to face it with a determined stride.

But I know.

I know that she is not determined.

Or brave.

Or strong.

Or inspiring.

She is broken.

Broken hearted that he is going.

This.

This is what we have in common- this her and this me.

Her broken heart is his going.

My broken heart is him gone.

I see them. My people.

The house full of people. Leaning into talk to him because he still has so very much to say.

He always had so much to say.  I smile at the way she purposefully disagrees with him- just to get a bite.
He knows what she is doing and plays along.

I see them. And I’m suddenly overcome with the desire to bang on this frosted window and scream at them-

“This is the best part of a goodbye… his being here. He is here and you are not alone!!”

I want to grab her and let her see the hollow place in my eyes. The hundreds of days that have rolled past since this night that I am watching from outside have left a hollowed place deep in my eyes and I want her to see it.

But I won’t.

Let them think that this is the hardest part.

Let them think that.

I don’t want to walk away. I want to stay here, in the cold night and keep watching this house, my house on a night 300 nights ago. 

I want to watch the way she walks past him and brushes his hair away from his forehead before she leans in to give him a kiss. I know her. I am her. I see her and I want to be her again. Because when I was her, I had him.

 

But I turn.

I turn and it is over. She is gone- she has become this me.

And the hundreds of nights disappear and I am here. Tonight.

 

The lounge room is quiet and dark when I look again.

Hundreds of days and nights have slipped past and the kitchen is silent.

The chairs are empty.

 

He is gone.

And my heart loves him still. That will be unchanging and unchangeable.

And she is gone.

That tired carer.

That tireless and weary woman who lived each day waiting for him to leave her.

She is gone and she is now me. This Suz.

 

That’s what has happened. The hundreds of days that have slipped past since those nights of our long goodbye have meant that she, that woman who loved to brush back his hair from his forehead, has had to learn what life is like on the other side of a goodbye.

 

There are no titles that she wants as she has become me.

Widow doesn’t suit her.

Single is too final for her liking.

Alone is scary.

Single mum is scarier.

 

“Just Suz- that’s what I want to be” has been her thoughts as she has stepped into these new moments.

Suz- who loves to laugh uproariously and who is irreverent at inopportune times.

Suz- who is a little lost sometimes but mostly found in the network of people who love her fiercely.

Suz- who isn’t quite sure what grief looks like or how it is meant to work, but does know that sometimes her heart is about ready to burst open with the enormous immensity of the way that it aches. And other times its perfectly content in the days that are unfolding.

Suz- who needs to be loved. She always has- she always will.

Suz- who is constantly amazed that she parents these sons. These sons who have so many reasons to hate the world, and yet who are the first to forgive and the loudest to cheer her on as she stumbles and stuffs up.

Suz- who will continue to make decisions about these new days and hope to high heaven that they are actually the right ones. And if they aren’t, then at least that she would have the fortitude to own them. Learn and move on.

Suz- who misses being his wife. Who misses the ebb and flow of a life that was ours.

Suz- who knows that she will one day be a wife again… one day.  And she knows that great joy will find a home in her heart once more.

If I could go back, step into the past- here is what I would tell her. That me from a couple of hundred nights ago… I would whisper to her as I held her tight in her tired, weary brokenness:

 “You will hurt. And you will heal.

You will drink too much and you will hate to be hungover.

You will rage in the lonely hours of the night and you will hate the world.

You will find joy in meeting strangers and great delight in making friends.

You will wonder at every decision that you make, because it is weighted with the responsibility of three sons.

But Suz… You will be ok. You really, truly will. You will survive his leaving you and you will be ok.”

 300 nights have slipped past me.

I’m approaching the season of fire pits and rambling conversations over glasses of Shiraz. And I’m going to be ok.

 

 

 

The Purple Sash

The Purple Sash...

 

 

 

It’s a thin slip of silken material. It loops into a sash.

For the years that I knew him, it was a ritual that he carried out each Relay for Life day.

He would register.

Pick up his purple sash.

There was a reverence and a profound sense of thankfulness each time I watched him slip that purple sash over his head.

The purple sash declares the wearer as ‘Survivor’.

He was.

He survived- the diagnosis; that whiplash that left us reeling.
He survived- the multiple surgeries that left him scarred and alive.
He survived- the chemotherapy that came hand in hand with a mountain of difficulties.
He survived- the terminal prognosis and the grief that wrecked us.
He survived- the goodbyes that he set himself to say.

He survived.

Survive is a loaded word.

It has multiple meanings and each of them in their varied contexts belong here.

He survived in the face of looming mortality until the second he left the room and went to that distant shore.

Until he could survive no more- he survived.

Survive is a verb.

And one of the varied meanings of this doing word is to “remain alive after the death of (a particular person)’.

 

Sheldon is survived by us.

By the ones who will Relay for him tomorrow.
Sheldon is survived by his sons.

The steely determination that glints in the recesses of their eyes when they think about the scourge of cancer. That’s survival.

Sheldon is survived by the power of kindness.

Kindness in the mundane and in the exceptional.

Oh- my heart.

Oh- the emotion that lingers and presses and ebbs and flows when I think of that purple sash.

He won’t pick up a purple sash this year.

It’s left to us- we who survive him.

I will pick up my white sash tomorrow.

The ‘Carers’ sash.

And I will reverently, with a profound sense of thankfulness- slip it over my head.

The greatest privilege that I have experienced in my 37 years was to carry his children and deliver them into this life. To partner with him as parents and to give him the gift of being a father- a daddy. Oh- what an honour.

The second greatest privilege was to be the one who cared for him in those last, long, painfully raw days of his goodbye.

To be the one he whispered his last “I love you” to.

To be the one his eyes sought last before they closed a final time.

What a privilege.

What an honour to have cared for him.

Oh- my heart.

And to you- the brave and the resilient.

The scarred and the fighting.
The ones who will slip that purple sash over your head tomorrow.

I am in awe.

You are brilliance in action as you teach us how to keep walking. Through the diagnosis, the prognosis, the scars, the set backs, the celebrations, the medications…. Keep walking.

Keep walking.

Tomorrow night.

When it’s cold- and even rainy.

When it’s that moment just before dawn breaks and the birds start to rouse.

When it seems just too hard to walk another lap- then. Keep Walking.

Then- in those dark hours.. Keep walking.

That is what my survivor taught me.

No hour is too dark.

No night is too long.

Some glimmer of hope and kindness will always survive.

He is survived.

 

We need a cure...

We need a cure.

Like... we really need a cure.

I found myself telling someone today about how it actually, truly was in his final hours.

Normally I simply say- "My husband died.. Cancer."

And the "dying" part is elusive and abstract in the conversation. And that's ok.

I mean, it's not something that every conversation needs... the details.

But today- well, I don't know why, but the conversation led to details. 

Details.

Like how he was so very tired and how he fought to stay coherent.

Details.

Like how he was in pain.. and how the pain was debilitating.

Details.

Like how the relentless sound of the death rattle almost drove me to distraction. Almost.

Details.

Cancer is a thief.

It steals.

It takes what is not rightfully its to have.

It stole his breath.

It stole his strength.

It stole the vitality he faced a day with.

We need a cure.

This week, all over my city and throughout the state and nation, families received the whiplash moment of diagnosis.

Multiple people discovered a lump, or a growth..

They had blood tests and scans.

They were seated in a doctors office and looked at grainy images of that heinous thief.

This week, people reconciled 'terminal' as a term that defined their coming days.

They cried and they held a beloved hand as the realisation settled.

We need a cure.

Today I stood before another coffin.

Cancer took another breath.

Cancer stole days that it had no claim over.

Over and over again... in hospital rooms. In lounge rooms.

Surrounded by loved ones.

In funeral homes and in cemeteries. 

The cost of cancer was shouldered.

Oh....

We need a cure.

How?

How will it happen?

Well...

I resolutely, definitively hope against hope that it will happen soon.

That it will happen in this lifetime.

And because it looms... the enormity of loss and the thief that is cancer, I sometimes get overwhelmed with the... well, the enormity. And the loss.

Yes... especially the loss of his not being here. 

And I need to fight back.

I need to find a way... forward.

I need to listen to the single determination that resides in my son's voices when they talk about a tomorrow where cancer is a chronic illness, not a terminal one.

We need a cure.

As the days and months and moments pass, I find it less viscerally painful to talk about the detail of those last moments. 

I find it somewhat easier to face tomorrow without him.

I find tomorrow is going to be ok.

And in those ok tomorrows, where we laugh and find moments of joy...

In those days of fundraisers and functions.

In those moments.

In those days that approach us...

We need a cure. 

Ebb and Flow

This is how time happens- it Ebbs and Flows.

"The ebb is the outgoing phase, when the tide drains away from the shore; and the flow is the incoming phase when water rises again."

The tide will always turn... it will ebb and it will flow.
The tide will always turn.
It will rush in. 
Sometimes with violent, smashing waves that leave destruction in it's wake.
Sometimes with the gentle and sudden arrival of fresh tide lines- effortlessly appearing.
It will flow.

It will rush out. The pull of the outgoing tide will sweep away the sand from around your toes. Each grain will whip away and you'll sink just a little in the shifting sand.

I watched as the life in him ebbed away. 
Like the ebb of that tide, that's how he left.

Yes, the tide will always turn.
It will ebb.

Highs and lows of the tide.
Highs and lows of our days.
Highs and lows are necessary and expected. 

How these highs and lows hurt though- as they ebb and flow around the memories that echo fainter today than they did yesterday.

I'm worried that I've forgotten what he sounded like. 

The rise and fall of his voice when he gave the running commentary of a football game.
How often did I mutter in regular annoyance for him to be quiet... 
I couldn't hear what was going on...
Sshhhhh... 
Silly me to ever have quieted him. To want his chatter to cease.
I miss his voice.
I miss his laugh that was generous and full of abandon when he found something funny. 
I miss his voice.
The hum and chuckle of his voice as he chatted to the boys in the early mornings. When he would make the house feel like light and home... because that's what he was. 
This separation of the grave- it is felt the most when I listen late at night or early in the morning, and I strain my ears... but I can't hear it. and I won't hear it. And I worry then- that I have forgotten. 

But it's normal- it's the ebb and flow of the tide, these worries about what I can recall and what I can't retain.
It's just what happens as time passes. Some things will drift into the blur of forgetting. I don't want it to- but it will. It does.
Yes... the days roll out and the distance between my hearing him and holding his hand is a distance made wider.. there is distance created with each turn of the tide.

Another day of ebb and flow.

We are doing fine- we have the ebb and we have the flow.
We have the violent rush of emotions that leave a trail of destruction.
We have the sweet days when new adventures are had and the calm of just being us four reigns.
We know the pull of memories that we desperately want to hold onto- hold them tight and hope they stay clear and close.

It happened in the airport last week.
This ebb and flow- the rush and the receding.
We had enjoyed 7 blissful days on the beach- jumping waves and laughing with cousins.
And we were at the airport- homeward bound.
Matthew stilled. He looked around and was instantly alert.
I noticed and watched him.
"What's up Matty??"
He said nothing but kept looking around.
"Oh...nothing. I just heard someone who sounded like dad. It was weird."
And he shrugged it off.

Not me.
I stalked people. 
Anyone who was a potential candidate for that similar sounding laugh or for some phrase that was reminiscent of him- I stalked them. 
It's probably hilarious in hindsight- there's me... leaning into conversations that weren't mine in the hope that I would hear what my son had heard. Just a second of the laughter that is so absent from our home.
I didn't hear it.

And that's ok.
It's ok to miss his voice. It was a voice that gave me all the comfort and safety that I ever needed in those days I doubted my ability to be a good mum or handle these after-he's-gone days. Of course I'm going to miss that voice. 

And it's ok to allow myself these moments of grace in the forgetting parts.
I will forget parts.
There will be a fade. And it's ok to enjoy the flow of happy days and ok days and I'm-not-lost-in-grief days. 

That's the ebb and flow.

A birthday wish

The twins are turning 9 tomorrow. My birthday boys.
They have been acting out the past few days. .. cranky, cantankerous little things.
It's meant we've had tough-try to get to school in one piece- this mumma is slowly losing it-type days.
It's just been downright crazy town.
And tonight I said "so... give me some clues here. What do you want for your birthday??"
Silence.
A sniffle.
And then the sound of tears.
"I just want one more hug from my dad..."

That was me done in.
Me.
Done.

Totally. Absolutely done.

How do I answer that?
What can I say?

I just cried.
We all did.

Sometimes I don't have any words.
I have nothing.
I'm left to look at the wave of grief that floods in and leaves us flailing for a moment.

We huddle down.
We bunker together in a tight little knot of hugs and sobs.
And we let it wash over us.
This separation that we are learning to navigate.
The pain of not having a daddy here to hug.

And when we can talk...
When the tears have run their course. .. we talk.
We whisper about how amazing he was.
We giggle at the way he sang really off key.
We remind each other that he wanted us to be kind and brave. And how sometimes that bravery looks like us crying with each other.

I don't know the science of it... but crying is just plain, straight out good for the soul.
It's a recalibration.
Tonight we recalibrated.

They've gone to bed..
Finally.
All cried out and somehow more settled than they've been in days.

It's calm and quiet here now.
Like the calm that steals in after a wild storm.

And I'll wait until my babies are asleep.
And I'll wrap the books and games they'll unwrap tomorrow.
Oh. How I would move heaven and earth if it was in my power to give them their birthday wish. Just one hug.

Listen.
Don't ever be too busy
or too cranky
or too tired to relish a hug with someone you love.
Breathe them in.
Be there.
Wrap your arms around them. All of their imperfection and their perfection.
Be there and just hug them.

Today. When you read this... would you set it as a priority to hug someone precious to you.
Matthew and Lukas are 9.. they get a birthday wish. ..And we declare it to be national hug someone you love day.

 March 2. One more hug day. 

Because just one more hug... Well, it would make the world of difference.