Today there was another person who had actually already heard sort-of what had happened on the 19th of January but wanted to hear the details, directly from the source. So here I was, rehashing the attack that has destroyed our lives. My son was sitting next to me, so I cut the story short and left out the part where he tried to keep his father alive with resuscitation.
I can (almost) keep my posture by now, retelling it; but not quite. It still messes me up for the rest of the day, and probably will for the rest of my life.
By now I can retell details from Hubbs’ life without the urge to crawl into a hole and howl. Like how he constantly found ways to poke fun at things and at people. Or funny habits he had. He lived for making people laugh. Witty without an end. And I love to recall how he used to spoil us.
These are the stories that are too fresh to tell at a wake; even though telling them brings peace to the family and friends. So the wake carries on, and on… as time puts distance between us and the dread event, the memory stories have a bigger impact. “Remember the time that…” “Remember those dream drives…” – “Remember the poster runs”… he had an absolute talent for turning a chore (putting up posters for advertising) into a fun family outing.
Here’s a bit of life coaching.
Write down the good times in a kind of events diary; when you feel low, read them again and relive them. It works.
Luckily, when I page through our photos, it is one packed mountain of happy times.