A daily pause, a shared journey

The days leading up to May 9th are always hard for me. I think back to April 2018 and it almost seems like it was a dream. Even after all this time it doesn't feel real. Back then, everyday I awakened after a restless almost non-existent sleep with so much hope in my heart and at the same time dread because my mind was trying to keep me grounded and prepare me for what might happen. The conflict I felt holding both hope and dread at the same time was overwhelming. The hope was for my kids. This needed to be there for them. The thought of them losing their father was unimaginable. Impossible even. Bill beat the odds so many times before, why would I doubt it this time? Every day was spent in Bill's ICU room in Grand River Hospital in Kitchener. It was a 30 minute drive and I don't have much recollection of how I was getting to and from the hospital. I was operating on auto-pilot. My day would start with talking to the nurses and getting an update on how Bill's night was. I felt so bad leaving him overnight. The guilt I carry is still with me but I had to be home for the boys. I was leading a double life.

By day, I was a devoted wife by his bedside, reviewing the medical notes, lab and test results from the night before meticulously as if I would find something that these highly trained professions may have missed. I googled everything. I researched what other doctors in other countries were doing. I questioned everything. I learned how to read the machines, I watched as IV bag after IV bag was added to his concoction of medications. I have seen more blood transfusions and dialysis procedures than I care to ever see again. Watching my husband on life support not knowing if he could hear me or those around him was so painful. He couldn't talk, he couldn't tell me or the doctors what he wanted, what he needed or how he felt. Was he in pain? I couldn't let go. We had to try everything possible. I was not going to give up on the love of my life. I knew in my heart that he wanted to be here, with me, with our children. The sound of those machines still haunts me.

By night, I was a mom, I cooked, cleaned the house, helped with homework as if Bill was just away on a business trip.  The  double life I was leading forced me to learn to mask my emotions so well that people called me strong and stoic. But inside I felt the opposite, it took every ounce of energy to pull off that facade.

Almost 8 years later and I'm still hurting. I’m looking at myself and understanding why I’m doing what I’m doing. I’m trying to distract myself. Grief is always there, lingering, waiting for the moment when you least expect it to hit full force. I thought I faced it. The anger, the heartache and the fear. The realization that I haven’t was a shock. But this self discovery is part of the healing process no matter how long it takes. I have made myself busy, distracted and tried to push away these feelings of unresolved grief. In fact, I buried it so deep I didn’t think it would be able to resurface. During a recent renovation, one of my “keep busy” projects, something stood out to me. Just as this renovation caused massive piles of debris from all of the excavating, this feels the same way. Previously, I was only scratching the surface and it was easy to keep things buried. But now my loss along with the feelings, senses and pain are exposed. It wasn’t until the heavy machinery came in and dug really deep into my being that I could really look inward. Letting go of Bill ever so slowly feels like a broken bone I keep injuring over and over without it having the opportunity to heal.

It seems insignificant, but recently I tore out Bill’s wheelchair ramp. It needed to go for several reasons. It was old, falling apart and was no longer needed. The problem is, it was Bill’s and it represented a part of his life that he was working so hard to overcome. I am slowly losing pieces of him and sometimes it feels as though these are all I have left.

Being kind to myself and trying to surround myself with positive people and thoughts help. But after 8 years people expect that you have moved on and if you are still struggling there’s something wrong. I want to change this way of thinking. There is nothing wrong. I love Bill with all my heart and his death hasn’t changed that. His death has allowed me to see just how much capacity for love I have. I don’t have to stop loving him to be able to open my heart again.  

The future looks bright even though I will continue to have ups and downs along this journey we call life.