To Watch you Shine, to Watch you Grow

I am at an utter loss and can no longer control the pain that I feel.  Images have been blinking through my mind, pictures no one should ever have to imagine.  I see Ryan lying in a casket.  I see his code being called, the team lifting his lifeless body onto a gurney as someone yells “clear”.  Like so many other aspects of my life, these images control themselves and I can do nothing to alter or seize them.  I don’t know the cause, but can assume, now that some time has passed, that my brain is beginning the sickening task of processing this heartbreak.  It’s time for my subconscious to grab hold of all that’s happened and begin to organize the facts, images and feelings that are along for the ride.  Unfortunately, the process has proven to be gut wrenching and wholly exhausting.  In the end, I can only hope for closure, but for now, as I work through the final tasks associated with this tragedy, I can declare that things seem far worse than they’ve ever been.

I wrote the check for his funeral last week.  I sat in the kitchen writing out a check for my husband’s funeral.  I signed it and nestled it inside the envelope, right next to the itemized bill the funeral home sent.  Done, finished, over.  The pain of this task was unbearable and sent me into hysterics.  As with so much else, it was an offensive reminder that this really is happening to me.  One would think after four long months, I would be able to come to terms with the staggering fact that this indeed is happing to me.  Yet there are still times when the realization that Ryan is never coming back hits me like a head on collision.   I look at pictures, snap shots of him looking so alive, smiling back at me, warm and real.  I wish I could say these pictures give me comfort, but currently, it’s the opposite of that.  I look at them and immediately feel warm tears rolling down my cheeks.  He was just here!  Before I know it, I’m on the floor, clutching my stomach as if my insides are about to fall out.  How can something hurt this bad?  How can someone be here one minute, so big and full of life, as much a part of my life as I myself am and then just be gone?  I kissed him goodbye, called him from the mall to tell him I bought him jeans and that I missed him, loved him.  I woke up in the morning elated to see him, ready to drag him to the baby stores regardless of how tired he was, not that he would have ever complained.  But he didn’t come home, he was gone.  He is gone.

Ryan will never hold his child; he never even felt her move.  He’ll never see his wife swell with life, something he had looked so forward to.  He won’t play volleyball this summer or pout about being the worst on the team.  Ryan won’t take another trip to Negril even though I promised him we’d go every year.  He won’t design another Moose Nuts logo or hold another tournament.  He won’t take that trip to Ireland or experience Amsterdam.  Ryan won’t be the proud daddy with his baby girl slung to his chest; he won’t be the dotting husband who spoils his wife.  Ryan will never take in another stray or wear another offensive t-shirt.  Never again will he take too long to finish a project, knock a hole in my wall or short out an oven.  He’ll never fall asleep scratching a lottery ticket or find himself immobilized by sunburned feet.  Ryan won’t be here for Starbucks walks, he won’t be here for warm breakfasts at One Way or late dinners at Cafe Hollander.  Ryan won’t be here to hold my hand during delivery or to hold his baby girl tight.  He’ll never get to tell her all the wonderful things he feels about her, never make her feel the way he made me feel:  special, admired, worshiped.

“I'm gonna watch you shine
Gonna watch you grow
Gonna paint a sign
So you'll always know
As long as one and one is two
There could never be a father
Who loved his daughter more than I love you…”