Devotion

Over the past month my inbox, phone, and ears have been flooded with messages, songs, memories, and compassion. I can't tune out the support if I tried. I always thought you had so many friends, such a network of love, my Ted – more friends than I could ever imagine. But through this harrowing circumstance, I now see that I was blind to the love that I also have.

I remember that during breakfast one of your daily tasks was clicking onto Facebook and seeing who's birthday it was. You would write a personal message to each person. I would watch you, as you typed, then deleted, then typed – and stopped to pause, thinking back about an in-joke or a memory you had with that person – then you would type the rest of your words. Maybe they would read it, or maybe it would get buried under all the other 'Happy Bdays' on their page, but as always, to you, it didn't matter, you put the love out there with affinity, and you meant it. You stayed connected. And you remembered others, always.

There are not many people like that, my love. We get so bogged down with our schedule, our day, and mainly – our ego, that we easily get wrapped up in the self. I know I do. I get wrapped up in how I look. I get wrapped up in comparing myself to others. I get wrapped up in who likes me or who doesn't. I get wrapped up in reading between the lines. I get wrapped in technology. I get wrapped up in right or wrong. I get wrapped up in making money. I spend all this time wrapping myself up, so tightly, that I get bound. I get stuck. You my love, unstuck me. And when I got stuck again, you were an example for how to get unstuck. You never told me to unstick myself, you just represented the path of how to achieve it. Who will unstick me now?

You didn't put off sending those daily devotions until later. Because you knew later might not give you time, or later might not come. You acted in the moment. And you acted for others. You were and are a beacon. You were and are a reminder of how fleeting life is, and how important it is to live in-the-now.

So today, I sat in front of my computer and stared. I scrolled through the messages I'd been sent. I read them all. I read them as if I was reading them to you. I listened to the songs people sent me, even the ones by the bands you hated. I imagined you laughing at that. I responded to as many as I could handle for now, because I want to be intentional and not rush. I am moving slowly, but I promise it's deliberate. Because the support means so much to me. If the airwaves were quiet, your silence would be even more deafening.

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I went to my first grief support group last night. Twelve other women and one man who all lost their partners/spouses sat around a table with tea and cookies. It was a tea I liked and you hated, we called it Christmas Tea because I thought it tasted like the holiday, although it's actually called Bengal Spice. I was in tears before I even sat down with my scorching cup. I thought about how you would always bring me my tea with three ice cubes in it, because you knew I didn't like it too hot. I thought about how careful you were to steep your tea the proper amount of time – I watched mine burn as it sat boiling in water. I considered sticking my finger into the cup just to see if I could feel any more pain. And then, as I sipped the tea, I thought about Christmas, and realized I could.

We went around the circle and introduced ourselves, told our stories. I cried the most. But not because my story is sadder, they all were. And not because my love is greater, because who am I to calculate the immeasurable? But I was the most raw, it seemed. I was the youngest by at least twenty years. Your death was the most recent. But it was all so sad. Hearing the stories of people who attend this group twice a month, some of whom have been doing it for two or three years. I imagined myself still sitting at this table, with my burnt Christmas Tea and my box of Kleenex, at thirty-three. Where did the time go?

The facilitator told me that sudden death often hits like an airbag. That the wholeness of the reality doesn't land right away. That with the trauma comes a good deal of numbness. That it may take many months for the airbag to deflate, for the realness of the pain to show its face. If this is numbness, than I can't imagine what sensitized feels like. I was horrified.

I heard fourteen lonely stories. Fourteen sad plans of what the upcoming holidays looked like without their mate – they spoke of children without dad, grandchildren without grandpa, mothers without sons, holidays missing tradition. I saw tissue after tissue being moistened with tears and snot, then crumbled up and tossed away into the garbage alongside the dreams of having just one more day with their best friend, just one more night with their lover. I thought of Christmas and the holidays, as they were supposed to be. We were going to have an exciting announcement – we were going to be planning our wedding. And now, there is no wedding and more importantly, there is no you. There is an empty chair at the table – a space where the dreams, future, life, and you once sat. I shouldn't have been so presumptuous. Life is fleeting.

So last night before bed, when I got home from the group meeting, I looked out our window and I dropped to my knees. I knelt, I folded my hands (like I knew I was supposed to, but wasn't sure why), I looked up, and I prayed. I prayed to God. I prayed to you. I prayed to Mother Earth. I prayed to whomever would listen, because I don't think they have ever heard from me before. I begged for your freedom, for your peace. I begged for you not to feel the anguish and desperation that I feel. I begged that you watch over me, but only in the times when I am doing the right thing, because I don't want to disappoint you. I begged for my own peace. I begged for patience. And I begged for eternal love.