Six Months, Part I

February 17th. Six Months since Jason’s been gone. That’s half of a year. More time than it took us to fall in love. More time than he got to live after finding out his immunotherapy treatment stopped working. The same amount of time from Jason’s cancer diagnosis to the end of chemo, and a clear scan. Leading to incredible false hope. The same amount of time we had engaged before cancer rocked our world.

It is a lot of time. 183 days. But in the same way, it is no time at all.

I think for the first time since Jason died, my mind and body really understand this is my life. When Jason died, there was so much shock, trauma, pain. I think I spent the following months asking “how can this really be my life.”

In this last month the switch flipped. It flipped to. “Fuck, this really is my life.”

People stop showing up. The texts, the calls, the check ins, the engagement. It’s slowed. People who promised they’d be there, stop checking in. People who promised they’d visit in fall still haven’t shown up. Truth be told, I see now I don’t think they ever intended to. It hurts. Not because I want them to be here. But because not showing up says, “this is not important to me, even though I told you it was”.

That stings the most. Because it’s started to feel like my loss, Jason, the pain of it all stops mattering to people.

They move on, because they are lucky enough to get the choice to.

They have the privilege of clicking next or skipping my Instagram stories about my grief and pain. They get the choice to engage when it is convenient for them, and only if they really want to. They say their part, and then they move on.

It is a privilege to opt out of someone else’s grief.

Meanwhile I’m here, 6 months later, with no choice to turn off the grief and the pain. No choice of when to participate in this. Because Jason is gone. And life as I knew it died with him.

I recently told my therapist, often times I’m angry, jealous of the people who were here the day that Jason died, who got to walk out of our house and go back to their lives. Meanwhile the next day I went and picked out a burial plot and planned a funeral for my husband. I know those people loved Jason, I’m not saying they didn’t. But they still got to leave, and return to a life that was waiting for them at home. I don’t actually mean they all left and didn’t feel it. It is just different, and no one can argue with that. I can’t think of many things in my life that have been the same since Jason died. I didn't get to return to my life, the one waiting for me at home.

I think I’m starting to realize that friends, family, they don’t show up in the way maybe I’d expect. The people you think will, don’t. And the people who you never thought would, do. Of course there are exceptions to that rule but it does feel that is the case. Similar to when Jason had cancer. I was surprised by who supported us and who didn’t. I continue to be surprised by who extends a hand, a kind gesture, a card. In a world of angry who hasn’t showed up, I try to focus my energy to who has. But like everything in this, it is easier said than done. I do desperately try to hold onto who or what has held me up, rather than who’s broken me down.

I reflect on how it feels to be in a social setting. It’s so hard. I’m surrounded by people who are normal. I don’t feel normal. This, Jason’s death, me widowed at 31, is not normal. It’s this heavy burden to carry around. All I want is for him to be here with me.
I feel social anxiety around larger group settings, especially with people who either don’t know about my loss, or who may (should) know but haven’t addressed it. I was never an anxious social person. A co-worker said to me, oh come on, you’re a social butterfly. Maybe I was. But I have changed. The energy the small talk takes is exhausting. People act like I should be back to normal, like this loss hasn’t changed me?
What is even more exhausting is pretending to be ok. The question, “how are you”, always leaves me stumbling. Do I say, “pretty fucking bad, my husband is dead?” Yeah, people don’t like that response, even if it is the truth. I resort to “ok” and find myself not asking the question in return, and trying to remove myself from the situation.

The other week, I had a work tour of my project followed by a happy hour. It was something I was looking forward to, despite the social anxiety. I was talking to a coworker, I don’t recall how we got to this point in the conversation, but I said something along the lines of my life falling apart. His response, “I totally get it.”. HA! Do you?! Is your wife dead? Because last I heard you say you were texting her because she’s going to be mad that you were not home for dinner. It is moments like that where I want to scream. “Actually no, you don’t get it, you don’t have a fucking clue.” I’ve come to conclude, people don’t actually mean much of what they say, it is all filler words, words that they are using to try to be empathetic or relate, because they simply don’t have any other way to respond. The words cut, even if they are not intended to be hurtful. I left that evening, exhausted. Got home before 7pm and laid in my bed and cried. Hysterically cried for the life that I don’t get to have. For the pain of missing Jason. For the fact that my husband, my love, is dead. That I don’t get to have normal, mundane problems, like most of the people around me.

Widowhood at 31, is incredibly isolating. Aside from not having my person to do life with, I feel rather isolated in my social circle. I have some really good friends who have shown me love, but it is still so hard because deep down they can’t relate. I don’t fault them in that. But it’s so lonely. I just watch the people around me who get to keep living. I guess physically, I am living too. But my life is nothing I pictured. Everything as I knew it, is different. I’ve lost so much. I lost Jason, obviously. But I lost so many more layers of life and living with him. I’m 31 years old. We should’ve been preparing for the birth of our first child, instead we were in and out of hospitals, infusion labs, doctor’s appointments trying to save Jason’s life.  We should’ve been planning vacations, date nights. But instead I planned my husband’s funeral.

I watch the people around me live, and every once of good news hits me a little deeper.

Because truth be told, I don’t feel I’ve gotten any good news in two years.

We were forced to say no to so many things.

Because cancer.

Cancer takes.

We had to make decisions that should have never been decisions.

I’m now alone. Feeling more heartbroken than ever. Wondering what’s next. What my life will look like. Wondering if I will ever get any of those dreams I had.

One things for certain, I know I won’t get them with Jason.

I wonder so often why this happened to me, why this happened to Jason. What we did to the world to deserve this. Why we didn’t get our happy ending.

Some days I re read old text messages. And I just hysterically cry.

I cry for the person I lost. The man I loved.

The dreams and plans.

I cry for the girl at the end of Jason’s life who was holding on the best she could, but she was riddled with fear.

I cry for her strength, unwavering love she showed. Even when the world said fuck you.

I cry for her a lot.

Because all she ever wanted was slipping through her fingertips.

Everything she feared was coming true.

She stayed as strong as she could, for Jason.

She watched as the person she loved most lose himself entirely to the awful awful cancer. While she watched him lose himself, she also watched all the dreams and plans they discussed disappear.

She watched the father to her future children go, the man who was supposed to coach soccer teams, teach their kids, and their friends kids to ski.

She watched the Christmas morning traditions they had just talked about starting, so recently, rapidly die.

All the houses they toured in the beginning of the year, slip through the cracks.

There would never be another home with him.

The list of home projects, ideas, things they were going to do at their current home, fall apart.

She thought about the new car in the garage, the one they bought to be their family car for mountain trips.

The drives they were supposed to take with it packed full of ski gear, babies and their dog, Nora.

For the roof rocket that he hung in the garage, that was intentionally bought for those trips.

The new skis on the wall, that he only got to use once.

All the activities they thought they would get to do again, but never will.

For all the lasts they didn’t know were lasts, until it was too late.

She watched her best friend lose everything he had worked so hard for the last 4 years.

She watched her partner lose himself, fight to survive.

She watched the life they had built, worked so hard towards, crumble.

I now I cry for a different version of that girl, me. For the pain that each day brings. For the anger and fear of a future without Jason.

It is impossible to picture it. Even if he’s been dead for 183 days.

I don’t feel today is any easier than the day Jason died.
Because he is still not here, he is still gone.
He is never coming back.

The only thing I know to be true is that time doesn’t stop.
Time doesn’t fix this.
Time only makes the grief different.