This was something I wrote on a note to our delightful housekeeper before she came in to clean up a living room full of unfamiliar furniture, sympathy cards, and absolutely none of Jake's clothes to wash or fold. "A terrible thing happened." The furniture had to be replaced because four weeks earlier my husband Jake sat down on our old green couch and never got up.
Yesterday (a Monday, already a terrible day), it was 8 weeks. Mostly I feel like nothing has changed. Mostly I feel like I cry just as much as I did those first 4 weeks. Mostly I look around this house and wonder where did he go? Why did he go? We needed him. We love him. I don't know how to do this without him.
Except that I am. I still need to get the kids fed and dressed and off to school every day. And although I've been mostly capable of doing this, I have no idea how. People tell me that I am "strong," and they don't know how I'm doing it, but I'm "doing great." I'm not. Or maybe I am. But it doesn't matter. I don't wake up every morning thinking, what do I want to do today? Should I be heroic? No. I just wake up and miss him and get the kids ready and miss how he used to take Olivia to school every day and miss how everyone would say hello to him at her school because everyone loved Jake.
I obsess over how this happened. I obsess over everything I wish I had done differently. But how can you predict a heart attack? If I had asked his doctors if this would happen, I suppose they would have "yes, it could, he is at risk." And he was. And I suppose we knew that. But it was both predictable and completely sudden at the same time. There are a thousand little things that contribute to heart disease over years and years, and there is one quick little moment when it happens, and then they are gone. It feels like he slipped through my fingers.
I can't decide if life works like this: where life is resilient and the ability of the body to live and withstand hardship is strong and it really takes quite a bit to kill a human body. Or is it like this: where life is fragile and we must make choices every day to keep the human body healthy and strong or else life slips away? I don't know why this is so heavy on my mind. It feels important that I figure this out. And every day there is some new mystery, big or small, that gets my wheels spinning. Like whether I should move back home and live with my sister. Or whether I should cancel Jake's credit cards.
I will write more. I may not share much more about Jake's medical history because frankly it's no one's business and he never shared it much himself. But there is much I need to say, and writing feels good. He would want me to write-- for that reason, and because he really liked my writing. He would tell me that I'm strong too. It kills me.