For most of my life, June 8th was just a day.

For most of my life, so were June 5th, June 6th & June 7th.

That took a hairpin turn in 2022. 4 days of what I now see as a bridge-crossing, except while we crossed that bridge, it was burning down behind us. It was a one way trip for four, and only three of us survived.

June 8th is diagnosis day for our family, but the real starting blocks rest in June 5th. The day he was first admitted to the hospital with a blood clot, which sounds fixable to someone who never attended medical school.

Geoff stayed 2 nights, and in that time we went from blood clot to liver tumors to shadowing on the pancreas...to a terminal diagnosis on June 8th. And four years later, when I retrace our steps, none of it feels real. I still shake my head and wonder,

“Did that really happen to us?”

I’m pretty certain in those early days I never thought I’d make it to 4 years post diagnosis, but here I am. And I’m confused as hell about these feelings because they’ve morphed in big, noticeable ways. But they’ve also been steadfast pillars deeply rooted in my identity as a wife. A mom. A woman who feels like she’s still missing an appendage.

Grief gets lots of press on milestone dates.

• death & diagnosis dates
• birthdays
• anniversaries
• holidays

It’s not hard to connect the dots on why.

We can easily recall how those days were celebrated in the past, when they were vibrantly alive. When that bubble of invincibility existed, blanketing us in an ignorance I’d give my right arm to reclaim.

For most of us, those days were spent making the memories we cling to in widowhood. Days that magnify their absence & sprinkle in gobs of guilt for not being more appreciative. More in-the-moment. More grateful for them simply being alive to celebrate another day that mattered.

I’ve endured 4 of these anniversaries, and this one feels different in a way that’s slipping my grasp. I’m not entirely sure I’ll be able to explain this in a way that makes sense, but I’m gonna try.

I am learning this time around the days surrounding Geoff’s diagnosis are harder on me than the days leading to his death. That surprises me, but it does pencil out.

June 5-8, 2022 were the days when everything shifted for us.

We went from our biggest worries being about school tuition & teenage responsibilities to meeting with doctors about port surgery, chemotherapy & praying our medical insurance would cover the bills.

After these days, worrying about laundry, dishes in the sink & a retirement nest egg seems woefully insignificant because your view is firmly fixed on survival.

Not one other thing matters.

This diagnosis day doesn’t have me emotionally wrecked like in years past. Years where it was the only thing I thought about for a week. Years where his absence felt so enormous it blocked all the sun from life. And those emotions made sense to me. That’s exactly how I expected to feel as I lived another stretch of time where our lives flipped inside out.

But this year has been softer.

I’ve heard other widow friends describe this softening. An integration of grief into the threads of a life courageously rebuilt one stitch at a time. I’ve listened to them describe a profound acceptance of their absence. One that allows us to take a deep breath and really feel it.

It’s clear to me I’ve arrived at this part of my grief timeline, and here’s how I know.

I’m wrecked Geoff isn’t here. I loathe that he can’t see Gwen & Owen baby-step into adulthood. I’ll struggle with imagining my husband as an old man rather than seeing it myself. But I’ve made peace with his early departure. I don’t fight the “Why us?” anymore.

In a nutshell;

I know with everything I have that it was supposed to go exactly like this.

We didn’t make a wrong decision. We didn’t miss an exit ramp. We didn’t overlook a red flag that may have changed the outcome.

God wrote these details long ago. God knew I’d be widowed at 47. He knew Gwen & Owen would say goodbye to their dad at 14 & 17. God also knew it wouldn’t be the end, even though it felt exactly like that for a very long stretch.

My emotions these past few days have cycled through the happiness Geoff Hayball sprinkled on my heart. They’ve retraced the nearly 20 years of a life never possible have without him. Mostly, I’ve felt ridiculously lucky that man chose me to marry.

But my body...she’s still pissed.

And this is the first year my emotions don’t match my physical symptoms.

• Hugely exhausted.Unmotivated.
• Piercing headache
• Wildly irritated.
• Uncharacteristically quiet.
• Achy muscles.

In other words, my body is still reacting like it just got Geoff’s cancer diagnosis.

I’m desperate to make meaning from most things as a widow. I’ve been analyzing the juxtaposition between my heart & my body the past few days.

• Is it progress?
• Am I struggling?
• Where am I “supposed to be” four years into this?
• Who am I without the visceral pain of grieving Geoff?

And the simple, unbiased answer to all of this goes something like what we’ve all heard;

There’s no “right way” No timeline. No universal path. And never will a finish line be reached. We have all been told a version of this many times, but for me, I think I’ll wrestle with it forever.

The same man is still dead, but how I feel about his absence continues to shift. How I build a life changes. But mostly, I’m scared as hell that who he was to me will shrink.

I don’t ever want that man’s love & protection to get smaller in my rearview mirror.

And four years later, it’s a fear that grows while the other worries dissolve. After typing that last sentence, my first reaction is to delete it. Quickly.

Because it’s a naked & exposed fear I’d prefer be neatly tucked away. The longer Geoff is gone the more I worry about keeping him “alive” in my life.

And by alive I mean;

• Having him come up in conversation.
• Telling his stories.
• Having people reach out on his important days.
• Getting signs from him in daily life.

I want to remember- and FEEL- Geoff like this forever. Even being married & in love with a new Jeff. On this June 8th, I hope he stays vivid & present for years & years to come.

Grief is a slippery beast. She passes through my fingers like sand some days & sits on my chest like an elephant on others. But today...4 years after we crossed that one way bridge, my heart is so thankful this man existed.

But my body is still pretty annoyed he’s gone.

Keep going.