I hate that Bob died. I hate that I was widowed. I really do.
I can be pragmatic. I can be practical. I know that my life is now and not then and there is no use comparing or wishing.
I can be philosophical and insightful. I am grateful for all the silver linings of the situation, happy with what I have now and rather impressed at times with the person I have become. I really am.
But then Arthur's birthday comes around, just like it does every year, and I feel that kicked in the gut, wind knocked out of me feeling again. I find myself sitting cross legged on Arthur's bunk bed sobbing in the dark into my cupped hands hoping I don't wake the boys up, wondering how long this storm will last.
It must be the proximity of Bob's death and Arthur's birth that does it for me every year. Remembering all the craziness that he was born into. I think Arthur knew he was better off in the womb. He wasn't late but he sure needed coaxing once he began his hesitant appearance, as if he wasn't quite sure he really wanted to be out here among all of the darkness that was our lives at that time. Who could blame him, at least the darkness he was coming from was warm.
Once the storm passes, and it does pass, I make it up to our bedroom and I am sure Mike can tell that I have been crying. But he says nothing. He has learned that is best sometimes. What is there to say? I wish Bob were here to celebrate his son's birthday. I wish the two of us could reminisce about the day Arthur was born. I wish Bob were here to see Arthur dance to Van Halen (long story).
I wish Bob were here.
Grief can't always be shared or explained, it just has to be experienced and lived through.
Thanks for checking in-