ad astra per aspera

Jerald says to write.  To write.  To say.  To type.
I don’t like night time.  I watch over Magnus & keep worrying about fevers; I’m so used to watching Chris instead.

Should I write at the anger towards his parents and sister, the horror at their absence when he needed them the most?  Or the anger that their absence also stole precious time Chris could have spent with his son.
I don’t think I can ever forgive them, but to move myself forward I will have to figure out how to at least move past the anger.  For now the anger scares me, it could leave such an ugly permanent mark if I let it.  How dare they fucking wake up and not look at themselves in the mirror with anything but guilt and shame.  How dare they even think that they did all they could.  How could they, how could they, he deserved so much more from them.

The pain of having to share a home with these people from the moment of leaving his body at the mortuary.

The pain.

I watched the world out the back window of that ambulance.  I saw it when my husband still breathed and then when he no longer did.

We didn’t even get to say goodbye.  He wasn’t lucid enough to have a conversation for at least a week before he died.

I held onto his body and wailed after the EMT confirmed that yes, my husband was dead.  Then I stared numbly and mutely out the window or at his body for the rest of the 2.5 hour ride.

Oh fuck Chris how can you be gone?  How?  We haven’t even been married 4 years, our son just barely turned 3.  There was still so much I had to learn from you, so much for you to teach our son.

I realized today that when Magnus & I get our own place I will have to set up a bedroom for just me.  That was a strange and stomach churning realization.  My mind can’t process living in a bedroom that I don’t share with you.

I don’t like night time.

Jerald was right about writing.  I keep a lid on my emotions in this home & my son is by my side nearly every step I go.  Writing this has allowed me to grieve.  I don’t even like typing that word, grieve.  I don’t want to fucking grieve.
I want you back.  I don’t want to be a fucking widow at 32, I don’t want to change my marital status on stupid fucking facebook to widow because that’s too fucking real.  I don’t want to be a single mom.

I know I’m strong and I will be even stronger now and that I can and will do this.

But I don’t want to.  I want you back.  I want to rewind the time to us in our home in Wichita and our cookouts and our late night drinks and our talks and our play time with our son and our so many things I can’t even put to words.
I look at the pictures and watch the videos and I can’t believe that’s it.  There won’t be anymore of you, of us, of us with our son, of you with your son.  That catalog is complete, your life is done and I can’t fucking believe it.

The last picture I took of us: