Four years tomorrow.
That is how long you have been gone from us.
You chose to die on a beautiful Sunday morning at 6:37 a.m. on March 3, 2013.  You always were an early bird from the time you were born.

I never know how I am going to react on the day, days or weeks of the month that you died.  Just as I didn't really know how I was going to be after you died.  I was so caught up in your struggle as well as being in shock, so when a hospice worker asked how I would be when you died, I said, "I don't really know".

Well, after four sometimes blurred, sometimes too clear years, I know.

Being a mother, for me, was the prime mission that I have had in life.  Once you children were born, I was only in this world to make it good and loving for all of you.  I think you all got this
message.

Life doesn't care what our goals are.  It just is.  And so, when my daughter Alexia was born, after I had been ill for the nine months that I was pregnant, I mourned for years every March 18. Until finally, I woke up one day, and realized that I had not even noticed that the day had passed.  Not so with March 3.

We all mourn alone.  I write this blog through my tears, and my husband turns inward and cannot even look at me as I cry.  It is too painful for him.  I get it. No one, even the most understanding, can get into my head to really know how sad I am.
I have strange thoughts and rituals since you have died.  I still have a uterine "memory" that pulls at me when I think of giving birth to you. It's like cell memory, a place that is personal and not explainable.  I sleep every night with that awful pillow that you loved and wouldn't let me replace for you.  I greet you every morning and every night with a song that we used to sing. And, I go to sleep hoping you will visit me.

Next to my bed, is a tiny glass container with a lock of your hair.  It was starting to get some gray strands.  You would have been a really distinguished looking man as you matured because you had a stately stature and a very handsome face.  Not just my opinion.

None of these rituals bring you any closer to me.  Today, the last day you lay dying, I remember the constant groaning that were the only sounds you made for thirteen days.  A hospice chaplain, not your typical religious image, said that you were sorting out your life as you lay dying.  He told me that he could see you already walking in a field, with your dog by your side and that you were ok. He believed that he had a gift that allowed him to go into your mind, and that you had allowed it. Since you loved being in the outdoors, I wanted to believe him.

Once the morphine had been pumped into you, you never opened your eyes again.  When the hospice doctor woke you and asked if you wanted to stop the dying process, you adamently shook your head and said "NO"! Dying wasn't easy for you, George, but neither was watching your life fall apart from MS.  Aside from the fast progression of your disease and your physical disability and pain, you had to deal with emotional pain.  For a man with a huge heart, you learned that people can be weak and unthinkingly cruel. So many never called or visited you.  You needed to feel the love and friendship, and many just didn't take the time.  Your world got so small, and I cringed at the injustice of all that was inflicted upon you.

So, as I wait for tomorrow, the "day", I try and decide where I am in this valley of grief.  I have not accepted your death, a word you abhorred and said it was giving in to MS.  I am no longer in shock and certainly not in denial.  I am a different person and do not cling to this life and earthly existence since you have died.  My perspective has tilted.  I still feel love and pain for your children, and yes even your wife who did the unimaginable and was divorcing you.  I think of all the wonderful events you will miss and have already missed.  Graduations, football games, achievements of your beautiful children and eventually walking Stacia, your clone, down the aisle.  I am thankful for your two beautiful sisters and worry for my husband who has had many health issues since you died.  So, where am I in this life?

RESIGNED...a word that means I've had my core being hollowed out. What is left is a moving, talking woman who partakes of daily existence with half a heart.  Resigned...and not looking forward to seeing this anniversay come for years and years.  Missing you and always, always LOVING you.

Love,
Mom