I Wish I Could

It has been a decade since my husband died.  I had wanted to write something in memorium of his loss to me and my family.  But I can’t.  The words won’t come.  Through many tries and aborted efforts, it has all come to naught.  The closer to the heart, the deeper the pain, the less there is to say.

How do you explain the width and depth of anguish and loss when speaking of a husband and father?  The chasm created by his loss is larger than the Grand Canyon and there is no bottom for its depth.  How do you explain the emptiness of family weddings with a missing family member?  What does one write to explain a future of twenty or thirty years compressed into four.  Where are the words to describe what holidays are like without him there.

How are you supposed to pull out the pain for yet another look-see and then put it away again.  I know my body pays for the agony and grief stored inside my being.  Experts, those with degrees and without loss, would tell me to put it behind me and go on with my life.  I have to the best of my ability as have our children, but for me I have adapted as much as I ever will.  I will live each day to its fullest, but for me the “fullest” is only about eighty per cent.  This one man who captured my heart still holds it in his hands.  It will never open to another.

Of the approximate 155,000 people who die daily world-wide, there are 155,000 families who are left grief-stricken dealing with the ins and outs of living, coping as they best know how.   We don’t all have the nation behind us like those of 9/11 which also marks its tenth anniversary this year.  We remember alone, we talk with other family catching up on what’s current all the while with an unspoken reminder for each other that we haven’t forgotten and that we love each other.

My children, I ache for your loss; my grandchildren, you will never know or understand that this man would have loved you with all his heart and bragged about you to anyone who came near him.  To those he worked with, I understand your loss; we, his family, live with it daily.  To all those 150,000 families, we know what it is to lose and lose greatly.

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4 Responses to I Wish I Could

  1. Leo says:

    Thanks for opening up in such a heartfelt way, Mom. I completely understand your not being able to share more or try to tell more about him. I thought about this quite a bit over the past few months. The neat thing is that God blessed him with such a powerful life that his short 50 years made a huge impact on all of around him.

    So many of the great traits and characteristics that I carry with me today are directly attributed to him. In a way, he lives on through me… and Nick… and Alicia. I am teaching Asher many of the same things (both consciously and unconsciously) that Dad taught me.

    If anything, I would love for you to begin sharing fun and memorable moments with Dad. You are an incredible writer and his memory will live on through your words. Whether it is on this blog or a side one, I think it will not only be worth it for the grandkids and our spouses, but for yourself as well.

    For now, though, this is a great and honest start to opening up about someone you care so deeply about and miss so dearly.

    Love you, Mom!

  2. Jeanette Spencer says:

    I would enjoy reading about some of the fun and memorable moments. I only had the opportunity to visit with him three times and he made such an impression. He really made you feel at home and cared about. He was a great host.

  3. Doris says:

    After Leo's funeral I recall you saying, "Now we're going back to the house and tell Leo stories." I thought that was a very appropriate tribute … and still do. What better way to honor someone than to share your memories of him. As long as his name is remembered his spirit will live.

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