gran
I miss my gran.
It comes in slapping gulps, every now and then, flashes of cold water reality shocking my psyche. It’s a different kind of missing someone, a different kind of mourning. My life has continued relatively normally since she’s been gone– there has been no huge adjustment to make, I haven’t had to reassess my entire existence the way I did after Tony died.
It’s just that my Gran has been so firmly woven into my life, ever since I was a child… sometimes my mind bumps over the expectance of her being here. I’ll drive past her street, or think of her in present tense.
I’m exquisitely aware of the absence of her. Of how she’s always been here…and now she’s not. It takes me by surprise. And every time, I cover it up, shovel life over the top of it until it doesn’t hurt so much any more.
I can’t grieve anymore. I’ve only just made my way out of the blackness of that pain, of missing my husband. I’m reluctant to begin mourning all over again. It doesn’t feel right, missing someone piecemeal and in parts, rather than as an all encompassing presence.
But at the same time, this feels like grief untainted and pure. Missing someone without being angry at them for leaving, without feeling a though the Universe got it wrong.
The memory of my grandmother is rich and worn, comforting and familiar; the softly worn paper of a book I’ve read a thousand times. I remember fretting badly, the night of Tony’s funeral, worrying that I would lose the sound of his voice. That it would fade out of existence and I’d no longer remember what it sounded like when he said my name.
I’ve not encountered that thought yet about my grandmother. Her voice comes into my head unbidden, so distinct it may as well be her there speaking in front of me. The crinkle of her eyes, the sound of her laugh. Her warm, comforting practicality.
I hold the memory of her as a omen, a token, a warm blanket to wrap myself in. Proof that there’s goodness in the world. Proof that lives well-lived are entirely possible.
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I miss my Gran. It’s been two and a half months since she died and I’m still surprised, slightly shocked, every time I remember she’s not here anymore.
I think of her often, and I can hear every nuance and expression of her voice and her speech in my mind. I can picture her face, see her sitting at her kitchen table eating slices of green apple with a confidence that became her; a practicality born of having lived enough, having learnt enough to be able to form whatever opinion she damn well pleased. She had such solid common sense. The older I grew, the more of my own life I lived, the more our conversations culminated in the sensation that my eyes had been opened, but my feet more firmly planted on the ground.
I miss her presence at family gatherings that haven’t even happened yet. Because the rest of us always seem to be distracted by mundane things that don’t really matter, it was always Gran that insisted we dance and laugh and wear party clothes.
My Gran, circa 1950. She would have been around twenty years old, newly married.
Each and every time her death (her mortality, when she was an epic figure in my childhood and it’s always difficult to accept the mortality of demigods) my insides are washed with a sick, oily guilt. ’You have not grieved her yet, you have not mourned this at all…’ whispers a voice in the back of my mind. And there’s truth in that… I haven’t dealt with it, properly, not yet. But I can’t walk around, trying to be alive, all the while feeling guilty about that– these things happen in due time, when planets align and affairs have been settled, the kinks in karmic strings worked loose.
And because, really, while I occasionally think of myself as an expert in the experience of grief… I’ve only studied a very small part of it. I have mourned, intensely, but in an entirely different space. After Tony died I mourned someone young, something that happened suddenly, the loss my children were hurting for, my whole life torn apart.
Whereas now, I grieve for someone who was almost eighty one years old, and had been ill for long enough that she was ready to die. I mourn for the pain my own mother must be feeling. And I miss my grandmother, who had become my friend. Who taught me the beauty of growing things, and all the dignity that comes with loyalty.
It’s bearing witness to a life well lived, a culmination of years of hard work and happiness; versus wanting to follow someone’s body screaming into the fire and drag them back because surely the Universe got this wrong.
The light, the dark.
***
Guilt seems to be my default setting. I’m wondering how long it’s going to take, to talk myself out of that.
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It’s almost an irrational concept that once someone dies, they still have all this stuff that hangs around. Just… things. Stuff. Possessions such as the ones stored in my Pandora’s Box– the material goods, the trappings and possessions of an average human existence. They’re not always as haphazard and trivial as an unopened packet of cigarettes, or the newspaper from the day you left the world– although its highly likely that somewhere amongst your other bits and pieces, will be objects as average and everyday as those, that cut and comfort those who loved you.
The weekend before Christmas, three weeks after my Gran passed away, my family and I met at the small, cosy house that was her home for the last fifteen years of her life. My mum had been there, off and on, for weeks– months, really, if the truth be known– sorting through her own mother’s possessions, traveling back through her family history a little every time she delved into one of the houses haphazard storage spots. We all have them, pockets in our house where material possessions live and seem to breed– closets and drawers, boxes and cupboards.
When I was a child, my Gran lived with my mother, my father, my brother and I. Her Norm had passed away just months before and, in a way I now understand all too well, she was a woman untethered from herself. (”We applied for social security when he couldn’t work” I remember my Gran saying, not even twelve months ago, “and they said we’d have to wait a bit. Not that it mattered. Six weeks later, and he was dead.” And I wonder how she dealt with that, having just lost her parents and now her husband. How she dealt with missing him so very badly, without any outlet for all that pain to rush to, the way I have here.)
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| Nic-nacs and dust collectors… when I was little, they were friends. |
While we lived on the top floor of the house, my Gran lived on the bottom, with a small lounge room and kitchen, a tiny bedroom and a bathroom we all shared. My brother and I were interned to believe that our Grandmothers space was sacred– as we should have been. We were allowed onto into her area of the house by invite– which came often enough for neither of us to ever feel unwanted– and touched her things only after permission was sought. Her dressing table was, for a part time fairy child such as myself, a wonderland of ostentatious gild and glint and crystal. With her blessing and a concentrated, heavy–handed reverence, I played with heavy brush and mirror sets and beads, lipstick and clip on earrings. I examined shadow boxes full of delicate china ornament and dust–collectors, making tableaux and character of them in the way children too.
But always with a quiet respect that well suited a loving but extremely firm fifty five year old woman with a temper that matched my own.
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| A box of buttons collected over fifty years. And the Bump, playing with them the way I used to. |
That may have been the reason that standing quietly in front of my Gran’s open wardrobe with my mum, twenty five years later, there’s an almost lurking sense of disrespectful intrusion and pertinence. We touch her clothes, her photo albums and jewelry and bank account passbook with a softness and respect that, I think, would please my Gran, knowing her possessions are being treated with a dignity and respect that becomes them. “She would want her things to go to us, rather than the op–shop,” says my mum when I voice my discomfort, as all of us do at one point of another that day. I can the helped– she was such a private, meticulously organized woman; and her room was always such a sacred space.
But it feels special to have her things as my own, none the less. I know she wouldn’t mind her garden ornaments, and some of her much pampered plants, coming to live in my fairy garden.
I take some of her jewelry– only what suits me– and a few hats and gloves and scarves. A photo of her, gorgeous and smoking hot at about twenty years old, circa 1950. Her vases, for fresh flowers in my kitchen.
I ask my mum if I can have the recipe book I photographed for my blog a long, long time ago, and I tuck it away in the top of my wardrobe with my life books– it’s the only thing at feels like ’mine’, not my Gran’s… I may refer to all this stuff as ‘my Gran’s things‘ for the rest of my life.
And the it occurs me to ask my mum about her knitting, her knitting needles– may I have those, too, please? I’m the only member of the family apart from my Gran who ever learned to knit. It was my Gran who taught me, with endless patience, repeatedly grabbing my hands to loosen tight stitches and undoing entire rows to re–hook dropped stitches.
The last thing I created with wool and needles was a pair of scarves for friends going overseas, years ago… before I had children, most certainly. But my Gran, with time up her sleeve, spent years knitting beanies for kids in hospital, wide squares to sow into rugs for the Smith Family. I’m delighted to find three quarters of such a patch–rug already made, folded up within the bags that contain Gran’s collection of a rainbow of fleeces, an assortment of needles from spindly and thin to comforting fat wooden spears.
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| A suitcase, cane wash basket… and my Gran’s collections of yarn and needles. |
Somewhat reassuringly, there is a line or two of knitting already cast on to one set of needles, its stitches perfectly counted so, as long as I don’t drop or double–hook any, it will be another perfectly sized square to add to the rug that I really do intend to finish one day (chronic procrastination not withstanding).
It feels like a gift from her, from my Gran, being the practical kind of woman she was.
She remembered, of course, that I always found casting on- getting started- to be the most difficult part.
It’s difficult not to feel guilty and cheap, my grief seems so easy compared to my brothers, my cousins or my mums– while I miss my grandmother profoundly, it seems I am taking this lightly… and I suppose I am.
But, as I’ve said… there is a beauty in learning to grieve differently. Without so much of the horror, the torture. To mourn someone the way it should be.
I whispered an almost thank you to her as the curtains drew shut at her funeral… “Thank you, Gran. Goodbye. I love you…”
I hope she’d be okay with this, with me making what I am of my grief for her.
I think she would be.
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xx
where do they get the energy? and daylight savings makes it worse “cause it’s still light mummy”
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I'm glad you felt his presence when he left. That must be very special to you. That memory. I don't have that off my children. My daughter died inside me and I didn't know. My first son stopped breathing on the sofa just after his daddy had fed him, and I didn't know. My second son died in his hospital cot, at night, with his daddy and I sleeping in the same room as him, three days after his birth, and I didn't know. Somehow I feel that I failed as a mother, because my children died and I didn't know.
That is the most beautiful and painful post I have ever read.
Thanks for sharing – it is so brave to share what still has such a stigma attached to it. My step brother did the same thing five years ago and he isn't much talked about in some parts of the family – like the shame is obliterating his memory.
Hopefully, more talking about suicide will open up those men to talking about it themselves and help them concede that they may need some help or a good rest to recollect their thoughts.
Lovely. Thank you.
I came across this post from Zoe, who commented up above. Such a heart-rending post, but so beautifully written. I wish you nothing but love and comfort!
Tears rolled down my cheeks as I read this. You are in my thoughts. Wow – you are amazing. Your husband will always be looking out for you and your babies x
It really is quite heart breaking. I'm really really sorry for your loss. I can feel the love you have for your husband through your words. Your writing is amazing and its beyond beautiful. I hope and pray that you and your family will be able to cope well and be strong. You're in my thoughts and prayers Lori. Hang on tight, he'll still be around, always and forever.
I am reading this post with tears streaming down my face. You are an amazing woman, we are all sending you so much love and strength.
mrsmac (BB)
Like many others, I'm in tears reading this post. I'm an ICU nurse, and have seen countless people who are living through the worst time of their lives. It never gets any easier from my perspective, and I just wanna reach out and send you so many cyber hugs. You're so strong. Keep blogging, girlfriend. It's going to get you through this. xxx
He really didn't want to go, did he? So sad, but so beautiful
Hi Lori,
My name is Laura and I live in Seattle, WA and I've been reading your blog for the last 5 weeks and think about you everyday. You are one of the strongest women I "know."
I read your last entry about saying this is your fault and happened to be listening to this song while reading and I thought it was fitting to share with you.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9oG1IfQx9Oc&feature;=player_embedded#at=50
Hugs and love and peace in your heart, (one day, maybe not right now, but it will be there) coming at you all the way from the Pacific Northwest.
Stay true to who you are.
xoxo
You write so beautifully about something so terrible.. it takes my breath away… you are so strong and amazing and writing will do you good, getting it out there can only be good. Keeping secrets and "protecting" people does not do anyone any good…
An amazing post Lori. I don't know what to say, but I love listening to you. xx
Sweet post Lori. I'm still crying for you, but I'm so glad you went out and wandered around a market. Markets are a great place to lose yourself for a while, to get a break, for an hour or so. When you need it, you need it, and when you go home again, there's a renewal that you might not feel straight away, but it's there.
Just beautiful
Hope floats, what a gorgeously heartfelt and hopeful post. That's what I thought when I read this – hope xx
Beautiful post. I don't cry, but I'm crying now.
I can't believe you have the strength to even put pants on, never mind blog.
I bid you peace.
Lori, I've never commented on your blog before but as others have said I couldn't let this post pass without telling you what an amazing person you are. Your words are beautiful which is such a juxtaposition for such a tragic event. Just know, there are people literally all over the world thinking about you, sending you prayers, thoughts, and good vibes daily. As another commenter said, I've never met you and probably never will. That doesn't mean, however, that I don't think of you daily and have ever since this tragedy struck you. Please take all the time you need to heal. You deserve it. And only you know what's best for you, your children, and how to get through this as painless as possible. Much love to you & yours.
Beautiful, beautiful post Lori. I love the image of you curled up next to him, smiling, asleep.
I was telling my sister about your story yesterday, telling her how incredibly amazing I find you. That you were able to be there, to love Tony, to tell him that right to the very end. I was saying that I'm not sure I could do that – to remember what a good, strong, love filled person he was immediately following something so awful and tragic. My sister commented that maybe you were exactly the right person to be placed in Tony's life. That maybe in the grand workings of life and everything after, his death was inevitable and that YOUR life – including the depression and hardship you suffered as a teenager – was all in preparation for this event. You are able to understand and KNOW that this event wasn't the real Tony, that he was full of love for you and your family even after doing this. And you were able to be there for him and tell him that and know that he understood your forgiveness and love for him before he left. Keep hanging on Lori. We're all praying for you. Know that you are an inspiration to me – to always remember the good and keep love strong. xo
This is such a beautiful, beautiful post… And I am thankful that you can turn your agony into something so lovely, so moving.
…I feel something like a newness in your inner soul, a lightness and clarity, a new lucidity in the way you impart these words to us.
This was so beautiful to read and it made me weep.
As a hospice volunteer for 3 years, I've had some very eerie experiences which led me to believe the soul, or spirit, of those who pass is able to touch/visit those of us who are still living. I truly believe it now and believe you too.
Love never dies Lori. A woman who loves like you will be surrounded by love always. xx
What beautiful words Lori. You have a gift to be able to communicate in this way. In awe (and crying too) Much love xxxx
That moment when you know that the soul has left the body is an amazing feeling in itself. I saw it when we turned off my dad's life support machine.
But hope does float.
hug. and another. and another.
Beautifully written Lori. My heart goes out to you and your children.
More tears from me. Your writing is amazing, your story is heartbreaking and beautiful in equal parts.
I have meny tears running down my face, you write with the deapths of your soul, which is why I read you posts… wish there was more I could do or say xxx
wow Lori, just wow! you had me in tears, and I don't cry. you have such an amazing gift. Thank you for sharing again.
I am so sorry, Lori. Some things just never make any sense. It is beautiful, you know, you sharing this. I think it is beautiful.
what to say to this post?
the scene you described at the hospital, your last sleep with him, had me in tears.
sending you all the hope, blessings and hugs I can.
Hang in there girl and keep writing to us!
((HUGS))
Beautifully written Lori
Its 4am, and I can't sleep because my heart is hurting. So I do what I do when I can't sleep, I catch up on my blog reading.
Thank you Lori. For sharing with raw honesty your journey. the good, the bad, the ugly.
it has put my hurting heart a little bit more into perspective.
love and light to you beautiful woman.
xoxox
I am not sure as to how I stumbled upon your blog but maybe it was for a reason. I read daily and am touched and hurt for you/through you daily. This post had me bawling. I don't know you but I love you and have sympathy for what you are enduring and I hope and pray that I never have to live through what you are. I have a soulmate just like you and he and I have rough days also. You remind me alot of myself. Thanks babe.
hazelhottie69@yahoo.com
This makes my heart hurt for you. Beautifully written. I have to agree with the others that have posted before me. You will ALWAYS be Tony's wife.
Lori– I continue to pray for you, or if you don't believe in that, send good thoughts to the cosmos about you. You and I will never meet, I'm not married or a mom, and I'm far away from you in so many ways– but you are in my thoughts and prayers, and I want to believe that somehow that will help you through this horrible ordeal.
The pain doesn't end– but you will get used to it, and learn to live with it. That sounds crazy, but it just takes lots of time to feel your way through the tremendous grief.
And please know that through this blog, and the other readers throughout the world, that the globe is encircled with all of us who are "on your side"– whatever that is– and despite our anonymity to each other? Know that I would fight for you to the death, if it would help out in any way.
this was so beautiful. hugs.
Lori, thank you for sharing your story. I'm sitting here speechless and at a loss for words. So beautifully worded xo
Hey Lori – another heartwrenching/beautiful post. Thank you for sharing with us. I'm glad you got away a little this weekend – I hope are refueled a little.
Thinking of you today.
xo
Such a beautiful post. I'm glad he came to you, that you had that link with him.
Hugs
Have been keeping up with your posts for quite a while. They are all special but this one especially has lots of clarity. You must've really got back to you last weekend.
Hi Lori
I recently came across your blog and have spent the last 2 days reading your story. I wish there was something i could say to fix it all, but no ones comeup with those words yet. Sometimes life is just fucked.
I'm writing to you today as a 32 year old woman (am I really old enough to call myself a woman?! eek!) who lost her father to a drug overdose when she was 3.
I want you to know that you should feel very comfortable in the knowledge that your children may one day stumble across your posts here.
Death from drug over dose, much like suicide, is a "taboo" subject. I grew up not knowing much about my dad at all. His family didn't speak about him, and my mum couldn't. I learnt of his cause of death when I was 16 and found his death certificate.
That's why what you're doing is invaluable. I would do anything to read about my dad's death and how my mum felt in the days and weeks and months following.
I'm not suggesting that you wont talk about Tony or his death, but there will be some questions you can't answer. But your blog will.
Youre doing the right thing, and one day your kids will thank you for giving them the option of reading it, if they want to.
Sorry this has turned into an essay, I probably should have emailed you!
Keep up the blogging, fuck the haters.
I cried for you today. I cried for your loss. I cried because I could feel your pain.
Thinking of you and finally understanding the meaning of hope floats, much love to you xxx
I really believe in the afterlife and signs…I truly love this post and that your Tony "told" you he was okay……
You write so beautifully and speak your mind with such honesty. Inspiring. I have tears in my eyes. Big cyber hugs to you xx
Heartbroken tears again.
Lots of love Lori.
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Your writing is so beautiful, something so dreadful but shared so well, like its flowing from you. You wake up enormous strength of feeling in me to make me appreciate what I have today. Tomorrow it may be gone. It was you but it could be any one of us. The time you had in those 100 hours to have that togetherness to bring you both back together before he had to leave was a blessing, and how he must have fought to stay with you to give it to you xxx
Oh Lori, as I sit here in floods of tears which I imagine you shed a plenty writing this, there aren't many things I can say to offer comfort. I agree though, you will always be his wife.
Oh.
Such a beautiful goodbye.
I saw a psychic shortly after Greg died. This lady was very direct about the things happening now, when all I really wanted to know about was the longer term.
Hope floats. It does. Always. Love to you Lori.xxxx
Hi Lori,
As terrible as your story is, I envy you that you have been truly loved at least once. That you were with a man who was genuine, loving and true to you and your children.
I am so sorry that you lost him.
raw honest and powerful as ever
you will always be his wife – death doesnt change that xx
im curious as well – what did you think of your experience with the psychic?
~x~
Heartfelt and hopeful … thinking of you today and every day. I'm happy that you got to spend a couple of days away x
Lori, your posts always move me. This one, especially so.
Hope floats, even when it seems like there is no hope left. It is always there, with the promise of things to come, even if they are not what you are hoping for.
Tony will always be with you, holding you in his arms, protecting you. As Glowless wrote, you will always be Tony's wife, and he your husband. No matter what the future brings, death can't take away the love you and Tony share. x
That was so beautiful and moving, Lori. You're too good of a person to not find happiness again. You will. What the psychic said gave me goosebumps. Hope does float and you just hang on tight. Love you.
Yesterday was my birthday and my birthday wish was for you to have a better day, one that could give you some amount of peace. And hopefully, one sprinkled with laughter and a even a little fun.
Lori, I am in awe of your strength. This post was so beautiful and I'm glad you ran away from the world this weekend.
Take care! *hugs*
My God Lori, you amaze me, move me, inspire me… Another post palpable with your raw emotion, leaving me to shed tears for you again. I simply cannot imagine the ordeal you are immersed in but know you will survive this, like the psychic said. YOu deserve all the riches in the world in return for this nightmare
You are protected. Thank you for continuing to share with us.
Kinds thoughts & long distance hugs.
wow Lori,
You know, this is just the most amazing thing ive read. i had tears and goose bumps and a glowing heart feeling all at the same time.
wow.
Burst into tears about the Nurses and how they cried for you. Thinking of you x
Well what do you know, you did it to me again. Speechless and in tears.
Glad you had a good weekend cutting loose.
Keep writing beautiful friend.
xoxoxoxo
Everything floats, Lori. Everything. x
no words – but this is beautiful
Beautiful post, Lori.
Sending you love and lots of hope xxx
Such a beautiful post Lori. Such a lovely writer with a brilliant abaily to turn emotion into to words that we can all understand – or at least try to understand.
I *hope* for you every day. If my hope could only float across the world…
love and strength,
m
You are right, hope floats. Hospitals are places filled with floating hope. No one knows what will happen at any given time. I remember when my Hubby was recently in hospital, walking past the entrance to the ICU and watching as a Minister walked in. I went out to the car and cried. I cried for a person that I didn't know, knowing that chances were their little hope bubble was possibly about to burst. I sit here in tears now, thinking how cruel life is at times. Life holds so much promise and beauty but also so much tragedy and heartbreak. I hope your psychic lady was right. Tony gave you your sign and you can bet that he is sitting up there watching you now, protecting you, ready to send your angel man to you when you are ready and willing to accept another person into your life.
Hugs to you Lori and also your beautiful children.
Beautifully written Lori, articulate and emotional. I am happy for you that you were able to spend time running away, being yourself this weekend.
*HUGS*
Beautiful post Lori.
xx
Yes. Having watched two beloved family members (my grandmother and my daughter) leave right in front of me, you know. You do know. And those visits, those sweet, filling visits… it surely won't be the last he gives you. I loved this post, Lori. There is a newness in it, almost intangible, but recognisable and there.
Good for you, getting through each day, bit by bit, as you can.
And good for you for donating Tony's organs. Thank you thank you thank you. My family suffers two different terrible diseases and we rely on organ donation to keep us to going, to watch our kids grow up, to get a few more years. So thank you thank you thank you.
Sarah xxx
Crying. xx
oh.
i am crying, wiping away the puddle, the streaming tears.
last sunday in church i asked prayers for you.
today in church people you never met or heard of asked after you and wished you to know that they keep you in prayers every day.
OMFG!! Reading this last post, The Eagles 'Wasted Time' playing as I read…. Previous posts have moved me, this last one had me in tears….
Your Tony is gone, that is just so fucked up.
The love you both shared & experienced together is just so amazing & just so truly, truly, awe inspiring. Awesome indeed.
Larger than life.
I wish, for just one second, to be able to experience for myself,the kind of love that you & Tony have for each other…
I know you have lost, in a big big way…
My nan used to tell me, "It is better to have loved & lost, than to have never loved at all…."
Lori, I don't believe I've commented before but not commenting on this post wasn't an option. Your writing is eloquent and it moved me to tears. There aren't any words I can offer that can change anything right now but just know that you're in my thoughts. I agree with Glowless, you will always be his wife even if you should remarry in the future.
…I don't know what to say.
This was probably the most difficult of all your posts for me to read. How deeply it pulled at me. Just when i think i've heard the hardest part you come out with more. Your writing is such a gift Lori.
Tears streaming down my face :'(… what a heartbreaking and yet hope-filled post. X
Lori,
I never comment much but this post spoke to me. As a mother who has had to turn off life support, who has known that moment when my son left his body, you spoke to me.
Love to you always.
I do believe, wholeheartedly hon, that your future will be rich with love and happiness. Hard to imagine right now, huh? But it will come.
Beautiful post.
xxx
It truly does float.
"My last night, as his wife." – You will always be his wife. Even if, as the psychic says, you remarry. And he will always be your husband.
continuously amazed by you, your strength, your reflection, your words, your spirit.
I'm curious, what was your immediate reaction to the psychic's message? I can't imagine…
I never fully understood what "Hope floats" meant until today x
Lori, as always, you have a way of sharing with us all the essence of pain, and yet the essence of hope. You are, in one word, amazing.
I am crying as I write this, but it's good that you help others understand pain and hope all at the same time. And there's nothing wrong with crying, is there?! You will always have Tony's arms around you whenever you cry – always.
In my thoughts always…
Big Al xx
I stumbled upon your blog through another blog and have been reading your posts for the last two weeks. I am so sorry for your loss, I don't have any words that, as a stranger, could make it better. I don't think I'd have the right words if I was a friend. I felt compelled to comment today because I wanted to thank you, not just for your honesty in your writing, but thank you for donating your husband's organs. Almost seven years ago my mom's life was saved because of an organ donor and because of the donor's brave and wonderful family, who like you, made the choice to donate their loved one's organs. My mom had six months to live when she received her heart from David, her donor. Our family will never, ever forget the gift that David and his family gave us. I wish that you never had to go through what you went through, but know because of your husband, many others will get a second chance at living. I know this won't bring your husband back and I'm sure it isn't much of a comfort to you because dammit, he's not with you anymore, but I felt the need to reach out and say thank you for what you did. It's personal and private and at the worst time in your life, you thought of others- others like my mom, who would not be here today without organ donation.
To me, hope is such a fragile, delicate word — like a soap bubble.
I'm glad you got away for the weekend. It's good to have some time out from the tornado, isn't it? And you need it. So take all the time you need, for your soul to be healed.