Yesterday I mentioned that we’re slowly (or quickly, depending on perspective) closing in on the 6 month anniversary of when I lost my hubby to prostate cancer.
The number one, unquestionable lesson I’ve learned is…
widowhood
On the 15th of October, around 10:25 a.m., I’ll be observing an anniversary of sorts that only a select group of people can fully comprehend and connect with. And one that only I internalize.
Thanks for being you. I know you don’t know I’ve been writing about P’s death, because I’ve only told J.
Seems my family and friends are having great difficulty talking to me since my hubby’s death five and a half months ago. In that time, exactly a dozen people (excluding my teaching colleagues, whom I see daily) have been in touch with me the person, not me the widow.
From the time you stop counting the minutes between your spouse’s last breaths of earthly oxygen (I stopped at 7 minutes and 23 seconds before I called my dad to my husband’s hospice bed in the dining room to help me count), shit gets real…real fast.
Dear two bikers coming down the big hill at Battelle Darby Creek, as you rounded the path that parallels the creek itself:
*originally published online 9.12.16
- “What did you do with all his clothes?”
