If I Were Fearless

I wish I were fearless. Imagine what I’d do then.

Actually, I do know what I’d do. I’d laugh. And joke. And grin. And smile. All without worrying about whether other people would consider it “inappropriate widow behavior”. I’d realize that I’m the one who has to deal with losing the love of my life. That I’m the one who has to go to sleep alone. Not them. And that it’s my right to decide how I want to deal with it. I’d realize that I could choose to be anything in the world. So I might as well choose to be happy.

Yeah. If I were fearless, that’s what I’d do.

Dealing. Part One.

There is one fundamental problem about a love that is “all encompassing”, that “fills up your senses”, that “completes you”. And that is this- once the object (and source) of that love is gone, that feeling of wholeness is gone too. And that’s all you are. Incomplete.

I’ve become angry. So very, very angry. I read somewhere that anger is one of the many stages of grief. Well, looks like I’ve entered that stage guns blazing. And I don’t even know how to handle it. How can I when I don’t even know what can set me off? I hate cheerfulness just as much as I hate sadness. I want you to say something to me, but I don’t know what I want to hear. I hate that even with the best family and friends a girl could ask for, I feel so empty and alone. I hate that I got so used to Rajeev’s arms that I can’t fall asleep at night. I hate that I went from newlywed to widow with nothing in between. I hate that I still equate emotional investment with time and I hate that I feel so worthless because I only spent one year with him. I hate that people think I should be able to move on easier because I’m so young. (Seriously. What does that even mean?) I hate that I have nothing to remember him by except for a year full of memories and the occasional photograph that I still can’t bring myself to look at. I hate that I’m only 25 years old and that whatever future I do have, is still a future without him. I wish I could just run away and go somewhere I’m not me. Somewhere I’m not 25 and a widow. It’s a funny place to be. Widowhood. Where you’re married and single at the same time. But the fact is that no matter how far I go, I can never escape this. This is going to be a part of me as long as I live. Like my color of my eyes and my abnormally large feet. I know I’m wallowing in self-pity and believe me, I hate that too.

I know that God has a plan for me. I may not like the plan. But there’s a plan. There HAS to be a reason for all this pain. I don’t care if you don’t agree with me. And I’m not going to go searching for answers because I know that right now, nothing is going to be good enough. But I do know that there’s a reason. And I know I’ll find it sometime in the future. My tomorrow may be bright, but how the heck am I going to deal with today?

I remember how Raja and I spent our three month anniversary. It was magical. Rajeev went all out. He sent flowers and chocolate to my office, and then in the evening, he whisked me off to the most amazing restaurant I’ve ever been to. I remember looking at him that evening and thinking, not for the first time… or the last, that I was the luckiest girl in the world. It was glorious.

And yet, even that evening was not our best one. Our perfect evening was every regular, normal weekday. Where Raja would come home from work around 8ish and we’d sit down to eat a meal that I had cooked. We’d clear the table and then I’d wash the dishes while he cut fruit for both of us. And we would just hang out and listen to music or watch a movie or slow dance to heavy metal, whatever. Hang the babies or the home or the dinners at fabulous restaurants. I’d do anything just to have one of those evenings again.

Aftermath

It’s begun.

The other day at church, my dad was trying to introduce to me to an old acquaintance of his. Obviously, this acquaintance had heard about what happened, but had no idea who I was.

Dad: This is Sheryll.

Acquaintance: ….

Dad: My daughter.

Acquaintance: ….

Dad: She’s the one who lost her husband.

Acquaintance: Oh! Her!

Turns out that’s all I am now. The girl who lost her husband. Great.

So my mom has issues with my recent posts. After reading the last one, she sat me down and gave me a good talking to. She said (and I’m only paraphrasing slightly here), “Sheryll, I know it’s hard. But it is time for you to move on. You’re just 25. Your whole life is spread out before you. I know you’ll miss your husband with every fiber of your being, but you need to get through this. You’re a strong girl and we’re all here for you. Always.”

I love my mommy.

I also wonder if someone can develop a “mommy-filter” for our blogs. Hmmm.

So after two months of dealing with the sickness and death, I now have to deal with life and surviving. I honestly don’t know which one is worse. It’s a funny business this grieving thing. Emotional rollercoaster is an understatement. I have NO idea what could set me off. I did not cry when they happened to play “our song” on the radio. But I bawled my eyes out the last time I saw a Metro test run. I can handle looking at pictures of Rajeev posing decently, but I cannot handle the goofy ones. I can wear his t-shirts to sleep, wear his ridiculous yellow slippers, and smell his perfume, but I cannot watch the first season of Glee or listen to the new Angry Birds Seasons theme music.

And then there’s the fear. That horrible, paralyzing fear of the things you know you have to do in order to be able to live rather than just survive. Of the things you must leave behind. Of the decisions you must make. Of expectations and realizations. And that the only thing that they have in common is that they all suck.

And the anger. The kind that eats you up from inside. All stemming from one unavoidable fact- that of all the people Rajeev ever knew, he knew me for the shortest time. And there’s nothing anyone can do about it. Except deal.

Here’s to dealing.

If

There was this song we used to sing in church. It kinda went like this- Count your blessings name them one by one and it will surprise you what the Lord has done.

Guess it’s worth a shot.

Counting my Blessings. Take 1.

1. I am thankful that I got to spend at least one year with Rajeev.
2. I am thankful for my family. I can’t imagine getting through this without you.
3. I am thankful for the life I got to lead with Rajeev- that we never once shied away from showing/voicing our love for each other (We were quite embarrassing). That we never ever took each other for granted.
4. I am thankful for Bridget Jones’ Diary, Solitaire, and pedicures because somehow, apart from my family, these are the only things that seem to keep me sane.
5. I am thankful for my friends. Even though I don’t return your calls.
6. I am thankful for…

This isn’t working.

If wishes were horses,

• I’d wish that this was all just some crazy nightmare.
• I’d wish that he died the way we had planned to die- Together, after the family reunion we’d hold on our 70^th wedding anniversary, and because we boogied too much on the dance floor and ate too much cake.
• I’d wish that he never got sick in the first place.
• I’d wish that I had let him eat that last brownie instead of saving it for the folks at his office. I had promised that next time I’d make a whole batch just for him. Who knew?
• I’d wish that people stop coming to me and crying. I really don’t know what to do then. Crying people make me cry and I really, really hate crying in public.
• I’d wish that life was like in the movies where teardrops were enough to wake up anyone in a coma.
• I’d wish that I could just fast forward to five years later and not have to deal with the todays.
• I’d wish that I could mess up his hairdo one more time.
• I’d wish that we got to take more ridiculous photos.
• I’d wish that we could both sing Wolfmother songs in the car again.
• I’d wish he were still around.

If wishes were horses, hell, I still wouldn’t have one.

So...

My husband died three weeks ago. Turns out he had a brain tumor that he did not know about. No symptoms, no signs, no nothing. He gets a headache one day, goes to the hospital, gets admitted into the ICU, and never came home again. He was in the ICU for 27 days and in a coma for 25 of those days. It’s good in one way because he did not have to suffer as much as he would’ve if he were conscious. It sucks because none of us got to say goodbye.

A widow at 25. Who would’ve thunk it? I was still getting used to being married at 23.

So much for all the dreams I shared with him. I dreamt of kids. One would be just like him- a boy with super straight hair, long gangly limbs, and a wicked sense of humor. He would be my favorite child and no girl would ever be good enough for him. I dreamt of Rajeev and me shopping for our home and arguing over which curtains to buy. I dreamt of family vacations with all of us wearing matching t-shirts and multi-colored crocs. I dreamt of tantrums in the supermarket. (What can I say? I really really like my Oreos.)

Well, so much for that.

It sucks that I can’t call him in the middle of the day just because I miss him. It sucks that I can never watch him drink his morning tea, or watch him gel his hair. It sucks that whatever future I do have, will still be a future without him.

And then there are the whys. And the hows. And the what-ifs. And the if-onlys. Each one more maddening that the first. I look for answers, but nothing helps. Then the other day, my friend told me something I will never ever forget- Sometimes, it just has to suck. And it’s true. There doesn’t always have to be one single way to deal with suckitude. You don’t always have to be strong and unflaggingly optimistic. Sometimes. Life. Just. Has. To. Suck.