For the past few months, life has been pretty good. I have my vision board in place, and lots of activities and plans and dreams for my future that keep me occupied. I’ve been writing up a storm, and was flattered by an invitation to have my Writing Widow blog included in a resource for widows and widowers being developed by some Fordham University students. Summer is almost here and the pool will be officially open this weekend (hopefully), and I love to swim.
It’s been 22 months since Rick died, and in that time, I’ve created a new life alone. It isn’t always easy. Doing the spring yard clean up, getting the pool open, and trying to catch up on home improvements – all while working at my full time job each day and still performing the work Rick used to do for our web business in the evenings – leaves me worn out sometimes. I’m reminded nearly daily how many little things were so much easier when he was here. For example, I spent twenty minutes trying to remove the pool skimmer lid that had stuck like glue to the basket over the winter. My fingers just weren’t strong enough. I finally figured out how to pry it open with a screwdriver, all the while being aware that Rick would have easily reached past me and twisted it off in an instant.
I have to admit, though, other than a few minor setbacks, I’ve come to realize I really like my life now. It’s not what I planned, but it’s a good one, and that is surprising to a woman who thought her life was over at one point. But recently, just when I thought that my life was getting on track, I started to experience several episodes of that deep, dark, awful grief, again. The kind of grief that has me spending hours in bed, convinced that despite my efforts, I will never truly be happy again. Life will never be the same without Rick, so why try?