Today was one of the roughest days, so far. 

Saint Patrick’s day for us meant family, and socializing, and spending time with each other. 

It meant being goofy, and having fun. 

It was a time, without the pressures of gift giving or receiving (what do I buy so-n-so? You all know what I mean), where we could all just gather together and have fun. That’s all. No expectations other than fun! 

This year was different. I worked from 6:45am until 7:40pm. I am on call tonight, and I work at a Trauma Center. Hopefully, nothing crazy happens. 

Okay. Back to this being a rough day. I feel like, sometimes all of this is not real, like it’s not really happening, or like it’s happening to someone else. Sometimes I am 100% okay talking about Mitch, and it doesn’t hurt, and it even brings me joy when I get to tell stories about things he would do or say. 

Then, there are days like today, where just mentioning his name out loud brings me to my knees. It hurts so bad. I hyperventilate. I snot-cry on my friends’ shoulders, at work, or wherever I may be when the feeling strikes. 

Honestly, the way I bounce up and down in my feelings scares me. 

I was asked the other day “how are you doing?”

And I said “What do you mean? How am I doing financially, physically, mentally?” 

They responded with “Be honest. Don’t give me the same shot you’re giving everyone else!” Meaning, I am sure, “don’t tell me you’re fine ” 

I responded with, “I tell everyone the honest truth,  because I tell anyone who asks, exactly how I’m doing.” 

Someone asked me if I was okay, today, as I was crying in the corner of the break room.  I told her. Some days this is just so much more real than others. Some days it slams into me, and rips my heart to shreds. Again. 

It’s like it’s brand new. Like that Wednesday, when I was pulled into that office, at FedEx, and given the worst news I could have ever imagined. 

I love him. I always will. 

I’m sure I will be a basket-case for the rest of my life, so I’ll ask you now, if we are hanging out, and I just start crying, forgive me. It isn’t you. It’s me, the widow. 

This IS my new normal. 

Mitch bought that gorilla suit for $80, for the previous Halloween, and I told him he needed to wear that thing for every holiday! 😂 So he put it on, that year. 

One thought on “Saint Patrick’s Day Without My Irishman. 

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