You know how most relationships have that one person that is
the rock. They handle shit. They figure it out. They make it happen. No matter
what.
I was married to that person. My husband was my hero. He was the foundation of our family. And he still is, but it is different now (reference the “before” and “after”).
When our son died, I saw a side of my husband I did not even
know existed (and we had been married for 17 years at the time). I saw him
broken. I saw him crippled by grief. My rock had crumbled.
I have to stop here and say, there is nothing wrong with how
my husband handled our son’s death. He is the one that found him, with a hole
in his head, in our bathroom. His reaction was natural and entirely acceptable.
However, we had 2 other children. There were police to talk
to. I had to inform friends and family. There was a memorial to plan. I had to
decide what to do with my son’s body. Read that again. I hope you never have to
do these things.
In that moment, the roles flipped. I became the rock. I pushed
my feelings aside and answered the questions, made the calls, made the horrific
decisions a parent should never have to make. My way of grieving was to go into
action and take care of shit. It was my time to step up and handle it.
I tell you this, not because I want any praise. In fact, I
HATE being called brave. Bravery is doing something despite your absolute fear
of it. What I did was necessary, not brave. I am not brave, and he is not weak.
We are a team. And when a teammate is down, you pick them up and do what is
necessary to keep going. That is all I did, what was necessary to keep going.
Since our son’s death, my husband has continued to be my
hero. He has fought hard and long to come back to his family. Every single day
he fights to be with us, physically and mentally. He is a warrior and I am his
shieldmaiden-protecting him as best I can while he fights his battles. It is
evidence of his absolute love and dedication to his family, because giving up
would be so.much.easier.
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