One week has passed since my husband died. He was 32. It doesn’t feel like it has been 7 whole days since he walked out my front door. I was so bleary eyed and groggy that morning that I don’t remember what we said to each other. Did I give him a hug or kiss before he left? He was only supposed to be gone an hour or two. 32 year olds aren’t supposed to have heart attacks.

This past week has been a blur of hugs and “if you need anythings…” The community outpouring of love an support has been overwhelming and humbling. I have done my best to be available to people as best I can. I know that speaking to me helps them in their own grief.

As for my grief, after being wrecked with waves of despair the first few days, I have now settled into a functioning state of quiet sadness. At the moment my grief is manifesting more like a sickness. Anything I eat sits in my stomach like stones, if I eat to much I am nauseated, if I don’t eat enough I feel faint. My limbs feel heavy. Last night was the first night I was able to sleep more than 3-4 hours.

I know eventually the despair is going to hit me again so I am trying to get as much done while I am still relatively numb. There are 12 items on my to-do list. 5 of them I finished today. I have a feeling that when I no longer have tasks to occupy my mind, the reality of my situation will finally set in: I am a widow at 27.

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