I used to think that I’d get a free pass after my husband died.
110-plus chemotherapy and immunotherapy infusions. Too many surgeries and hospitalizations to count. Then he moved upstairs with a broken body that became whole again.
I’d seen enough hospitals to last me ten lifetimes. Surely I’d get a reprieve.
Nope.
The first Christmas. The second Christmas.
I looked up at the sky and wondered when it would end.
Then I realized it wouldn’t end. Life ended for him, but it didn’t end for us.
We are living. Living means accepting that sickness will touch our family again. Living means struggling through the teenage years with my girls and clumsily raising my boys to be men.
There will be bruises and scrapes. I won’t do it perfectly. Neither will my children. They’ll skip out on their homework, prefer to play games on their phones, evade daily chores like the plague, and drag their feet at bedtime.
As much as I’d like to have a small break from life, I’m grateful that my children are…children.
Death has shaped them and made them, as its shaped me and made me.
But deep inside, in between the four walls of a hospital room, I’m thankful for the life we have.
The simple normalcy of a sick child, reminding my sons for the millionth time to put some pants on, and for the love of all things sanitary, wash your hands.
It’s the normal life we would have had, had he lived. And it’s the normal life we do have, since he died.
In many ways, our family is very different. But underneath it all, we’re very much the same. đź’™
#laughterafterdeath #lookingintherearviewmirror #wanderingwidow #itsme #lifebeginsnow