One Sunday morning in 2019, I stood staring into the cupboard.  My eyes saw all the familiar coffee mugs lined up.  Though they are inanimate objects, the mugs seem to be shamelessly shouting “pick me” from their distinguished spots on the shelf.   *Sigh. 

 

Which one should I select. 

Which mug do I want to use? 

This decision should not be this hard. 

Except that it was.

 

A few years ago, this simple task is hard for me because every little thing becomes more challenging when you live with loss.   Even picking a coffee cup could be momentarily overwhelming for me.  And, this felt completely out of character for me because I used to be very decisive. I could multitask with ease.  I coordinated a career and a household.  But, after he died, I found myself, years later, standing there unsure about what coffee mug to pick from an assortment of mugs displayed on the shelves.  

After staring at my choices, I reach for my well worn mug; and, then, at the last second, my hand instinctively grabs his mug.  And, I know exactly why I did this. I did this in an effort to feel closer to him.  I know that Mike’s lips touched the rim of this particular mug; and, if I use his mug, then maybe our lips can meet somewhere in the space that exist between where he is and where I am.

 

Wow.  That is a lot of heavy shit silently swirling around in my head as I select a mug to pour my coffee into.  And, this isn’t even particularly unusual.  It is fairly standard stuff.  Like most grieving people, thoughts like this float through my mind all throughout  the day.  It has been this way for three years now.  Admittedly, this is an exhausting way to exist; but, I am unsure how to live any other way. (Update: Five+ years later, I can just make coffee without all this drama swirling around in my head.  I don’t continually perseverate about Mike anymore.  I think of him daily, but I no longer long for him as I drink my coffee. I accept his absence now.  My grief has  evolved and changed with time.) 

Prior to this, for years, Mike’s absence is everywhere in my life.  Even while performing a most mundane task like picking a coffee mug from the shelf, I felt unsettled.  I feel his absence.  It was tangible in the room.  And, I just could not get used to it.   I could not believe that he was physically nonexistent.  Now, I believe it.  I accept it and I am “okay” with it.

I used to miss Mike most while I humbly went about my ordinary life.  I lived forward the best I could and I tried my best to endure our separation.  Today, enough time has passed so that I understand my reality.  I know I will be without Mike for the rest of my life.  But, in the recent past I would still quietly rebel against his absence.  I feel that it is both cruel and unusual that he is missing from the familiar landscape of my life.  (Update: After 5+ years without him, I do not feel his absence as an ache like I did before.  I miss him.  This will never change.  However, now, I wholeheartedly accept  that he died.  And, I choose to reengage in life without him.  Lately, this is easier in large part because there is someone new in my life who brings me a lot of joy.  

For years, the rhythm of my life remained slightly off.  I struggled to find my stride.  My heart would beat, but it did so out of time.  Everything in my world was slightly off kilter because Mike died.  He was missing from my life and this deeply affected my psyche.  But, now, for many reasons, I can live without him without feeling off kilter.  Somehow, I have found my balance again. Finally, after years of drifting aimlessly, I feel grounded here in the world without him.  I didn’t know if I ever would feel whole again, but I do.  I really am “okay” again – even without him physically here.  

Once upon a time, I was proficient in my life, and then he died and the bottom fell out from under me.  However, today, after years of rebuilding myself, once again, I am living my life fully.  Today, as I type this I feel closely connected to the world around me.  Life no longer falls flat for me. Mike’s death altered me in ways I thought were irreversible.  They weren’t.  The life force in me is stronger than grief.

Before, as I attempted to survive his death, I occupied space both here and someplace else – someplace far from where I physically stood.  My body remained here, but my mind travelled to this place where time and space do not exist.  Throughout the day, I would slip between this ethereal place and my physical reality.  My consciousness casually moved between our physical dimension and this other realm.  This practice of mental acrobatics is how I survived living without Mike. 

The woman I became found it difficult to pick out a mug from which to drink my coffee because of my inability to remain grounded in a world where he was not.  The old me would not have understood this.  The widowed me understands.  And, the me I am today wishes that I could tell the girl who wrote this in 2019 that one day she will just drink my coffee and she will not have to perform the “mental acrobatics” she wrote about.  I want her to know there is a reprieve from this sadness and emptiness.  I want her to know that there are better days are ahead. 

I wish the girl who wrote this in 2019 could know that on an ordinary Sunday morning in January of 2022, a good, kind man will bring her coffee in the Good Morning Beautiful coffee mug he picked out of the cupboard just for her.  I wish she knew that life would unfold beautifully for her once again… 

 

Well, now she knows this and let me tell you, she is filled with gratitude for what she has be given again.

 

~Staci