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Vacation was a success and everyone was happy.  Her kids were good- so very good.  They were a true joy on the trip.  She expected nothing less.  They were thoughtful, kind and healthy.  And they were funny (her favorite characteristic).

She was so happy to have spent uninterrupted time with her little family, making more good memories. 

She felt an indescribable happy relief to have the first family vacation since her husband’s death under her belt.  And now she was ready to get back to the “normal”she had been working so hard to get back to.

She made plans to meet a friend on the tennis court the day after she got back. Maybe she should’ve taken a day to recharge her own battery first, but she was eager to be with adults after having spent an entire week with her teenagers. She couldn’t wait to get back into the swing of things.  Pun intended.

Walking to the court, she saw familiar faces and exchanged hellos. But then suddenly, it was like she was walking in slow motion. She felt like her mind was somewhere else. She actually doesn’t remember much.

She walked stiffly onto the court.

Her friend smiled and asked, “How was vacation?”

“Okay.”

“Did the kids have fun?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Yes.”

“Something isn’t right.  What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure.”

She didn’t know until that very second how alone she had been while vacationing in a beautiful resort on a perfect beach with her wonderful kids. Everything had gone well.  But a feeling hit her hard just then.  

She didn’t realize that her strength had met its limit and her dam was about to break.  She had no idea these words were about to come from her own mouth:

“I didn’t have anyone’s shoulder to lean my head on on the airplane…I didn’t have anyone’s hand to hold on the beach…” She fell apart.

Those two short sentences said so much.  They said everything she tried not to feel for the last week.  (Or maybe more like a year, nine months, three weeks and five days.)

And the friend whispered delicately, 

“You were lonely.  That’s what that feeling is.”

And then the friend hugged her.

And she held that hug hard for a long time.

Right there.

In the middle of the tennis courts.

Until all the sobbing stopped. 

(Eventually, the sobs turned into giggles and everything was good again.)

It took a village to get me on this trip. Literally.
I reached out to everyone who knows anything about traveling for moral and technical support.  

Luckily, my friends know that I don’t just need to be helped.  I need cheerleaders who will SHOVE me to do what needs to happen. 

And this vacation desperately needed to happen.

Tom was always the trip organizer before.  I told him where we should go and he made it happen.  He used to joke, “Gosh, it must be nice being you!  You say let’s take a trip and the next thing you know is I’m handing you plane tickets.”  

He was right.  
It was great being me.  But what he didn’t account for is how great it was to be me married to him.  
He was SO good to me, all day, every day.  
I never doubted our love for each other.  It was comfortable, but not boring.  
It was sometimes event less, but always fun.  
I remember laughing so much with Tom.
I loved watching sitcoms with him because he had the greatest laugh.  And then I’d laugh because he was laughing.   Every day was good with him. 
Every. Single. Day.
(I’m not just saying that.  Even my dearest friends could vouch for me.) Every day, Tom and I *chose* to be good at marriage.

This vacation is the first one since June 2019 when we were a family of four.  We’ve stayed at this resort or close by every year since the kids were tiny.

Then, right after we got back that June, Tom eagerly planned and booked the next two family trips.

The first one was for Spring Break 2020 to one of my favorite cities.  He reserved two of the best suites in a hotel I love. One for the kids and one for us.  The second one was a lake trip up north for Summer Vacation 2020.

He had everything so neatly organized in files, so all we had to do is count down the weeks until it was time.  

And then all I had to do was pull the files one by one to cancel the trip during the pandemic.

He had just planned them a couple weeks before his death.  I knew he hadn’t been feeling well and I think he thought that he’d plan everything early so he could look forward to it while he was recovering.

But, death happened instead.

I decided that I would still take the kids and go when the time came.  We’d need to get away.  He worked so hard planning the vacations and making every last detail just right for us and I wanted to be able to experience that gift. 

Then the pandemic happened.
I pulled the files and canceled Spring Break and then Summer Vacation as the quarantine lasted weeks. 

Then months.  

Then the six months of mourning my children’s father slipped right into a year and a half of mourning normal every day life…And school…And vacations…And extended family…and everything else…

And him still…

So I find myself today, sitting on a hotel balcony I’ve sat on before.  Looking at the same beach I’ve enjoyed for 13+ years.   Alone this time.  I feel really good about this trip, though.  Should I feel guilty that time is smoothing off all the rough edges of grief?  I don’t think so.  I think it’s okay to be okay. 

I never would’ve guessed that I’d be on a family vacation without Tom.  I never would’ve guessed that I would be sitting here alone, but happy and proud that I am here.  We’ve come so far…

The weather is perfect.  It’s just about to storm so there is a lovely breeze and beautiful clouds rolling in. The kids are inside showering off sand and sunblock before we go to one of our favorite dinner places.

They’ve been smiling and laughing and everything seems okay. And although I have weird feelings about whether or not it is okay to be “okay”, I actually do feel okay and I think they do too.  We are constantly aware we are one person short.  There are reminders everywhere, but we find ourselves giggling about them.

For instance there is a restaurant we ALWAYS went to before because Tom loved it.  So when we were deciding where to go for dinner this time Maggie suggested it.  Alex and I agreed.  But as the conversation progressed we realized that none of us actually even liked that place.  Tom was the only one who did and we had been going along for YEARS, because it was one of his favorites.  We laughed about that and then we happily to took it off the list.

There are plenty of beds here and even another bedroom, but for some reason, one kid is sleeping in the king size bed with me and the other is on a pull out couch in the same room.  I love it.  I love having them close to me.  I love hearing their sleepy breathing. It’s highly unusual as normally we’re all busy doing different things in the evenings. I love the room service picnics on the bed while watching funny movies with them.

Our first vacation since ALL of the bullshit life dealt us is going okay. I’m so proud of these kids.  

The cautious side of me is waiting for the other shoe to drop.  I don’t want to feel too confident in this “okay” zone. There will be times in the future when I will need Tom so badly and ache for his presence. I’ll wonder what he’d say when the kids have their first real loves and their first real heartbreaks.  What advice he would give when Alex has his first day of college soon and Maggie has her last day of High School in a couple of years.  He always knew just what to say.  All of those new firsts will trigger some feelings that haven’t presented themselves yet.  There are many wounds that haven’t been discovered.  I’ll quietly wait and deal with them when the time comes.

But for now, I’m enjoying every second of being okay.  I am okay sitting out here listening to the waves crashing and the kids chattering.  I’m okay with the old memories.  I’m okay with moving forward, continuing traditions with my kids and making new memories.  

Because right now, today, this week, WE are okay.

And it is okay to be okay.

As a matter of fact, being “okay” feels really, really, good.

“I’m alone I’m alone” she said in her car after she dropped off some important documents at an important office.

“I’m alone”, she cried again.  And then she actually cried.

What set her off was a song at the book store earlier.  It was ‘Country Roads’ by John Denver.  The lovely cashier was slowly scanning the books as the song came on.  He ever so carefully packed them each in the bag as if it was a game of Tetris his life depended on.  

Then he asked, “Oh wait! Would you rather I use a reusable bag?”

“No.”

“Do you want to buy one more book for a discount?’

“No.”

“Do you have Loyalty Rewards? If so what’s your number?”

Internally she was squeezing her eyes together, bracing for impact. Outwardly, she appeared calm, but shallow and hollow.

She said monotonely, “217-390-####”

“Tom Tracy?”

“Yes”, she whispered shakily.

The kids glance at her and then at each other.

In her head she was screaming, “Just put the fucking books in the bag as fast as you can.  I have to GO!”

She would sound like she’d been stabbed in the heart if she spoke, so she just pursed her lips tightly instead. She wanted to get out of there as fast as she could. The questions and the lyrics were making the walls close in around her.  

She couldn’t see clearly.

She couldn’t breathe. 

“Are you sure you don’t want just one more book?  You can choose any of the five behind me.  There is a Sci-fi one, a suspense one, a Romaaaance…??”

She didn’t like the way he drug out the word “romance”.  

“No. None.  Just these please.”

“SHUT UPPPPP!!!”, she was thinking, barely holding back a tsunami of anxiety, emotions and tears.

Finally the overly pleasant cashier handed her the two heavy bags which her kids then took from her weak arms.

She made it out of the store without causing a scene. Kids in tow.  She was quiet. She didn’t tell them to watch for cars in the parking lot like she normally does even though they’re too old for that.  She was trying to stop the tears that were trying hard to fall.

“Mom.  Mom!!” The kids laughed.  “We’re talking to you! Why do you go silent sometimes?”

She looked away and said, “Oh- I was just adding in my head to see if that amount was right.  Books are so expensive!” She didn’t actually know.  She doesn’t even remember paying.

She was thinking of the lyrics:“Tennessee River, take me home. To the place I belong.  West Virginia mountain momma take me home country road…”

She was thinking that every vacation she would sing that song as loud as she could as they drove to Florida and back and crossed the Tennessee River each way.  As soon as she saw the sign for the bridge she would start singing. She doesn’t know the exact lyrics and she’s not even sure if it mentions the Tennessee River.  She just remembers the happy chaos of crossing that bridge- the singing, the laughter, the funny complaints. 

Her husband and kids laughed every time and rolled there eyes and said she was not only a terrible singer but never got the words right. For the last 13 years in a row, since they were tiny, her kids and her husband would exclaim, “It’s does NOT say Tennessee River!  It says Country Roads! Literally, the TITLE of the song!!”

She was never going to hear them speaking and laughing in unison again.  She used to love to make them all laugh.

Tiny details most people wouldn’t even notice could send her into a rabbit hole of memories.  For instance, do you know what songs were playing in the grocery store last time you went?  She most certainly does.  And she knows which order and which isle she heard them in.  She knows that last time she was in frozen foods, “Margaritaville” came on.  She sped to the checkout and got out of there.  Then she lied to the kids that the store was out of the frozen lunches they had requested.  One time when a Luke Bryan song came on, the store was out of everything except a head of lettuce.  I digress…

She now only listened to brand new music that her late husband never knew.  That way it is impossible for her to be reminded of him and the memories of the places they were when the music was popular. Places like college parties, friends’ weddings, and karaoke bars. Then, later, at home where songs made their babies dance when they could first wiggle to a beat. 

Music does that- it takes you right back.  

She hated going into stores because they always played songs from her past.  It felt intentional, like they were teasing her, testing her.  It was always a gamble if she could deal with it or not.  Today she couldn’t.

After dropping off the kids at home and delivering the important papers (that would’ve normally been her husband’s task) she got a text from a friend.  The friend wanted to hang out later.  God bless this friend.  She wanted to go, needed to go, but she had to be a parent, because she is in fact – alone. Single-handedly managing a house and teenagers and feeling like she’s only half-assing both.  Not even that much really. More like half-half-assing.  

She needs time for herself, too, but it often feels selfish.  Which child is getting short changed if she makes plans with her friends? How soon would she go insane if she didn’t? Her kids encourage her to spend time with friends and understand that she misses having someone around the house to talk to.  But they’ve been through so much… she tries to only make plans when she knows her kids will be busy.

She pulls over in a parking lot to write down what’s on her mind.  If she doesn’t she’ll vomit all over her car.  She’s green with nausea until her words are on paper.  She reads them out loud to herself with a shaky voice and a snotty nose.  Then she rips them to shreds and shoves them in a bag to throw away later. She feels okay again- she just had to purge all the words.

She booked a trip to Florida in a couple weeks. They’re flying this time.  She said it’s because she doesn’t want to drive all that way.  That’s not true, though.  She actually likes the drive.  She just doesn’t want to cross the Tennessee River.  She doesn’t know if she should sing the song or not.  Would it make the kids laugh or cry?  Would they even notice? That was the deciding factor on whether or not to buy the plane tickets.  

It’s gotten dark out.  She’s in a cute car in a cute dress and she wishes her cute husband was beside her like he should be. She shuts off this week’s top 40. She can’t bear any music right now.  She starts to sob.  

If people could see in they’d see her tear streaked face and distorted mouth.  Her windows are down.  There is no other traffic, but she thinks people must be able to hear her for blocks as she rolls from stop sign to stop sign.

She screams “I don’t want this.  I don’t like doing this alone! I miss him!” She hopes someone can hear her.  Even if they just pause at the kitchen sink and think, “Hmmm? Did I just hear a woman’s voice?” 

She needs to be heard, but she doesn’t want to talk to anyone. She needs to be witnessed, but she doesn’t want to be seen.  So she screams to herself in the dark.

She’s a mess.  She can’t believe the people in the houses are moving on with their lives while she feels so stuck.  She’s tired.  Exhausted. 

She’s upset because she realized that she’s not just sad that her husband died.  She’s sad that she is stuck.  She understands that she can’t change the past, but she also is unable to do much with the future at the moment.  She doesn’t know what she’d do anyway.  

She’s fucked up.  She’s been fucked over and she’s so tired.

Just out of town, she pulls over on a country road and puts the convertible top down.  

She remembers how much her husband loved this car.

It’s a beautiful starry night. 

There’s a warm breeze. 

Maybe it will help improve her mood before she gets home to her kids.

Lightening bugs are lighting up the bean fields.  

It’s quite majestic.  

Almost Heaven.

She’s starting to feel better and she decides to listen to the radio after all. She presses the buttons trying to find a station that comes in clearly.  

After nothing but static, ironically, she hears John Denver.  

She chuckles, a teardrop in her eye.

“Seriously? You’re funny, God…” 

She often hears herself say that. 

She turns up the volume. 

She puts the car in first gear and speeds up to sixth as fast as she can.  Driving down the country road she gets a feeling- the wind blowing in her hair, John Denver singing in her ears and God’s sense of humor giving her goosebumps.

“I’m okay”, she says to herself. “I’m okay now.  I can do this. I just needed to let it all out.”

Suddenly, from out of the bag flies all of the shreds of paper she had written on earlier.  

The fluttering sound startled her at first.

But it was so pretty…

And symbolic.

It was like miniature floating paper lanterns blowing out behind her, burning out in a field of twinkling lights, taking her stuck-ness and despair with them. 

Her mind and her body were in motion again, speeding in the right direction, quickly separating themselves from the cynical words.

She could see for miles and miles., now.

She could breathe again.

She grinned and started humming along.

And the country roads took her home to the place she belongs.

Lately, I’ve been having nightmares. They’ve been weird, stressful dreams where I am faced with a life altering decision.  So far, in the dreams I’ve always chosen the wrong choice first.  Then, at the very last second, I change my mind, take action and everything ends up being okay. *Just barely though*.  I wake up disturbed and distressed and very relieved it was just another bad dream.

Also, I’ve been waking up a lot in the middle of the night, not knowing where I am, like somehow in my sleep I got lost. Normally after about two seconds of looking around in the dark to see where the doors and windows are I can figure out that I’m in my own room and I am safe.  

That used to happen every now and then before Tom died.  Without even opening my eyes, I would listen for Tom’s sleepy breaths, reach out and touch him and know I wasn’t lost. 
I was safe. 
Then I’d mumble “I love you”.
He’d sigh sleepily.
I’d go peacefully back to sleep.

The other night I woke up and was totally lost.  I had no idea where I was.  I started to panic. I looked around and the placement of the doors and windows didn’t make any sense.  I was scared to death.  Where was I??  More importantly, why didn’t I know??

I was telling the kids about my weird dreams and joking about how our brains come up with confusing stories as it works out different details of the day.  I laughed when I said I got a little scared when I didn’t know where I was.  Alex said, “Momma, I think you need to have Dolly sleep with you for a few nights, until you’re through this.”

The kids have always been good at sharing Dolly.  She willingly goes with whomever needs her comfort that night.  Very seldom has she slept with me because she knows her place is with the kids.  She mostly sleeps with Maggie, but there’ve been times when Maggie has said, “I think I’ll let Alex have Dolly tonight.  He’s had a rough day.”  

Dolly is the glue holding us all together.  She works very hard for our little family.  She seems relieved at the end of the day when she climbs into one of the kids’ beds.  It’s as if she’s thinking, “Gosh, I did it.  I kept these humans safe, happy, and on task again today.  When they left, they all came home.  I did my job. I’ll do it again tomorrow because I love them sooooo much.”

She was so depressed when Tom never came home and I honestly believe she was ashamed of herself for not protecting him better.  Or maybe she thought she did something to upset him so he chose to never come home again. Anyhow, she waited for him to arrive home for weeks.  Then months. Anytime she heard a truck coming down the road, she sprung alert, hopping and bouncing, excited that he was finally coming back home. It was heartbreaking when she realized it wasn’t him.  Even more heartbreaking to hear myself say, “He’s not coming home, honey…”

She’d look at me sadly, plop right down, her bones crashing against the hard wood floors.  Like her fur was holding all of the pieces of her broken heart together. All of its shattered parts clattering within her as she fell to the ground.

She eventually became herself again. Sometimes, though, when I gaze deep into her eyes, I know she’s thinking, “I don’t know what happened, but I love you and I will be the best dog I can be so nothing like that ever happens again.”  

I felt better the first night having her sleep with me, but also a little silly.  I’m a grown woman and I needed my kids’ dog to help me sleep at night.  Ridiculous!

But the following night I woke up confused after a bad dream.  I worried that I might be lost again.  I kept my eyes closed wanting to try to think it through before I got scared.

Then, I remembered that Dolly was with me.
I listened for her sleepy breaths.  
I reached out and touched her.
I didn’t feel lost.
I wasn’t scared.
I mumbled, “I love you”.
She sighed.
I whispered, “Thank you…”

And I went peacefully back to sleep.

I’ve been sleeping restfully again ever since. After several nights, she had me reconditioned to not be afraid when I woke up lost.  

Dolly has gone back to sleeping the kids.  

She is so good at her job. ❤️ 

Before the wedding-

The first time I heard my mom say the F word was 3 months before my wedding.  I had long, gorgeous, thick hair.  It was to my lower back and all one length.  It felt like it weighed about 100 pounds.  I decided that I should get some layers so it wouldn’t be SO heavy, therefore giving me more updo options for the wedding.  So I took a picture of Jennifer Aniston to the salon- that’s right, I was asking for a longer version of the “Rachel”.  

I’ll spare you all of the horrific details, but turns out the “Rachel” is a very difficult style to create.  I thought it would just be a few snips here and there and that I’d leave a little lighter and fluffier.  My back was to the mirror and I started getting scared when I saw very long chunks of hair falling to the floor around me.  It was taking a long time and the expression on the stylist’s face was one of uncertainty.  I started sweating.  Finally, she spun me around to see my reflection.  

I went mute.  I couldn’t speak the words I was thinking. I didn’t want to look in the mirror because I didn’t like what I saw.

I drove straight home thinking that surely it wasn’t that bad and I could just rewash it and it would fall right into place.  I walked into the house, eyes red.  My mom was on the kitchen phone.  Her eyes widened when she saw me. She slowly hung up the phone without even saying goodbye to whomever she was talking to.

Mom: “WHAT HAPPENED??”

Me crying: “I went in for the ‘Rachel’.”

Mom: “Let me SEE that!  Erin, WHAT happened?  That’s not the ‘Rachel’ at all!  That’s the ‘Carol Brady’!!!  You’re going back!”

Me:  “It’s no big deal- I’ll just have to wear it in a TINY ponytail till it grows back.  Can we just pretend this didn’t happen!?”

Mom: “Nope- I’m calling them.  It’s awful!  It’s all lopsided!  What on earth was going on at the salon that they let you leave like this??”

I didn’t want her to call.  I was so embarrassed.  She went into the other room. I couldn’t hear very much over my sobbing- I had that nagging insecurity that Tom would think I was ugly.  Through the door I heard my Mom’s muffled voice saying words like “wedding”, “three months”, “supposed to DO?” and of course “fuck” and “fucking”.

It got real.  I became scared.  Those words were rolling off my devout Catholic mother’s tongue so easily that I thought the devil had taken her over.  And if she was using those words so freely, I KNEW I looked like shit…

Anyway, she drove me back, spoke to the manager, and I got it “fixed”.  It was still about eleven inches shorter than I had wanted. The manager was at a loss, disbelieving the massacre.  

Tom wasn’t sure why I had been crying so much about it.  I could tell though, that he was shocked at the difference.

I’ve heard my Mom cuss over the years since and sometimes it’s just for shock value.  But when she says the F word when she’s serious- you better watch out!

After the Funeral-

With Tom’s death, I went mute again.  I had a lot of angry words to say, but I didn’t want to say them.  I didn’t want to look in the mirror and see my reality.  Could I just pretend it didn’t happen?

Everyone said to “write it down,” so I did.  But that seemed too quiet to me.   I didn’t want to SPEAK the words, but I wanted everyone to HEAR them.  

My grief counselor advised starting a blog so it would at least be off my chest. She said, perhaps knowing that my experience might help ONE person will help me let it all out.  So I considered it.  My Mom said to do it.  I don’t like being told what to do by anyone so I put it off for a while. I’m stubborn like that.

Then one day Mom called:

My Mom: (nonchalantly as if she’s filing her nails at the other end of the line) “So, when’s the blog coming out?”

Me: “I don’t know, I’m still working on it.”

Mom: “Soon?”

Me: “I think so.  I’m nervous.  It will make me feel very vulnerable.”

Mom: (a little louder, I imagine her putting down the file) “Vulnerable to what?”

Me:  “Well…I don’t know.  I guess I’m just nervous. It’s personal. People will criticize, I’m not sure if I’m strong enough for that.”

Mom: (barely calm)  “Erin, it will help a lot of women who’re going through what you’re going through.”

Me:  “I’m not doubting my feelings or my writing. I think it would be helpful, but other people just might not…”

Mom: (Loudly, probably throwing file across the room) “Ha! Other people??? Anyone who would criticize hasn’t gone through what you’re going through!  They won’t even understand it – So WHY would you CARE what they say?  If anyone is critical…well…FUCK THEM!…”

Me:  (Oh my gosh, she is serious.) “Okay, Okay!!  Point taken!!”

She couldn’t speak for me this time. She could only encourage me to use my own voice, even if it was in written form.

It reminds me of when I was growing up. I listened to my Mom on how to act like a lady, but when I watched her, I learned that sometimes a lady isn’t heard until she is mad and says a few cuss words. By watching her and having her as a mother, I learned that voices need to be heard, drums need to be beaten, boats need to be rocked, things need to be stood up for, all while holding strongly onto the hands of the ones you love.

I have been rocking a lot of boats lately.  Turns out I have a lot to say.

So Mom, I know that you’re reading this and I want to thank you for being a good Mom.  You’ve shown me how to be a good wife and mother and now I’m raising a daughter who is learning from our example. Thank you for helping me when I’m mute and for always making me take a good, long, hard look in the mirror.  I like what I see again, but mainly because I see so much of you in me.

❤️

Tables and chairs have been so difficult for me since I’m one person less than I used to be.

Up until recently, when I had company, I would add too many extra chairs to my table.  My guests would sit down and there would be one empty chair.  They’d look at me and realize that I still accounted for Tom’s presence at the table. Their expressions to each other said, “Oh gosh, she forgot.  Poor thing.”  They’d continue dishing out the food, politely not wanting to draw attention.

Bewildered, I would wonder what that fraction of a second was all about.  And then, “Oh”,  I’d say.  I caught my mistake too late and we’d ignore that I’m still expecting Tom. The empty chair staring at us all.  No one wanting to move it or say anything about it. I would just add, “I wasn’t sure who all was coming.”  But everyone knew that I was still counting myself as a couple.

As a guest, one chair among a table of friends used to be very upsetting to me.  I was used to two chairs; one for me and one for Tom.  One was a reminder that I had arrived alone, without my date whom I’d had since I was eighteen.  When I would see the one chair saved for me it would bring me to tears.  In a room full of couples, the one extra seat was for me and I felt l stuck out like a sore thumb.

Now as the months have passed, I have become seasoned in grief.  I have a completely different feeling about there being just one chair instead of two. I see it as a seat for ME.  MY special seat in a room full of people who have seen me through all of the bullshit the last couple of years have served me. I have come to see the one chair as the warmest symbol of love and acceptance I could ever have imagined.

I’ve come full circle.  The empty seat used to make me sob because someone was missing.
It was a reminder that I am alone.
Now I see the chair differently.
It is JUST for me.
It is a reminder that I am invited, and  wanted and loved.
That I am NOT alone after all.
I am welcomed to the table.
I can sit there, rest there, and laugh there. (And cry there sometimes, too.)

It’s funny the odd things that are a smack in the face for months even years after a loss- the unused towel bar at his bathroom sink, the monthly magazine subscription he receives that goes unread, the empty flower pots and unfinished garden. You wouldn’t believe the rambling in my brain of tiny things that are huge reminders of loss.  Every single day.  I‘ve learned to manage most of them, even roll my eyes about some.

I can finally cross “table and chairs” off my list of things to get used to. I spun it into a positive. I’ve learned to turn sad thoughts into happy ones and I feel very thankful to have the frame of mind to do that.  

For those of you who have friends who are alone because of death, divorce or one person short for whatever horrible reason, you don’t have to have a fancy meal, or anything special planned. You probably want to be supportive, but feel awkward because you don’t know what to do or say.

So I’ll tell you:

You call them and say, “Come over.  I’ve got a chair saved for you at my table.”

Yesterday I took a long run outside.  The weather was perfect.  It’s that sweet time of year when the dandelions look so pretty springing up in yellow clusters in everyone’s fresh green lawns.  They are a symbol that summer is almost here.  

I hadn’t been sure of what to say lately. So much is happening, all pretty good, but I just didn’t have much to say about it.  I guess, although things are okay, I was uninspired.  I was exhausted.  I was frustrated.  I wondered why…

I was doing all the same things.  I felt like I was moving in the right direction physically, but mentally, I was stuck.  I wasn’t developing new coping skills anymore and I wasn’t learning new techniques to help me keep secure footing.  I’ve unfortunately, already learned those skills and use them regularly.  I felt like I stopped growing. 

I was beginning to feel comfortable, which made me uncomfortable and uneasy. I needed to know what was next so I could start preparing for it.  I needed to know what books to read, what articles to study, who to ask which questions.  But, I didn’t know what was next, so I was at a standstill.

For the first year and a half after Tom’s death, I learned how to just get by personally, then deal with death, then manage the grief. There was continuous reading, listening, learning and growing.  But I feel done with that now. I’ve never liked being complacent and that’s how I had been feeling.  I was wondering, what do I do now??

I had been climbing for so long. Climbing out of grief. 
Reaching, stretching, using my whole body and my entire brain to get OUT. 
I got scarred and calloused during the climb, but colors became more vibrant and music became more meaningful.  All because the darkness I was working through was SO DARK. 

It was hard, but I did it.
It still is hard, but I am doing it.

Everyday, there is something that knocks me on my ass.  I take a moment, let myself feel it, respect the pain of it, gather myself and get moving again.  It’s all that can be done really.

On the last couple miles of my run, I finally realized that I am not actually stuck at all.  I’ve reached a plateau- “a state of little or no change following a period of activity or progress; a rest.”

Since I have been through so much “activity” and we, as a family, have made so much “progress” dealing with our loss, of course plateauing naturally is the next step. It by itself IS progress. 

Why was I trying so hard to keep climbing when this is obviously a time to rest?  It’s a break from the climb.  It’s a little time to stop and be grateful that the kids and I made it this far.  It is permission to relax and catch my breath.

Being on a “plateau” is okay. It doesn’t mean that I’ve lost growth mindset.  It means that I can look down to see how far I’ve come up.  It means that I can look up and see how much further there is to go later.  But for now, it means I can take a break, take a breath, pray, and reflect.

It is a chance to see Past, Present and Future all at once.

It is time for me to be present now.
To look at all the dandelions up close.
The spiky green leaves, the tiny yellow petals, the fluffy white seeds about to let go and blow free.

Inhale.

Exhale.

To thank God I can rest for a bit.

To let go.

And to just be.

This is a poem that Tom wrote when a friend suffered a major loss a few years ago.

Although, I wanted to fix the scribble and the misspelled word, I didn’t, because that’s just how Tom was.

He never sent it because he couldn’t get the syllables and rhythm right in the last line and he was self conscious about it.

I find comfort and hope in this poem. 

And it is imperfect and perfect the way it is, because that’s just how Tom was. 

I had hoped to post it on the first day of Spring last year.  But it was such a dark, hopeless time at the very beginning of Covid 19 and I didn’t feel like sharing it, yet. I wanted to wait until I actually could believe what it says.  

I think this Spring will be better. I feel hopeful for more normalcy, and that there is laughter, light and warmth ahead.

I hope you do, too.

xoxo

Erin

Someday,

maybe even for just one moment, but hard enough for you to remember for days, 

your heart will beat again.

And it will beat for the right reasons this time.  

Not panic or anxiety or fear, 
but for joy and happiness and surprise.

Lots of things can cause the new heartbeat:

• Your child’s belly laugh
• A new friend saying, “I’m so glad I met you.”
• An old friend saying, “I can’t wait to see you!”
• Being seen as a woman, not as a widow.
• Realizing you haven’t worried for a minute, or an hour, or a day.
• Accidentally catching your reflection and thinking, “There she is!  Holy shit, I finally recognize her again!”

The most random thing will take the pressure off your chest, 
and the ache from your shoulders.  

You’ll stand up straight again and inhale deeply.

Your heart will flutter.

Mine started beating again last Fall, when my daughter, niece and I were out running errands.  We were a little stir crazy from quarantining and it was the first time the girls had seen each other for weeks. I was trying to publicly embarrass them by being being ridiculously goofy. They were belly laughing, which made me laugh harder and act sillier (I think I even laugh-snorted, which is a sure sign something is really funny!). Even when the funny incident ended, when we made eye contact thereafter,  the laughter started all over again. I didn’t know they recorded it and when we watched the video, I felt like a proud new parent watching her baby taking its first steps.  

 “Awwww…Is that ME? Is that what I look like?? Look- I’m laughing! I look so happy!  I’m so… That’s ME!” I cooed in disbelief.  

I looked at them and then back at the video.  
Did they see what I was seeing??

They thought I was just being a weirdo and didn’t acknowledge my stupid commentary, but in all honesty, I was experiencing a mental metamorphosis.

I realized that I am still here.  

I am changed, but I am okay.

I am whole even though I thought I wasn’t.

I am funny and sometimes joyful.  

I forgot that I had been sad for so long.  

I forgot that I had been cocooned in grief for over a year.

I felt good. 
Really good.  
My heart was beating…

So, in the hard times, hang in there.

Whatever the random moment is, your heart will absolutely beat again.  

You won’t repress it this time because you think you don’t deserve it,
or that it’s too soon.

You will let yourself FEEL it.  

You will have hope.  

You will think, 

“Maybe I CAN do this, 

BE this, 

GROW from this. 

Maybe I AM myself again.”  

You will feel relief from the pressure of every worry. 

You will feel excited to have your blood pumping again.  

You’ll feel each heartbeat and be grateful for every single one.

And you will be thankful to God for the little sign of hope, 

and you will pray that it lasts long enough for you to forget the details of your pain, 
but to never forget the details of your happiness. 

You’ll thank Him for what you already have and not pray what you wish you still had.

You will be grateful.

Just wait- your heart will beat again.  

Be hopeful and laugh when things are funny- It’s healing from the inside out.  

You will finally see yourself again and you will like what you see. 

You’ll feel a butterfly in your chest and you’ll be so happy it’s there.

You won’t trap it and hide it in a box this time.  

You will let it fly free and you’ll let yourself go along for the ride.

Tom’s phone pinged constantly the day he died and the day after.  Most of the calls and texts were for me, as that was the only way some people knew to reach me. 

They texted things like: “I just can’t believe this”, “What can I do?”, “Are you and the kids okay?” and “How can this be?  I JUST saw him!”

Some said, “Hey Tom, I know you’re busy today, but call me when you get a chance.”  I had to call them and tell them the horrible news. I had to say it twice, because they thought they heard me wrong.  Then I listened to them cry.

Tom never added anyone’s names to their numbers, so I had to guess by looking at the entire past conversations to determine who was sending the texts.  

I got out his phone the other day.  I like to look through it every now and then.  It helps me remember some of the things I’ve already forgotten. 

I called his number, hoping his voicemail message would still answer, even though I knew it wouldn’t.  It used to be that at the beginning of his message he inhaled deeply and then sped through the words, “This is Tom Tracy.  I am unable to take your call.  Please leave a message and I’ll be sure to get back to you as soon as I can.”  I told him many times he should change it because that inhale was weird, but he never did. 

I wanted to hear that deep breath now, though. 
I wanted to hear his voice.  

I dialed the number from my phone in one hand and then stared at his phone in my other hand.  In my head I was screaming, “No no no- please answer Tom! This isn’t right. You weren’t supposed to go!”

The calm rational side of me was simultaneously saying, “You knew he wouldn’t answer, Erin.  Just hang up.  Why are you doing this to yourself? The number is not in service.  Tom is not in service.  It is what is is…” 

I’m trying to finally be okay with  losing him and I know that I want to be okay with all of this and I’m mad at myself for wanting to be okay with this. (Wait, does that even make sense?)

What is the plan?  Why did it involve a lifetime of heartbreak, heartache, and missed experiences for my kids?  I often think about God’s plan for me. That’s selfish though, how could He have a different plan for me, and one for Tom, and watch my children suffer the extreme loss? And there is so much more loss to come as we all have new firsts and new big moments. Each and every one without Tom.  Just the three of us in the milestone pictures from now on.  It isn’t enough.

When all of the pinging finally started to slow down a mysterious text came and it said, “I miss you”.  Only a woman would say that.  I didn’t recognize the number. 

I wanted so bad for the “I miss you text” to be from a woman.  I wanted so badly to be mad at Tom for something.  As I looked through his phone and paperwork and most private intimate details of his life, I only found things I expected.  I found all of his passwords perfectly organized, all correspondence appropriately managed, everything was exactly in order and easy to continue.  All plans were in place for the worst case scenario, which this was.  It was all fine.  So I kept digging and digging and digging.  Surely there was something I could be mad about. I was going to find it and then I could scream my anger, let it all out once and for all and feel a mental and physical relief.  Then somehow that would break some sort of emotional barrier that would make it faster and easier for me to heal and carry on.  Like when the doctor has to rebreak a nose after it’s already been broken so he can line it up better to make it heal straighter. I just needed to FEEL something besides sadness.  I wanted to be mad.

It came.  “I miss you” It showed itself on the home screen. Who was this number? Who had the balls to text “I miss you” to Tom’s phone.

I put in the phone code and went straight to the text.

“I miss you”

My eyes couldn’t focus fast enough on the previous conversations, my head was spinning, I was ready to learn Tom was having an affair and I wanted that to be true, just so he wasn’t so fucking perfect.  I wanted him to have one big mistake so I could think to myself, “Yeah, my husband died, but he had been cheating on me.  What a jerk!”

The previous text was, “If you were going to get that new car we looked at, what color would you get, Dad?”

It was my thirteen year old daughter.

She texted him that she missed him.  Was she expecting him to text her back?  Did she just need to think it, say it, write it, send it?  

My heart broke all over again.  

A million times.

I was in the kitchen with friends and family making funeral arrangements and she was in her room sending her Daddy the last text she would ever send him.  And this time there would never ever be a response.

His phone is stuck on the news that was happening the day I finally had service cut off.  It still thinks that Donald Trump is president, that there is no coronavirus and that Tom is still alive.  It thinks that we still are a family of four and that everything is hunky dory like it had been for so many years.  

The phone is a time capsule.  I want to take the kids and crawl inside it and be again what it thinks we are.  The happy pictures, the silly family texts, the music.  I want to feel safe again and I think being in that time capsule with Tom and them would be the best feeling in the world.

I wish there never had to be an “I miss you” text.

I wish at least Tom could’ve texted back one last time. 

It would’ve said, “I miss you too.”