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2
Now
You’d think I’d be used to this by now—the debilitating pain that takes me hostage when I least expect it.
But I’m not.
Some days it feels like a dull ache.Other days—like today—it hits me like a steel beam being shoved into my chest.
Robbie’s gone.
My sweet, affable, loving husband.The man I thought I would spend the rest of my life with, only for him to be ripped away from me at only twenty-five.Doctors call it the widow-maker.An appropriate name since that’s exactly what it made me.He’d had some chest pain off and on throughout the day, but he thought it was indigestion.When he said he felt lightheaded, I suggested we go home so he could go lie down.He’d been under a great deal of stress with the band recording the new album and Kasen’s increasing drug use.When Kasen Stone, the bassist for the band, ended up in the hospital after another near fatal overdose, we both thought his symptoms were due to the stress.
But they weren’t.
It’s been almost a year since he died.Ten months, twelve days, and seven hours to be exact.I’m sure it’s not healthy I know the exact amount of time, but there are a lot of unhealthy things I’ve picked up since Robbie died—like eating a pint of So Delicious ice cream multiple times a week, using marijuana edibles to get through the really rough days, or probably the most unhealthy, still holding on to everything he owned and keeping it all in its rightful place.
For the first few months, I replayed that day over and over in my head, wondering why I didn’t immediately suggest he get checked out since we were already at the hospital.Instead, I encouraged him to go home so he could rest.Maybe sleep it off.
Except he never woke up.
His family had a history of heart disease and a genetic condition which causes blood to clot more rapidly, but that didn’t come out until after Robbie’s death.No one in his family ever talked about anything serious.His mom in particular had refused to go to the doctor after Robbie’s dad died because she never wanted to get bad news.I could never understand her thinking back then, but rarely thought much about it until Robbie died.Then I couldn’t stop thinking about how his death could’ve been prevented if his family had actually talked about serious issues, particularly their health history.I could barely talk to her from all the anger stemming from his family’s denial and insistence on not talking openly about health issues.That one choice took away the only man I’ve ever loved.
But thinking about woulda, shoulda, couldas won’t bring him back.I should know.I’ve pleaded with every god out there to wake me up from this nightmare, but not a single one has come through for me.
In the ten years I was with Robbie, I never imagined living life without him.I’d had a crush on someone else when I met Robbie—his best friend, Tristan, to be exact, which is something I’ll take to my grave—but Robbie pursued me with gusto and Tristan didn’t.Instead of holding on to a clearly unrequited crush, I said yes when Robbie asked me out.I’d seen how much my parents loved each other.How my dad showed my mom every day that she was important to him.I wanted that kind of love.The devoted kind.The kind where you love the other endlessly, no matter their flaws.
Robbie’s pursuit made me feel like he’d fight for me, for us, if things got hard.And he did.Although things were pretty easy for the most part.Robbie was an easygoing kind of guy, so there was never any drama with him.Just a lot of love and laughter.Always laughter—no one could make me laugh harder than Robbie.We started dating at fifteen, got married at twenty, and then he died from a heart attack right after he turned twenty-five.
I thought we had more time.
I never in a million years imagined he’d be stolen from me so young.I never imagined being a widow at twenty-five.But here I am.Trying to figure out this painful new reality without him.
Some days the pain is tolerable, but other days it’s so sharp I can hardly get out of bed.Today happens to be one of those days.If Robbie saw me now, he’d rip me a new one.I know he’d want me to move on and fall in love again.He wouldn’t want me to be alone.But it’s easy to say that when you’re both still alive and snuggling on the couch together discussing morbid scenarios which you don’t foresee ever happening.It’s a completely different concept when you’re the one who’s been left behind.
My phone beeps on my nightstand, reminding me there’s still a world that keeps moving outside these four walls.My arm feels like it’s weighed down with lead as I lift it and glance at the screen.It’s a text from Tristan.If it were anyone else, I’d probably turn off my phone, pull the covers over my head, and wait for the day to end.But Tristan is the one person who understands my pain.Robbie was his best friend.They’d been inseparable since they were little boys.Hell, they were practically brothers.
In the past ten months, Tristan has been my rock.I honestly don’t know what I would’ve done without him—probably become a shell of myself.But every time I felt myself sinking into the darkness of despair, Tristan was always there, like a beacon of light and hope ready to lift me up and carry me out of the darkness.
Some days I wish he’d returned my feelings when we were teens.That he could’ve loved me instead of Robbie and kept me from feeling any of this pain.But then just as quickly I shove the thought aside because I would never trade the time I had with Robbie for anything.Even knowing now that our time together would be so short.
My heart may be unbearably broken, but at least I know I was loved wholly and I loved that much in return.
Another beep from my phone draws my attention back to the screen.Tristan again.He’s going to call me if I don’t respond soon.He always does.
I open my messaging app.
Tristan:Hey, are you up yet?
Tristan:We’re going for a hike.This is your only warning to get your ass out of bed.I’ll be there in 20.
Groaning, I throw the covers over my face and then brush away the silent tears that have escaped from my eyes.I never used to cry so much, not unless they were tears of laughter.But now I cry at the drop of a dime.
Tristan’s always doing this—coming up with ways to force me out of the house.Usually they’re activities that require us to be outside moving around.I think he read the same article I did which encouraged lots of exercise and vitamin D to give you endorphins and help move you through the stages of grief.If only it were that easy.
I let a few more tears slide out, then wipe the rest away, take a deep breath, and somehow find the strength to throw the covers off and sit up.I sit there for a few minutes, staring at my feet.The pink on my big toe from when Becka, Tamsin, and I got pedicures a few weeks ago is already chipped from when I stubbed it the other night.Like Tristan, they’ve both been active in getting me out of the house, whether it was girls’ nights where we went out dancing or stayed in watching old romcoms, or mani-pedis and massages.They’ve kept me from becoming a complete hermit, even if there are still more days than not where that’s all I want to be.
I tried going to a grief support group a couple of times, but I always left feeling more angry or depressed.I remember a woman in her thirties asking how long before others felt they were ready to move on.The answers varied, but they all had the same caveat—finding new love doesn’t mean you lose the love you had for the one you lost.And somehow that made me the most depressed of all because it meant no matter what, I was always going to feel like I was missing someone.Even if the feeling was small and barely noticeable, it would always be there, always lurking and ready to remind me at a moment’s notice that my life took a sharp turn from the path I’d been on.
Their words should’ve given me hope that I wouldn’t feel so painfully alone forever—that it is, in fact, possible to find love again.
More than anything, I wish they had.Becausethis—this feeling like the hurt will never end, like I’ll never be whole ever again—is slowly killing me.
