The Second Year

I was told that the second year after a major loss is harder than the first.

I remember thinking, "How is that even possible?"

The first year was a complete gutting. An upending, a devastation. How could anything possibly be harder than that?

And now that we are here, in the midst of our second year without Mike, I am taking a moment to assess this second year.

If I am being honest, I am exhausted. In-my-bones exhausted. In-my-soul exhausted.

I suppose it is the difference between having an acute condition (year one) and a chronic one (years 2+).

In my belly is an ever-present dull ache, and a hollow remains in my chest where I used to be able to breathe in, breathe out, and feel wholeness.

I realize that while this act of breathing in and out can help me find peace, it is far from making me feel whole in the same way it once did.

Our first year without Mike was fraught with an agony that could never be described adequately. It was like an endless silent scream: "Stop! What is going on?! How is this happening? Oh my God, what is happening to us?"

Even as we did our best to make sense of our days and find equilibrium in a world completely unfamiliar to us. Even as we put on brave faces. Even when we did our best to walk through that first year, we were filled with both a sense of disbelief and despair.

We struggled to create and maintain a routine to stabilize us. We sought activities that brought us moments of joy.

And we avoided a lot of things that could disrupt whatever balance we had achieved: Father's Day, we put out of our minds. We spent Christmas on a cruise ship, away from familiar traditions.

We navigated special dates with care, and some of our friends rallied around us, to our immense gratitude.

And then we crossed that one-year mark. Which, in and of itself, was painful.

And right after? Whew, I thought. That first year is over.

I thought I'd seen the worst.

The thing about the second year is, no matter how I was cautioned, I never believed it would get harder.

Except it did, and in surprising ways that are unbelievable, even to me.

And here is the heart of it: we let our guard down.

We stopped treading so carefully.

Yes, we got used to our routines. We even got inventive and improvised a bit. We stopped avoiding landmines we steered clear of just a year ago.

In some ways, we were prepared. We knew exactly what we were doing. But also? We have sometimes been unprepared for the rush of memories. For the sadness that comes with "if only he were with us."

...Which brings us down a rabbit hole of "all the things we've done and experienced without him."

And that list is long.

Mike will never see his daughters play in their respective bands. He missed the time she won an award. He did not see the proud look on her face when she got her hard-earned A+ on her test. He was not here to receive this diagnosis with us, or to hold our hands during a health scare.

As more days pass, the list only gets longer.

When I check in with our girls, they don't think this second year is particularly harder. Just more of the same, and for perpetuity. They have developed calluses, it seems, that still get chafed but don't really hurt as much.

But for me? A tremendous sense of loneliness. And of infinite loss.

I have become acutely aware of the loss of my partner on this second year. As we've crossed new thresholds (teenhood, transitions to new schools, aging parents), I feel very much alone.

I miss the meaningful glances we would pass each other across a room, knowing exactly what the other is thinking. The squeeze of a hand for support. The hand on my shoulder. The hug I could look forward to after dealing with an ordeal.

The look, the touch, that said, "I see you. I'm here."

Truly, I miss his voice, but more than anything, I miss his supportive presence in my life. I miss being seen without having to utter a single word.

Also? Major events or mundane ones, it doesn't matter. I have been constantly reminded: He is not here. And never will be. Ever.

This second year has sealed the permanence of his absence.

Where one can be suspended in disbelief in that first year, one finds oneself plummeted into reality this second year. And left to figure out how to handle this interminable void.

What's worse is that you are forced to accept it. Because all signs point there.

And everyone else has moved on.

There is an unspoken expectation that I should have, too. Even from my own children who seem to be thriving (praise God!) this second year.

Which is why I am feeling so exhausted, I think. Deep in my soul, I am still grappling with the idea of my future without him. Often.

Because he touched every aspect of my life, down to my very identity.

In moments when I resign myself to reality that yes, I am, indeed, alone, my sadness overwhelms me.

And although Faith tells me not to give up hope for better days ahead, this fact remains:

It is hard for me to reconcile how Mike is missing out, how he is simply gone, when I am still living and breathing and being.