Well, I was going to share our journey, through terminal cancer, through chemo and travel and treatments and surgeries. I didn’t do any of it. And now Mr. Wonderful is gone. 13 months after diagnosis.

He took his last breath November 12, 2019 at 5:35 am in our home. I had been up all night, administering the medication that would ultimately let him take that last breath, that would give his body the relief it so desperately needed. I took the dogs out at 5:30 am, came back in, Mr. Wonderful was still there, I went to make coffee, my mom was at the house with me, she went to check on him while I made the coffee and she said “Kellie, he’s gone” and being the daft ass that I am I asked “how do you know?”. I think the not breathing was the first clue.

What a surreal moment. My 37 year old husband left this world not even 2 months after his 37th birthday. We knew it was coming. He hadn’t been well for months. None of the treatments were working. There were no trials that he qualified for. He’d been through the ringer and back again. Procedures, surgeries, hospital stays. He did it all. He did it all for our boys and for me. We didn’t want to let him go. He was ready to go. He had to go. I know that. I understand that. It doesn’t make it any easier.

The funny thing about grief is that it never looks how you think it will. I was certain I wouldn’t cry when he took his last breath because, 1. I knew it was coming and b. it would mean he was no longer suffering, which is all he wanted. Well, I cried like a baby. I guess that’s normal. Most people cry when someone they love dies. I just hadn’t cried about it in so long, I felt broken, I felt dead inside. It took my husband dying for me to come alive again. How utterly selfish of me.

The weeks since have been interesting. You get overwhelmed with calls, texts, cards, flowers, cookies, meals all in the same few days. And I’m not unappreciative in any way. I welcome them all with love. But what’s funny, is that after that initial week is over, everyone else goes back to normal. And they don’t forget about you, but the overwhelming outpouring of love is no longer there, keeping you from your thoughts and your grieving and your sadness. It’s easy to pretend like you’re ok when you’re surrounded by people, telling stories and sharing laughs. But then they leave. Rather quickly. And you’re supposed to move on, keep living, keep up routines, take care of the children, get them to school, make dinner. All the things that seem so much less important when your husband has just died.

And I’m not trying to complain, even though I’m totally complaining. You just never picture on your wedding day, ultimately ending up alone 10 years, 3 months, and 4 days later. Like, what the fuck life? Why? That’s not fair. My boys need their dad. I need my husband. And I know, much more tragic things happen in the world. I’m just taking my little bit of time to express all the shit that I’m feeling. And if you don’t like it, don’t read it.

One of Mr. Wonderful’s doctors told us there’s nothing we could have done differently, it’s just bad luck. We were unlucky. Oh, ok, well that explains it. Great. We feel so much better just knowing we’re unlucky.

The funny thing is, we were some of the luckiest ass holes out there. We have a great life. A roof over our heads, steady income, 2 of the most amazing, beautiful boys, food on the table, our old Brown Girl and a new puppy that pisses and shits everywhere. But we just got unlucky.

I thought writing was supposed to help, but as I sit here and bawl like a baby, I’m not sure. Although, maybe the tears need to flow out to remind me I am still living, I do have these boys to raise and while I may not feel it today or tomorrow, next week, next month or next year, everything will be ok. I always told Mr. Wonderful I will be just fine but I will also never be just fine again. And those words couldn’t be more true.