It’s been a little over a year since Shannon died, and it’s been rough. Random things make me think “I’ve got to tell Shannon about this”, and then it hits me that I can’t. I cannot describe the wave of sadness that momentarily overwhelms me. It hits like a tsunami and tugs me under churning debris before it recedes and leaves standing, miraculously, on solid land.
The irony is that I’m able to land on solid ground largely because of the man I lost. The years of taking care of him taught me how to be a man. Our endless conversation gave me the strength of my convictions. I learned to love without condition and to accept his on the same terms. I learned to be patient. He made me more human and, thereby, better equipped to survive without him.
And I am surviving.
My life is very different than it was before. I have to keep up with when bills are due (something he did really well) and feed the cats. I keep up with my doctor appointments instead of his. I am the patient instead of “being patient”.
Everything about him challenged me to grow into a better person. I returned the favor, and we grew into people I could be proud of. It was a great life, even with its challenges. They were opportunities for growth, not obstacles.
The tsunami hits every day or two. Some days, it comes in periodic waves. Either way, I end up on solid ground standing on my own two feet, waiting for the next one to hit. Still, I’m surviving.
If he were here, I’d say goodnight about now. And, in a way, he is.
So, “Goodnight, sweetie. Get some good sleep."
"I’ll see you on the other side.”
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