My husband, despite our best efforts to convince him otherwise, sometimes thought towards the end of his life that we would be relieved when he died, that we’d go back to normal, I guess you might say. 

An important (and obvious) thing to remember about terminal illness is that everyone around it is changed forever during and after; and some of the changes are particularly awful to experience. I refer here not to the medical changes but to the emotional ones. The relentless pressure of illness takes a toll for which we, in particular, were … hmm, unprepared is the best way I can describe it. 

I remember one of the few fights we had during the latter stages of his illness. He made some stupid, cutting remark about how relieved we’d be when he died. I responded (to the best of my memory), “Yeah, well you get to die and I have to live the next 30 years without you.” And then I burst into tears and ran away to regain my composure. Believe me; it’s not a memory I look back on fondly, but I still replay it in my mind fairly regularly. He told me later that it made him think but I don’t really believe that he ever understood how much we would suffer without him. 

So, today, I was looking for something in our Google photo storage. My husband was not the most organized person. As such, his photos are in folders labeled with such intuitive names as “images1” and “images4” and, my personal favorite, “misc images.” Sure; I should organize his folders. I know and I’ll get to it sometime after I finish cleaning the basement and recaulking the bathroom tile and patching the hole in the drywall and painting the middle bedroom (now that I’ve removed the wallpaper) and, you know, cleaning the house and …. 

Until then, I just try to compose myself before I fall down the rabbit hole of his photo storage. So, anyway, I was feeling pretty proud of myself, yesterday, flooded with memories as I scanned through hundreds of family photos but handling it all pretty well. A picture, a ridiculous picture of my brother-in-law, who is going to achieve a significant milestone this year, appeared on my screen. I thought, “oh, that’s perfect for [X idea that I can’t share online because he might find out] and then I burst into sobs. 

These weren’t dainty tears one wipes away with their delicate handkerchief or the single tear gliding silently down a cheek. Nope. These were the body-heaving sobs that, if you stumble upon someone crying like this, you might be so overwhelmed by their sorrow that you join in involuntarily, crying for something you don’t even understand, or else you might turn away, embarrassed by their grief and your own discomfort with it. 

I’m fine now and not even sure, really why that image tipped me over the emotional edge. The obvious answer is that Ken will never achieve that milestone but I don’t think that’s it. Let’s be honest; there are many things he won’t do. He didn’t make it to our 25th wedding anniversary. He won’t walk down the aisle with his children for their weddings. He won’t retire and travel as he dreamed of doing (a ridiculous dream because he HATED to travel). He won’t see his youngest son graduate from high school (his cancer goal and I can’t imagine what that day is going to look like for us). Why, among so many consequential and inconsequential milestones, would this one trigger such a torrential outburst of tears? 

Anyway, I don’t share this in a ploy for sympathy — really! I share it because I’m not the only one grieving a loss and yet we don’t talk about it, about grief. It’s embarrassing and no one really knows what to say and they end up saying something like “it gets better” or “it will stop hurting” or “he’s no longer suffering” or “he’s with god now” or some other well-intentioned statement that may, actually, pour salt in a wound that never heals. 

And on that note:  it’s 23 years yesterday since we lost my mom. She was so young when she died, 8 years older than Ken was on his death. My youngest son and I made chicken fried steak for dinner; I taught him like she taught me a zillion years ago. It was a little nod to her ongoing presence in our lives. Sometimes I’ll tell them stories about her. She was creative and loving and mentally ill. And she would have been devoted to — and so proud of — her six grandchildren, just as she would have been of her two daughters. 

What do I miss most about Mom?  Adult conversations with her, asking her advice, watching her play with our kids … TIME. That’s what I miss most.