How you doing? The daily ritual following wife's death
Two months. It's been two months since my wife, Kim, died unexpectedly Nov. 23. Nothing's changed, yet everything's different.
My guess is only someone who's had to journey through such loss, such shock to the norm, can understand this dichotomy.
I sensed it almost immediately. In a heartbeat -- Kim's final heartbeat -- life had changed. In the hospital room where all hell broke loose, it had seemed both surreal and dysfunctional. My wife had made it through three successful surgeries in less than six months. Suddenly, she was gone.
I ushered everyone out, stroked her hair and left cheek, kissed her forehead and managed a tearful, "I am so sorry." It might seem an odd first thought, but we had gone through so much together, and now she was going to miss so much more.Two new grandchildren. Three straight years of children's marriages, with one more in 2016. A daughter moving back to Minnesota from Seattle with her partner. Six children, four grandchildren. Likely more. She was so looking forward to tomorrow.
And a new furnace. The day after Kim died, the Melius house had a new furnace installed. Kim and I had managed through a couple weeks of no heat, huddled in the living room, staying cozy with a couple space heaters, thanks in part to a mild November.
The whole scene seemed rather symbolic of our journey. Managing to get by, yet always looking ahead.
Now, looking ahead is completely different. But there's a part of you which longs for nothing to change. As family gathered in those early days, I remember vividly son Andy saying how he worries he won't remember the sound of his mother's voice. You don't want such memories to fade.
Nearly every day since Kim's death, the question is asked by someone. How you doing?
Pretty good, I might say. Considering the circumstances. When the death is sudden, a shock, and when you have no chance to say goodbye, how does one truly know? Better than what? Better than yesterday? Certainly better than that final hospital scene.
I am moving forward. But I still cry nearly every day. Each night, often before I can sleep, Kim's final minutes of life flash before me again. Every night.
And we still have no answers. Probably never will. Kim's autopsy revealed no clear sign of what happened. No blood clot, which medical personnel at the time suspected. Her heart was strong. Respiratory failure, which caused cardiac arrest. What caused the respiratory failure remains a question mark.So, how am I really doing? I'm OK. But there's this strong need to check up on my kids, see how they're doing and handling the emotions. We all grieve differently. I cry, sometimes at unexpected times. Sometimes at special songs, favorite memories. But moving on is also important to me, and it should be to all of us.
I'm not overwhelmed by it all. I'm not extremely bitter, even though every part of me believes Kim should not have died. Such anger could destroy one's soul. And I won't let it happen.
You know, I deeply respect people of faith. But I live with a comfortable balance of faith and reason. It's one of my deeply-rooted core principles. And it was not Kim's time. She was boldly moving ahead, dealing with a myriad of health concerns and happy about the direction. And she was still contributing mightily to society in the best way she knew, by being respectful to the aged and honoring them and their families.
None of us wanted that to change. So we hold on to her deeply, yet move on. But it's so different. It seems almost like survivor's guilt. Every walk, every step, there's a memory. Even the ugly ones, as Matt and I have laughed about past Christmas shopping ventures with Kim. Painful stuff. But now I walk through River Hills Mall in Mankato and feel lost without her.
This feeling likely won't change for me. For it is all so different.
