Tuesday, June 7, 2011

One year ago

Dear Michael,

It’s been 365 days since you died. Three hundred sixty-five days since I saw your face. Three hundred sixty-five days since I sat next to you, holding your hand, listening as the time between your breaths got longer and longer. Three hundred sixty-five days since I leaned in and told you I loved you, promised you I would take good care of our baby girl and that it was OK for you to let go; you didn’t have to fight anymore.

I wish I could tell you in all those days that things have gotten easier, but I still miss you all the time. I miss you when I see something funny and want to tell you about it. I miss you when I walk into a dark, empty house. I liked it when you would wait up for me at night. I miss you on holidays. They have been so hollow, sort of pathetic, really. I miss you when Julia is wearing me out and I feel like a bad parent and I have no one to tell me that it’s going to be OK, that I’m doing the right thing. Or if I’m doing the wrong thing, no one is here to tell me what’s right. I miss you when my friends complain about their relationships, because even though I liked to bitch about you never once turning on our dishwasher, you really were a good husband. You loved and honored me as your wife, and as the mother of your child, and you never once spoke disrespectfully to me, even though I’m sure I deserved it on more than one occasion.

And speaking of my annoyance with your lack of household help, I see now what contributions you made to our family. So I miss you when I’m pushing the lawnmower up the damn hill and taking the car in to get the oil changed and paying the bills.

Sometimes I’ll come across something, like your handwriting or a photo, and it will literally take my breath away. I got my West Virginia license plate and on one side is the number 5, the other side, 30. Your birthday: 5/30. I like it. Feels like you’re with me. Other times, I feel a physical emptiness, a hole in my chest. I feel incomplete.

But when I think about you, I think about how you were full of life. You loved life. You were larger than life.

I envision you sitting at the Anchor, everyone gathered around, cracking up at whatever you were saying. And I felt so happy being the girl sitting next to you. The girl who got to go home with you.

And I know that you would want me to live life. To teach our girl to live life. To love life. To get on with life.

It scares me a little bit, because to let go of the pain would, in a way, be like letting go of you. But I will never let go of you. I’m working on separating the two. I’m trying to push those memories of you so sick, struggling to breathe, out of my mind. But oh, do they haunt me…

I want to remember the you who still ate the key lime pie I baked for you, even after I dropped it on the floor, because you didn’t want me to cry. The you who took me out for a drive in your car with the top down on a Sunday afternoon. The you who saved the cork from that bottle of wine we were drinking the first night we kissed. I still have it, by the way.

I want to remember you kissing Julia’s belly while she squealed with delight. And watching Eagles games with her. And pushing her around the neighborhood in the stroller.

Oh, if you could see our girl now. You were always so eager to watch her grow and learn and discover new things, while I was the one who wanted her to stay a cute, cuddly baby. You would be beaming right now. She just finished her first year of preschool. She spent weeks watching caterpillars turn into butterflies. She can put together 100-piece jigsaw puzzles by herself. She’s finally starting to pedal on her bike and can successfully blow a bubble. And on this very day, she’s taking her first tennis lesson. I have to admit, it is pretty cool.

She’s not into dolls or really girly things. She still likes books. She sneaks them into her bed at night. It reminds me of how you told me you used to go to bed with a radio to listen to Phillies games. She still eats blueberry Eggos and vanilla yogurt every single day for breakfast and still can’t drink through a straw.

She can still test my patience, wear me out and get on my last nerve. The whining and yelling. Oh God, the whining and yelling. But we’re working on it. I’m trying to teach her to be a proper young lady. She’s so smart. And funny. And beautiful. But you already know that.

Thank you for giving her to me.

I feel like I haven’t been the best mother to her this past year. I’ve been distant, in a fog. But I want to snap out of it, and I know you would want me to snap out of it. You would want me to live. So I’m going to try. And I hope you’ll watch over us and maybe point us in the right direction. We’ll try not to disappoint. And I hope you know that you’re always with us. Always.

Love, C


some asian guy said...


Carol Urban said...

What a beautiful letter to your husband. So well written. Conveying your soul. Thank you for putting your thoughts into words that I could read. Thank you for having the courage to go on even after the loss of your husband. I'm glad I found your blog.

Craig Faris said...

You obviously don't know me, but I was a friend of Mike's and Jody's from our days in West Virginia. I worked for the Dominion Post and met the two through covering basketball. We made several road trips together, and I spent many nights in Charleston with the two.
I didn't want to be one of these people who came out of the woodwork and said the typical things in a reach to help ease your pain. That would be rude of me. Mike was an extraordinary man. You already know this. He knew when to talk, when to listen and always put himself second to 'my' problems.
We lost touch when I moved to South Carolina in 1997, but I did speak with Jody on a few occasions.
Upon learning of his passing, I made a point to hug my little girl. She is close to your little one's age. You just never know. I think of him often, miss him and got the sense of the love you two shared from the blog.
I hope you continue to find peace and that your beautiful little one has loving lasting memories of Mike. He truly was a rare find, a gem so to speak.
I always tell my three babies it is OK to cry when you hurt. It is part of the healing process. I have had a good one since learning of Mike's untimely death.
God Bless both of you and know Mike is always with you.