I thought December would be the hardest, certain it would break me … the first Christmas without John. We missed John terribly, but somehow woven into our moments of sorrow, were also moments of joy and light. Then came January with its bitter cold and darkness, making my grief feel heavier and more consuming, if that is even possible. I am not liking January … at all.

January has rendered me a lazy, emotional mess. Most of my evenings are spent on John’s corner of the couch, where he spent so much of his time these past two years. It was his spot to recover from chemo, watch movies and sports, snuggle with his dogs, and simply be present with our family. Here I find comfort, but little motivation. Motionless evenings have become my norm, my body feeling as though it couldn’t possibly muster up the energy to do anything productive. The tears have been quick to flow, so many tears, most often without any warning.

There are moments when I am able to blink the tears away as I feel their brief beginnings tickle my eyes, but more often than not, what starts as a trickle becomes a quiet battle between a steady stream and a tissue in my hand. It happened today during the simple task of vacuuming, and then again while riding in the car as Jon and I ran errands. Several times this past week I fought back tears at school—though never when I am with my students, teaching. That is likely because my brain is far too busy with all things teaching to make room for anything else. It’s the unsuspecting moments, when I am alone, that the tears decide to spring without warning.

I had a Zoom parent meeting with colleagues this past week. The meeting went well, with no reason at all to feel upset. I clicked the red End Call button, exited out, and looked down to see the small ornament of my smiling John holding Izzy. And then—bam—out of the blue, I was hit with a flood of emotion. I remember thinking, “Where did that come from?” The same thing happened on another day when I was eating my peanut butter sandwich at my desk. I remember thinking, “Come on … just let me eat this stupid sandwich!” It is in the stillness of my days where the tears like to make their presence known.

Last week I had an eye appointment and once again I was hit with a flood of unexpected emotions. Running late, I dashed up the steps to the second floor to my appointment. There I was met with the empty waiting area that John and I had sat in several times this past summer as we tried to find reason and relief for his blurry vision. I sat in the double seat as I always had done. I would pat the seat to beckon John to sit by me. Of course he never would, but he would always take the single seat on the other side – close to his mom, but not too close.

I popped up to grab a tissue, wondering if an eye exam could even be completed on a basket-case of a person with tears streaming down her face. Pacing and breathing exercises immediately commenced as I battled the wave of emotion, trying to dry my eyes and regain some composure. The movement seemed to help—until I was led into an exam room. The very exam room where John had spent several appointments having his big, beautiful brown eyes examined. I was told to sit in the same chair John had once occupied.

Somehow, I made it through the initial exam, but then came the wait—twenty long minutes—for the doctor to enter and complete her portion. It became a battle between my mind, my heart, and my emotions. Tears, tissues, and frantic fanning of my face—anything to make it stop. Silently, I pleaded with the doctor not to ask about John or offer her condolences. I knew that wouldn’t go well, and an eye exam would quickly become impossible. Thankfully, I pulled myself together, and the doctor was all business. I made it through.

Back down those stairs I went to check in for my next appointment, only to find a crowded waiting room—thirty minutes before my scheduled time. After taking a seat, I immediately knew my emotions were getting the best of me, and the battle to regain control was on. I couldn’t sit still. I stood up, paced, and once again, concentrated on my breathing (4-7-8: inhale through my nose for four counts, hold for seven, exhale for eight… repeat… repeat… repeat). I would attempt to sit, then get back up again—more pacing, more arguing with myself in my head. You should just leave. No, stay. Just get it over with. All of it unfolding with tears right on the edge as I was questioning to myself if this what a panic attack feels like. I’m sure my actions were quite the site to the others around me.

Finally, my name was called, and after being weighed (boo—sedentary January is not a friend to one’s weight), I made it to the exam room. The nurse was kind and engaged me in small talk. As she took my blood pressure, she commented on my necklace and asked if there was meaning behind it. The necklace was a gift from a dear friend, its charm holding three birds—a symbol of my three sons, and of the song Three Little Birds that was sung at John’s celebration of life. I managed to squeak out, “Yes, my sons,” and then the real battle to control my emotions began.

The next thing I heard was, “Do you usually have high blood pressure?” I had been holding my breath, trying not to bawl my eyes out (not recommended while having your blood pressure taken—neither the breath-holding nor the bawling). In a barely audible voice, I told her no, that I was just upset, which promptly opened the floodgates. The poor nurse never saw it coming. My blood pressure read 160/120, but I wasn’t worried—I knew that wasn’t an accurate reflection of my bp. The nurse stayed with me, and as I calmed down, so did my blood pressure.

Another anxiety-filled wait followed. I hadn’t seen my doctor in a long, long time, and I knew emotions would surface. When he opened the door and entered the room, I warned him that I was a hot mess—and that the mess had nothing to do with the reason for my appointment. His response was perfect. “Well,” he said, “let’s talk about all the reasons you’re not here.” And we did. I walked away from that appointment being told that my feelings were appropriate, valid, and understandable.

Plain and simple, we miss John terribly. There are days when I say out loud to Jon, “I can’t believe this is our life.” While I am trying to be grateful, I find myself hating January and the dark cloud it seems to place over my head.

Those prickly thorns of grief have a tight grip on my heart this January. I know I will be okay—we will be okay. John taught us, by his example, how to get through the hard stuff and still be okay. I find myself looking ahead to February. January can’t end soon enough.

Love, Hope and Blessings,
Shelly

Extra Thoughts

I am grateful for my understanding family and friends.

Children’s Minnesota offers a free bereavement service, which Jon and I have found helpful. We had a visit in our home in October, another this month, and another is planned in a few months. These meetings are filled with conversations about John and truly fill our hearts.

I read a book just for entertainment—the first time in such a long while. I even read the whole thing without cheating to peek at the ending early, which is a thing for me!

Jon continues to battle his grief with car projects. None of the three cars has escaped his handiwork, and if the kids stop by and mention any issue – from a headlight to a window that won’t rolldown – you better believe he’s on it!

John would have loved Hockey Day Minnesota – right here in Hastings. This tugged at my heart all weekend. He would also be all over the Olympics that are just around the corner.

A picture of John from September of 2023 – just because. This is how I want to see my boy in my dreams.