“I have to remind myself that some birds aren’t meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice. Still, the place you live in is that much more drab and empty that they’re gone. I guess I just miss my friend.”
The artwork in the photo above is on my desk. Laura bought it at an art fair. I never really thought about why she bought it until now. I think she knew it was symbolic of her inner beauty and grace. So big that it couldn’t be contained by cancer.
It’s difficult to put into words the amount of grief one goes through when losing someone that you’ve loved dearly.
I’m angry and I’m sad.
Angry that she was taken away from us too soon. Sad that I’ll no longer be able to hold her, talk to her and just be around her.
But then I remember all of the difficult times these past 2 years – the diagnosis, the numerous operations, the dreadful tests and exams, the waiting and the unknowns. There are just too many unpleasant experiences to list.
I try to find peace knowing that she’s no longer in pain, no longer suffering but I guess I just miss my wife.
The fog creeps in unexpectedly and engulfs you. At first, you panic because you can’t see what’s in front of you, then the coldness begins to set in. It’s almost bone-chilling. A chill that seeps into your soul, so deep that you feel like you’ll never feel warmth again.
Frantically, you take a step forward, then another. You can hear things off in the distance, but they’re too far away to discern. The fog suddenly feels thicker, almost suffocating. Yet, you keep walking. Alone.
You stumble. You fall.
I feel like I need to write the hardest, but easiest post first.
December 5th, 2015 will forever be known to me as a great day. It wasn’t just any great day, it was ONE great day in particular. My wife had been battling cancer for over two years now and her health was steadily declining to the point that she was having considerable pain every time she would walk.
I’ve been told to hang in there quite a bit since my wife’s passing. I’m even guilty of telling it to people. Have we ever taken a step back and thought about that phrase? I see it as hanging on for dear life and hoping you don’t fall into some dark abyss. I know people care about me and sometimes the only thing to say is, “hang in there”, which I greatly appreciate, but…
That’s not an option.
I plan on climbing until I no longer have to climb. Who knows, I may never reach the top, but I’m not going to hang in there and do nothing. Life is too short and precious to “hang in there”.
For anyone else out there battling something – reflect on the difficult parts, savor the milestones, learn from the good and bad, but most importantly keep climbing.