Another Hello from John

I visited a dear friend in North Carolina this past week. The visit was great but as all visits do, it came to an end.
So Tuesday morning, my friend pulled out of her driveway to take me to the airport for my trip home.

I was nervous about flying. I always am. And I was sad to be going home.

As we pulled away from her house, I glanced over to the house next door. On the side of the house were the numbers 1978. Obviously the address. But it also just happens to be the year John and I first became a couple.

I smiled. John was definitely letting me know he was there with me.

Then, it seemed that there was some confusion regarding my gate number at the airport. The baggage people told me one gate and the departure monitor said another. 

So I went in search of a help desk but couldn't find one. But there was a man nearby dressed in what appeared to be an airport uniform talking to a woman dressed the same way. He sensed my confusion and asked me if I needed help. He was very friendly and had a great smile. I explained my dilemma and he nodded understanding. He immediately pulled out his cell phone and called Customer Service. We got our answer and he smiled at me once again and kind of turned and pointed me in the right direction. "There you go," he said.

His smile was so kind, so infectious and I felt such kindness from him.

But while he was making the call, I knew everything was going to be OK. His badge said "John C." 

What were the odds?

Thank you, John.

I feel empty

Last week for reasons too complicated and unneccesary to go into now, I had to take John's name off the electric bill and put the bill in my name. A simple thing. Maybe something no one would think twice about. But it set me off on a two day meltdown.
And I think I am still feeling the effects of it.
Then today I was in Starbuck's and for a fraction of a second someone outside the window looked a teeny tiny bit like John and I could feel my heart jump. For that one split second, my heart thought it was him.
And then it came crashing down to the floor when my mind kicked in.
This hurts and stinks and sucks and every other unhappy word I can think of.

28 Months

28 months 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 horrible dream.

I love you, Sweetheart.

Hello's from John

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.
4:13.
4:13.
4:13 can be translated to mean April 13.
And April 13 is John's birthday.
Hello, John.
Thank you.
I love you, too.

To John

John stories

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.

John working on our house in Lehman PA 1985

How long does grief last?

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?
Forever.