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 and 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 too 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.