I can’t believe how happy I was then. I probably even COMPLAINED. I was such a fool.

A month ago, it was a Friday. I didn’t go work out. Instead, I ran a bunch of random errands, and prepared for the weekend. A weekend that was supposed to be fun and filled with good times.

And the next day, my husband died.


The fog has lifted. I know it has, because the grief is so strong, I feel like it takes the air right out of my lungs. It has been easier, up to this point, to exist.

But he’s gone. Somehow, my life was charted for this to happen, in some grand tapestry, and this is the part where blood is spilt.

We texted each other all day that Friday. We used to have this dumb little game, where we’d text lyrics to each other. Normally, it was “You Are My Sunshine”, but there have been other songs. As I was driving that morning, Life Is A Highway (the original), came on, and I sent that as a text to Jon. He responded with “I wanna ride it all night long”

My response: “promises promises”

For some reason, that exchange kills me. At that moment in time, I thought we had our entire lives to live out together, and we would certainly live them. We had great friends. We had a great marriage, that had seen it’s share of rocky times, and had survived IN STYLE. We had, (and still do), GREAT kids, who were thriving and flourishing. We were confident parents, indulgent lovers and best friends. WE HAD IT ALL.

For at least 24 more hours. He sent me this text exactly 24 hours before he collapsed.

“Ugh,  I’m sorry. I was able to breathe a bit easier last night” – responding to my text about my stupid anxiety-related issues and how I woke up with that “lump in the throat” feeling again. He had a headache, and I asked him how he was feeling. I remember he seemed to really be hurting.

That morning, we held each other like he was saying goodbye.


And now it is June 9th. My friends birthday. A day before the “dreaded one month” and life for everyone else is still going on.  Weslee is a month older, as am I. Aurora is in Georgia, and anxiously awaiting her birthday. She’ll be 9 and Jon won’t be here to see it.

The grief is so intense sometimes, I feel like I’m being gassed. I can’t breathe. The world keeps on turning and growing and people are still living.

But I am not. I am simply breathing, when Jon isn’t. I’m breathing alone and it feels like it will always be this way.