today. That number doesn’t even mean anything to me anymore. All I know is that John is just not
here. And I miss him terribly. What I
wouldn’t give to have him walk through the door and to have all this be just a
I asked John for a sign that he is still with me and the number 4:13 started showing up.
I woke up suddenly the other night and looked at the clock on my nightstand and it read 4:13.
Then today I was in the kitchen feeding the animals and when I finished I looked around the kitchen to make sure all was well before I left the room and everywhere I looked was the number 4:13.
On the microwave.
On the stove.
On the coffeemaker.
4:13 can be translated to mean April 13.
And April 13 is John's birthday.
I love you, too.
I am making a file of what I call "John stories", stories about John that I remember from our life together that make me smile, remind me of what a good man he was; stories that touch my heart and help me remember how special he was.
Today has been a weird day. I am not feeling well physically and also feeling anxious. I don't know why and it probably doesn't matter. But I napped this afternoon and in that brief time between sleep and wakefulness I thought for a second John was here. In that millisecond, I felt happy again. I felt "normal" again. It stood as stark contrast to how I feel all the time - empty, always not whole.
The stories I write down help but they also remind me how much I miss my John. How good our life was and how, no matter how I try to tell myself, as he would, that things are happening the way they are supposed to, how I really don't like how things are right now. I wish with all my heart that John were here and nothing is ever going to change that.
I am so ready to be with him. Now.
That's a trick question.
Grief never ends.
It evolves and transforms you as it does, but it is never over.
Maybe if you are grieving a spouse and you remarry, maybe that is the ultimate transformation of grief. Although I am sure even then you don't stop grieving the spouse you lost. Maybe it becomes more compartmentalized.
But I don't know. I can't speak from experience regarding that because I have not remarried.
And I don't ever intend to.
John and I are soul mates, twin flames, one half of an awesome whole. Any married relationship I could have at this point in my life would be a poor aftermath. It could not ever live up to what John and I had and still have, although it's now changed.
Marriage to John was my home, my refuge, my strength, my comfort, my love. It is only now that John is no longer physically here that I am just beginning to realize how overwhelmingly much we meant to each other and how much we permeated each other's lives. We were JohnandJoy, never apart - not spiritually, not emotionally, and hardly ever physically. We worked together, we played together, we loved together. We were constantly in each other's thoughts - and sometimes even knew each other's thoughts.
We knew our life was good and we appreciated it.
We knew what we had was special.
But as with everything else that is there before you every day, you just assume it will always be there.
Losing John to death leaves me absolutely bereft.
The sadness and loneliness is overwhelming at times, even after two years.
And this sadness of grief is not something that really goes away. Yes, it changes. I don't cry every day. I hardly ever scream any more or pound the furniture in the frustration of grief.
But I ache in my heart. Constantly. Every day.
I yearn for what was.
I see couples going about their day and I feel cheated.
Nothing brings true lasting joy any more.
Every day I am reminded that John's not here.
John's not here.
John's. Not. Here.
How long does grief last?