My husband died on April 2, 2013. I was 39 when it happened. THIRTY FUCKING NINE! I always knew my husband, whose name was Peter by the way, would never make it to old age. I always knew he would die before me. However I thought he would be 52 maybe 53 and our children would be a least pretending to be adults in college or at the beginning of their first careers. That was not the case. My children are still children and I am pissed. I am pissed at my husband for so many reasons. One of which is Peter and I had a deal, since he was a high school teacher and I (at one point in my life) was a baby nanny, we decided that I would take care of the children from birth to thirteen and he would take care of them from thirteen to adult hood. Now we both knew that was really more of a commentary about our mental skill level and less about the everyday boots on the ground caregiving. However a deal is a deal.
One day after my oldest turned thirteen Peter had a stroke. ONE DAY! So now I am left to raise these kids, two kids, on my own. The word fear doesn’t even begin to cover my emotional state. I constantly vacillate between drill sergeant and hippy, never really feeling comfortable in either position. Everyone keeps telling me I’m brave. I don’t really know what the definition of brave is but I feel everything but. Scared, lonely, terrified those are words I definitely know the definitions of as I live them second by second raising these kids. THESE kids when did I start saying these kids? I used to say my kids and Peter would remind me that they are OUR kids. What I’m beginning to realize is that even though he is dead, he is not gone. He was right, these kids are our kids and I’ve got my boots on the ground.