one month

 October 27, 8:05 pm.

It's been one month since Rico's last breath. One month since we've heard his voice.

One month.

Today I picked out his burial plot. Tonight we lit the candle we had at his service. I sat outside and watch the flames flicker at the exact time his was fading. Tiny asked if she could sit with me. We sat - me in his old hoodie, Nika in her avocado pajamas, and watched the two little wicks burn. She leaned into my shoulder and listened as I told her what I wished for when I met her dad.

"I wished for three things," I said. "I wished to show him where I grew up and see where he did. I wished for him to love Noah and Kaia. And I wished for you."

Her soft little hands wiped the tears from my face as she held on to me and said, "I'm so glad you got your wishes."

Me too.

One month feels, well - not much different than one week. 

All of us are feeling it today. I'll tell you how we feel - but since this isn't just my story to tell - since I want to make sure I document it, but also make sure that my kids have their own stories to tell - I'll write it as if it's all happening to me. It's not - but that's hardly the point.

One month feels like:

Crying on the way to class, but being able to pull it together before you walk in.

Still not caring if we eat. But sometimes feeling hungry - which is an improvement.

A fashion nightmare. All I wear are his old t-shirts and hoodies. Why did they make him look adorable and me look like a three-decades-too-old college student fueled by espresso and anxiety meds?

Being grateful for the love everyone has heaped onto us - but also hiding behind the couch when the doorbell rings.

Knowing that the only people who really know how you feel are the other three people in this family. 

Crying in bed at night. Crying in the grocery store. Crying at the post office.

Saying "I didn't realize that scooter ride would be our last one."

Being frustrated with people who want to distract us from our pain - or "take our minds off of it".  It's all my mind wants. It's all my heart wants - is just to sit with him, to sit on the rim of this god-forsaken hole in my life and dangle my feet over the edge. I don't want to forget him or be pulled away from his memory - I want to swim in it until I am exhausted.

Feeling the fire - the passion to keep his memory alive.

Feeling anger that there is not only no cure for GBM - but no treatments. The oncologist basically says - let's scoop a chunk of your brain out with this spoon and see if that gives you a few more months. That's it. They can try chemo and radiation - but it doesn't work guys. It never works. GBM is fatal. Full stop.

Knowing that single parenting is different from widowed parenting.

Watching your kid say - "I want to do something, I want to help" - and knowing how proud he would be.

Paying for the tombstone and begging the company not to put your name on it yet because it stresses your kids out.

Taking little outings just to remember what we love about life - apple cider donuts, the smell of fall leaves, watching puppies run at full speed.

Trying to figure out which part of these new days, these new traditions are worth holding onto, and which are just survival skills. (Do we really LIKE loaded baked potatoes that much or is it just easier than making tacos? How long until kids need to sleep in their own bed again? What's the difference between a self care nap and depression narcolepsy?)

A month.