My Person

“Don’t cry because it’s over.  Smile because it happened.”  -Dr. Seuss

It’s nearly impossible to escape the fireworks on Independence Day weekend.  You can try to hide, but unless you rid yourself of all your senses, you’re likely to see their glow, hear their bang or feel their vibration.  This weekend was hard and I missed Ryan a lot.  Similar to experiencing the fireworks, each of my senses contributed to my feeling of loss.  It wasn’t just my husband that I lost on October 10, I lost my person.  I lost the person I told my secrets to, the person I shared my frustrations with.  I lost the person who fed me, built me closets and painted my house.  I lost my friend, my drinking buddy, my entertainment.  Ryan was my person.  He kissed the back of my neck and held me tight at night.  He told me I was beautiful and meant it.  Ryan was the person I traveled with, went out to dinner with, played poker with and drank too much at concerts with.  Ryan was the person who sat next to me on an airplane.  He was the person who I came home to at night, who made me dinner, who watched TV with me…

Ryan was there when I pierced my belly button.

He was there when my car was stolen.

Ryan was there the first time I saw the ocean.

And every time after that.

Ryan was there the day Blotter arrived.

He was there for Brady, Benny and Bugs as well.

He was there when I graduated college.

He was there to take my picture the day I interviewed for my job.

And to answer the phone the day it was offered to me.

Ryan was there the day we got lost on the river.

There to build every single campfire.

Ryan was there to say, “I do” at our wedding.

He was there to buy and sell our first house.

There to buy our second.

Ryan was there when Paul Simon winked at me.

He was there when I started teaching at UWM.

Ryan was there to help make Marley.

And there when my body started to change.

He was there for my first doctor’s appointment.

Ryan was there for my first craving.

There to say, “I love you”.

To say, “I miss you”.

This person, my person, is gone and I can’t help but feel like he took a huge part of who I was with him.  Initially, I fought this notion, fought the prospect of rebuilding my life.  For many months all I could see was the past and I refused to believe that the person I was becoming was in anyway different than the person I once was.  I now see clearly what I couldn’t accept before – I am different and it’s okay.  It’s okay because this new person is a survivor.  She’s still able to smile at life and see the good around her.  She’s beginning to feel grounded in her surroundings and feels calm a great deal of the time.  This person is also tragically lonely, but lucky enough to be surrounded by many who love her deeply.  But I am different because I lost my person.  I am different, but it’s okay.