365 days.
That’s the amount of time society gives someone to grieve.
Hospice offers one year of free counseling and then you’re cut off. Counselors told me I have one year to be crazy. Friends have said, “well you’re still in the first year.”
It’s as if on day 366 you’ll wake up and say, ‘Yes I’m all better, I no longer miss this person, I’ve figured it all out!’
Every single day for 365 straight has been a fight. A fight to get out of bed, a fight to smile, a fight to live.
Joe knew he was going to die. I don’t know if that’s made this easier or harder.
“I don’t want to look down from heaven and see you not taking care of yourself,” Joe said one day while standing in the bathroom, “Don’t get fat and just let yourself go because you’re sad.” I can still see his sneaky smile as he peered out to me on the bed and I rolled my eyes.
I’ve debated how to handle this date. I know I can’t ignore it. But I just can’t let it own me.
I know I’ll never forget the song I sang to him as my tears soaked his shirt, watching as he’d take his last breath just hours later. The day it happened doesn’t make that memory any different.
I want to celebrate Joe’s life but I can feel the pain wrapping around my heart.
So instead, I want this to be my survival anniversary. I want to say I survived the hardest year of my entire life. I want to never forget the physical fight I’ve put up just to keep breathing.
It started the moment I walked out of the hospice house, leaving his body behind.
I woke up the next morning and put lipstick on and headed to the bank to handle our accounts.
“My husband died yesterday and I need to know how to set up my daughter’s college fund for the obituary, ” I said with a straight forward attitude of a warrior who would not be defeated.
I’ve had to live every day with that same determination.
I fought through leaving the house we brought our daughter home to and the last place I’d share a bed with my husband. I threw out clothes and took on change as fast as it was thrown in my face.
I survived.
I sat up in the middle of the night and desperately searched online to find a support group as I feared my life would be better if I just didn’t live it.
I stumbled into a church on a Thursday night and followed a woman who waved me into a small room. I signed in and sat down. The banner on the wall read, “Divorce and recovery”. Hmmm… I thought… maybe widows are the recovery? I could feel the anger bouncing off the women around me when I stood up and said, “I think I’m in the wrong place.”
“Are you a widow or an alcoholic?” one of the women asked.
“A widow,” I replied.
“Down the hall past the alcoholics.”
I grabbed my things and headed that way splitting with laughter.
I found the right room and sat with eyes wide. I sobbed as a widow stood up to tell the group about how she was newly engaged after losing her husband to cancer. I remember her saying, “My first husband was my soulmate but maybe we have two souls because this person loves a whole different side of me.”
It was the first time I’d ever even imagined the future.
I fought to say ‘yes’ to invitations even when I knew they’d be hard. I did dinner parties with all couples and even figured out how to order myself a drink. I also have become painfully aware of how spoiled I was as I used the vacuum and realized I had never unloaded the dishwasher in the six years I was with Joe.
I went on a date.
That’s right. I got online and went on one of those weird sites. I filled out a profile and stood puzzled as I had to answer questions about myself. Things I didn’t even know anymore. What do I like to do for fun? What kind of music do I like? I had absolutely no idea. I wanted to write that I’m Mira’s mom and Joe’s wife because that’s all I’ve known for the last two years.
I have no idea who I even am.
The date was awful. I listened to a guy complain about his divorce and order an expensive meal. As the bill came he realized he’d ‘forgot’ his wallet. I picked up the tab and thanked him for the evening and was on my way.
Dinner: $150.
Babysitter: $60.
Material for my book: PRICELESS.
It was one of many things I’ve fought to rip the band-aid off and make myself do in an effort to find myself. I wanted so desperately to feel pretty, to feel like a woman, to remember that girl I was when Joe and I first fell in love. When I believed in happy endings, when I thought love could conquer anything.
There are harsh truths to death that aren’t in the pamphlet.
Relationships change after someone dies. You have to completely re-define where you stand in every friendship and family connection. Condolences will stop and the judgement will set in. Family members you think will be there for you–won’t. Complete strangers will find a way to fill voids in your life you didn’t even know were there. You’re damned if you stay in bed all day and damned if you go out all the time. I survived the inappropriate comments made by people with the best of intentions.
“You’ll have to clean out Joe’s closet at some point”, a friend said not even a month after he had died.
“Dating? You aren’t ready,” another acquaintance said at lunch.
“Will you always be the cancer girl now? Are you okay with that being your identity?” Another person asked.
Hearts in the right place but minds truly clueless as to how any of this feels.
365 days.
I was told the first year would be a fog and that’s absolutely right. So many days I already forget, human nature’s survival technique I suppose.
But when I stop and really think about all we’ve done this year I can almost feel Joe smiling down on me.
I did a 5K, (okay, I walked but I finished!)
I put in the carseat myself, I had to watch a YouTube video and I sobbed, but I did it.
I started a foundation in Joe’s honor, one of my greatest achievements.
I traded in Joe’s car and wept as I handed over the keys.
I pay the bills and have set almost everything up on automatic payment because I’ve realized remembering things is not my strong suit.
I started a freelance job writing for a magazine and I love it.
I’ve met new friends.
I go to counseling.
I figured out the Apple TV, though I still have to call my brother every time I do it.
I fix Mira’s toys and I change all the batteries. I taught her to say, “good job, mommy!” as my reward.
I can carry three bags of trash all at once to the dumpster.
I drive her to school and pick her up every afternoon.
I let myself cry.
I fight. I fight. I fight.
365 days was not enough time to heal. I do not have it all together. I feel homeless without the person who was suppose to be my life partner. I fight and I’ll never stop because it’s the life he wanted for us. It’s the life our daughter deserves.
I was suppose to spend my whole life with you and then I stop to think how lucky I am, you spent your whole life with me.
Joe Clark died at the age of 31 years old on November 16, 2014. It was two days before he and his wife Amanda would have celebrated their 4th wedding anniversary. Joe taught the world what it means to live loud and love hard. A foundation inspired by Joe and Amanda’s blog, The Cocktails & Chemo Foundation serves to honor Joe’s life and create a support network for the caregivers of cancer patients.
The couple have a daughter, Mira Joey, who will turn two in December. Amanda and Joe never wanted cancer to define their lives but instead let their lives be defined by love.
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God Bless You and your little girl!
I do not know you but I want you to know that you used the last 365 days heroically! I too lost my husband although it was at a much different time in my life, after my children had grown up. It was a very hard first year but luckily I had a strong boss at work who insisted I come back to work after a few weeks. I thought I couldn’t do it, I was so wrong. It saved me, work and daily interaction with peers helped me feel grounded again, they were my family when truly related family members couldn’t be there for me on a daily basis.
I know that every time you feel weak and uninspired to start your day you will look into the eyes of your little girl and know that you have found your reason. I couldn’t have done it without mine, they were and still are my reason.
God Bless you,
Michele
I don’t know you, but I love you….Stay strong, fight the good fight. It’s all you can do, but you have proven it is doable. You and Mira will thrive and survive. Joe is always with you through her. You are still family.
Amanda,
You inspire me everytime I read something you wrote to be a better person, to always think before I speak and to allow my friend who lost her husband to talk, really talk and for me to listen, not comment, not interject, just listen. I learned all this from you, I have been appalled at the statements people have made to her, not maliciously just without thinking.
Joe is so proud of you and Mira, I know it! You are strong, beautiful, an amazing mother and a great teacher to all of us. Please know that I am thinking of the three of you today.
Stacy
You are braver than you know. I think of how you must be doing many days. xo
I enjoyed reading your story. My husband died from cancer leaving me alone to raise two children and my youngest just graduated from college this year. We were married for thirty two years and I feel like half of me is missing. I formed a spouse support group and I have been meeting with these three people for nine years. I will never be the same and my life is divided into before and after. Thank you for making me feel better.
I’ve only met you once at the Cocktails and Chemo fundraiser Bears outing,,,but I can tell you that you left an imprint on me that will be with me for a lifetime! That night I came home and read every single one of your blogs that you wrote…so that is how I came to know you!I think you are an amazing woman! Your words that you write are so honest…sometimes they make you cry and other times I just laugh out loud! Yes you are gifted! 365 days is not enough…is there really a time limit? I don’t think so!
You are amazing! So real. There is no time limit as to how long we mourn the loss of a loved one. You will know when you’re ‘ready’. No one can tell you differently. Everyone has a story. Thank you for sharing your story with us.
Love you getting your journey down in words for all to see. So eloquent and true…I am a widow for over 6 years now. I am not as young as you, but my husband died at 45. Still too young. How I remember like yesterday all you describe. What I can tell you is grief never leaves; it just changes. And you are forever changed. Abundant blessings to you on your continued journey. Thank you for your blog!
This is so touching and well written. My own cancer diagnosis was 2.5 years ago. Although my health is stable at the moment and I’m currently living a relatively normal life (a real luxury!) I will never feel normal again. Every day I worry about the possibility of leaving my husband and children behind. I have coached my husband on what to do if I don’t make it. “Promise me you’ll find love again,” I’ve told him earnestly. So reading your blog matters to someone like me. It really helps me to see that life can go on for our soulmates, even if it is a mixed bag of experiences and emotions. Thanks for your willingness to share some of those excruciating, awkward, painful, and even feel unbearable moments with us.
Amanda, I hope you are serious when you say “material for my book…” Please, please! I would love to buy a book comprised of your previous beautiful essays from the blog and the experiences of this past year. I know I am not alone. Please! Much love to you, my dear.
THANK YOU for this. Today I start my day 365. We all have our own journeys but the feelings are the same. Thank you for always writing from the heart and helping us. And I would definitely buy your book!
You are strong.
You are brave.
You are (and please remain) honest.
You are amazing…and on the days you don’t feel these things; look at your beautiful daughter, she’ll remind you!
-xoxo