Grief is a word I’ve heard so often. I always thought I understood what it meant but now I realise I had no clue.
Grief is going grocery shopping, putting something in your trolley and realising he was the only one who ate that. Grief is being in the car on a perfectly ordinary day and his favourite song coming on the radio. Grief is hearing something funny and for a spilt second thinking how you can’t wait to tell him, then remembering you can never tell him anything again. Grief is being scared that people are going to get sick of you talking about him soon. Grief is checking the mail and receiving his death certificate. Grief is watching the dogs stare at the door and not knowing if they understand that he’s never coming home. Grief is the terror of one day forgetting his voice, his laugh, and the way he looked at just me. Grief is calling the phone company to cancel his account and being told “we need to speak to him.” Grief is realising you don’t know how to empty the vacuum cleaner because that was always his job. Grief is the ache in your heart, the lump in your throat, the tears in your eyes when you think about a future without him, knowing you’re going to be OK, but wondering how.
I remember the exact moment I started grieving. Maybe it should have been less of a surprise. I did marry someone with a chronic illness, after all.
I knew the severity of cystic fibrosis from the minute Matt and I got together. That’s because I have CF, too.
That’s right. We met in the children’s hospital.
(I still cant decide if our love story is adorable or tragic. Maybe a bit of both.)