Widow's Voice

Any Other Day

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Any other day, I would have opened my eyes at 6:00 A.M., sleepily rubbed my eyes, and shifted my way to the edge of the bed.  I would have woken Shelby up, as always, and gone about the mindless morning routine of feeding the dogs, making coffee, watching the news, and determining what clothes I would be wearing to work.


Today isn’t any other day.

Any other day, I would have walked past the oak box, containing Megan’s ashes, and given it a smirk.  Just thinking about what we had together still, and will always make my heart happy.  We built a hell of an empire together, and I can’t help but be proud of the fact that, though the odds seemed insurmountable, she and I were able to create a beautiful, healthy daughter that is so much in both of our images.  Shelby makes me happy.  Pure, simple happiness, regardless of circumstances.  

 

Today isn’t any other day.

 

Any other day, I would have sent Sarah a text saying “Good morning”, and went about my day, content that the two of us love each other, and love our lost ones just the same.  There would be the random pondering of Megan’s hand in bringing the two of us together, thankfulness in her hard work she put in to make me who I am, and the sheer awe at the amount of foresight and bravery she had in telling me that she desired me to love someone new upon her far-too-early demise.  There wouldn’t be the thoughts of that ultimately, she had to die for Sarah and I to meet.  

 

Today isn’t any other day.

 

Any other day, my drive to work would have been a quiet time in my mind.  It’s a short commute to the office, but it gives me just enough time to zone out and shift my thoughts into the daily tasks on the hamster wheel I always seem to be running on.  I would have surely noted that it’s Friday, meaning that it would generally be a quiet day as many of my coworkers took a long weekend or otherwise mentally fell into the impending Saturday, 24 hours early.  

 

Today isn’t any other day.

 

Any other day, I would have spent the hours mentally preparing myself for Crossfit, desiring the intensity and adrenaline rush it always provides to my body and mind.  It has been, without a doubt, the most healing activity for me.  It no longer serves mentally as therapeutic to grief, at least consciously.  Now, it is simply an addictive, enjoyable activity that I need to stay healthy, rather than stay happy.

 

Today isn’t any other day.

 

Any other day, thoughts of Megan lying in a hospital bed, motionless, cold, and quiet would have briefly came and went, as they always do.  There are far too many other stimuli surrounding me that cause my attention to wander like a pinball.  I allow myself to live my life without a foreboding cloud of mourning hovering above, just waiting to unleash a downpour.  Visions of holding her hand and feeling the warmth fade in it wouldn’t overwhelm my senses and place me back into the fog.

 

Today isn’t any other day.

 

Any other day, my eyes would blink, my heart would pump unnoticed, and the world would continue spinning on its axis.  Although it may feel as if my world had stopped turning upon her death, she had prepared us for it, and gently shoved it back into rotation in short order.  Life goes on, and she would be livid if I allowed myself to have a bad day because she’s gone.  There would be no unexpected welling of my eyes, or the physical feeling of the beating of my heart that accompanies it.  In effect, there would be no mourning; only missing.  

 

Today isn’t any other day.

 

Any other day would be normal.

 

Today isn’t any other day.

 

Today is her birthday.

I’ve written this in Kelley’s place today, as she is currently attending Camp Widow in San Diego, and was unable to post.  She will be returning next Friday, as scheduled.  Megan, appropriately, caused this issue so she could be sure that I wrote something in her honor on her birthday.  

About Mike Welker

Three months after my discharge from the Marine Corps, at 22 years old, I met my wife Megan, on December 10th, 2002. The very next day, I was drawn like a moth to a flame into dealing with a long term, terminal illness. Megan had Cystic Fibrosis, and after 8 years or declining health, she received a double lung transplant, and a new lease o life. Our daughter Shelby was born in 2007. In early 2014, those recycled lungs, which had brought our little family three years of uncomplicated health and happiness, finally began to give out. She died from chronic organ transplant rejection on November 19th, 2014 while I held her hand and let her go. I'm a single father and widower at 34 years old, and no one has published a manual for it. I don't fit the mold, because there is no mold. I "deal with it" through morbid humor, inappropriateness, anger, and the general vulgarity of the 22 year old me, as if I never grew up, but temper it with focus on raising a tenacious, smart, and strong woman in Shelby. I try to live as if Megan is still here with us, giving me that sarcastic stare because yet again, I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

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