Wednesday, May 3, 2017

#SOL17: Grey

Me turning to look at Rob while we were on holiday in Montana.

Imagine a grey screen descending--separating you from everything that defines your life.  Can you see it?  Feel it? Life is a perpetual stormy day. When you look from where you are standing what surrounds you, (in)forms you is just a bit duller; less bright. It's as if you were wearing dark sunglasses in the fog.

That is what life feels like 14 months after Rob's death. We are socked in, fuzzy, less clear or lively as we were before--before the diagnosis and staph infections and surgeries and treatments and mishaps and death.


For a moment tonight I imagined what our home would feel like if Rob were alive--if he had not died--if he had somehow beat the cancer and staph infections. Spring would be glorious and we would be taking note of the changes. We would all be so excited with Devon nearing high school graduation and then off to the very college he wanted to attend.  Rob would have applauded Devon's acceptance into Stevens Institute of Technology to study computer engineering. My husband was a science geek at heart. He would have been so proud of his son and so delighted about the course of study Devon would be undertaking. Knowing Rob, he would have wanted to attend as well.

But, we had other plans for that time.


Rob and I were determined to start a new chapter in our marriage when Devon went off to college. Yes, we would feel that empty nest feeling and given our love for our son and how much we enjoy being with him, we would have felt great sadness. But, we also knew that we wanted some time together. Just us. We were together for a decade before adopting Devon.  We wanted some time alone.

During the early stages of Rob's illness (the first few weeks) he told me he wanted to renew our wedding vows--this time with people we loved present. He had even picked out rings. We had talked about taking small trips here and there; seeing America from the side roads, and even after paralysis set in, Rob asked me to research vans that could be driven using hands, not feet. Less than 6 weeks later he would die.

Our initial plan as we continued to work together in our company, was to spend a week out of every month traveling. We knew we could organize work so that we had a week to play most every month. Now that cannot happen, will not happen. And nothing I say here or do can change that ending.


Everything these days is less shiny.  Some moments, I miss my husband more than all the words I know can express. When do you think I will feel like I am fully living? When do you think the grey will grow thin and transparent?


  1. Mary Ann, I feel your pain. I do. Nothing I say can take away the constant ache. Lately, for whatever reason the pain has deepened. Another month has begun, another change in season without Jerry. I try to find little moments of happiness, contentment and gratitude, yet the ache is always there. My heart literally hurts. Hurts for you and for me and all those dealing with loss. It hurts for our children, too. Big hugs to you from New England.

    1. Thank you. The idea of spring and renewal without Tob is tough. Appreciate your words and hugs:)


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