One Year Without You, Matt

In January, one month after Matt passed away, I shared my first letter to him in my tribute post; I wrote this letter days after his death. In it, I divulged all my feelings to him; the shock, the fear, the nostalgia, and my commitment to “not letting cancer be the victor.” I wanted the world to realize that he is so much more than a memory; that when he died, it felt like a part of me went with him. It was hard writing that letter, just as it is hard writing this letter, one year into widowhood.

In a few short days, we will hit the one year mark of life without Matt.

Writing that in and of itself takes my breath away. While I’ve stepped out of the acute widow haze, it remains hard to fully believe reality. For some, Christmas Eve hits harder than others; for a select few of us, this date is another harsh reminder of losing someone so much a part of our lives, our future, our dreams, and “how it should have been.” For many, this may be a story or conversation surrounding a vibrant life lost way too young, and a family shattered. 

Over the course of the year, I’ve shared my experiences as a young, widowed mom. I’ve done everything in my power to preserve Matt’s legacy, to give the world a glimpse into his ever powerful spirit, and to continue fighting for him every damn day. I’ve probably overshared some of my deepest fears, concerns, and experiences. My hardest post to date was recounting our CCA story. If anything, I hope to provide support for the few, insight for the many, and a platform for unheard and unseen voices in both the young widow and Cholangiocarcinoma communities. 

These past two years have tested me beyond measure; they’ve tested my faith, my sanity, and my strength to weather the storm. They’ve forced me to dig deeper than I ever have to pull it together when I just felt like falling apart. Despite it all, it is my belief that Matt is still with us, laughing with us, perhaps even crying with us, but always watching over us. I respect everyone’s beliefs in regards to life and death, and these are mine. 

In that spirit, I’ve penned a one year update letter to him.  I discuss how our world has changed since he’s been gone. One year simultaneously feels like yesterday and decades ago. I encourage everyone, while you indulge in holiday cocktails, treats, and merriment, you take a second and raise your glass to Matt. I know how much he would appreciate it, as would all of us who feel the stark absence of our husband, father, son, brother, uncle, nephew, cousin, and best friend this holiday season.

My One Year Update

Dear Matt, 

I hope that you’re reading this from somewhere grand; maybe it’s right next to me. Who knows? When you left this side of the universe, I wrote you a letter as a means of letting you know how much you would be missed. I don’t think you needed me to tell you; you already knew. Everything I wrote in that letter still rings true today; I miss all of those things. I miss our Jeopardy battles; I miss our weekend Starbs trips in anticipation of our farmers market walks; I even miss Tuesday night cleaning sessions. While I miss the vacations, holidays, and weddings celebrated together, it’s the littlest things I miss the most. I miss your laugh, your kiss, and your look of disapproval as we review last month’s credit card bill or another box of Nespresso arrives. I miss your hands and your touch. I miss saying I love you every morning and every night, and hearing you say it back. I miss doing all the things together, like visiting friends, dinner dates, and dancing. I just miss you. I shared my letter with others at your memorial services and in my blog, because on a very small scale, that letter also told our story. A story that will forever be a part of the very foundation of who I am. And, no matter how weathered that foundation gets, or how many layers are added on, it will stand the test of time because it is so ingrained in every part of my being. 

But, that’s not what this letter is about. This is to update you on all you may have missed over the course of this year. I know how concerned you were about me, about Bryson, and about our future if “things didn’t go as we hoped.” A lot has changed since you went away; for all of us. 

Bryson is blabbering, walking, running, and causing the forecasted chaos we expected. He loves looking at your pictures and pointing; sometimes when he’s in bed, he just waves into the air and smiles. I’d like to think he’s waving at you. His favorite foods include yogurt, goldfish, pasta, and anything Italian. While he’s not quite as regimented as you were with your eating schedule, he responds well to your singing announcements of what meal is next (“YO-GURT TIIIIIIME”) He has a fascination with lights, how things work, and music.  While I know you would be so proud of the latter, I have a feeling you would be terribly annoyed by the amount of Simple Songs we have to listen to and the fingerprints all over the walls, screens, and windows.

He loves “no-pants” Sunday, or any time I allow him to go nude. I’ll keep the Sharpies at bay as long as possible. His latest love affair is with outside time. He placates me with our long walks, but he really loves just running around and playing with Chuck in our new yard; it’s bittersweet. I often catch myself thinking about how much you would have enjoyed this part of being a dad. You would love fostering the relationship between Bryson and Charlie, showing him how to properly play fetch and make Charlie “stay.” You would have loved playing in the leaves and snow with him. I know that taking him to get his first pair of ice skates will be tough; I’ll be sure to tell him how you used to ref the UConn club hockey games in college and that one of your favorite birthday presents (to me) was tickets to the Winter Classic in DC for some “Old Tiiime Hockaaaay.” I’ll attempt your voice inflections in describing that to him. 

He is finally sleeping through the night in his big boy bed, though we’ve had a few rough nights lately. I’m not sure if he’s at the point where you’d consider him smarter than a dog; you’ll have to give me a sign on that one. His singing capabilities are pretty on par with your own. Take what you will from that one. You would be especially proud of him for mimicking his elders, and decorating the tree with his toys. I have a feeling that story would be told 1,000 times to all our friends and family members forced to listen. 

Much like all of us, he’s experienced a lot of change over this year; for him, change is one of the only constants. I’d like to think it’s building a sense of resiliency. I know I can’t protect him from everything; that at some point, I will need to explain why his daddy isn’t physically here and that may come with it’s own grief, discomfort, and pain. And that’s ok. If anything, I hope I can teach him to feel everything and to own his path. I wish he didn’t have to learn at such a young age. As a family, we are doing everything in our power to keep your spirit and legacy very much alive for him, but I accept that it will only go so far. 

As for me, I’m doing alright. Sometimes I’m ok, sometimes I’m not ok. Sometimes I’m hopeful for our future, and sometimes I’m still in shock that this is our reality. At times, I’m angry. Uncertainty and fear are controllable norms for me. I am not sure if all the decisions I’ve made for us are “right.” But is there a right? When I ask myself these questions, I hear you saying “It’s the decision you made, so commit to it and make it right.”  I hope you are just as supportive of my commitment to get a tattoo. 

As you know, staying busy has always been a way for me to avoid pain; to numb. Some do it with food, alcohol, drugs, shopping, etc. I do it with tasks and to-dos. I realize that’s not the healthiest thing to do, though I’m pretty proud of what has resulted from some of that. I hope you are too. We haven’t given up fighting for you; in fact, your whole crew (and I mean everyone) really stepped it up this year and raised a bunch of money to support research and clinical trials in the hope of funding more treatment options and, one day, a cure for cholangiocarcinoma. I flash back to some of the daydreams you had in the December haze. You would describe it like you were fighting in a war; one day you woke up from one said dream screaming “we won!!” It was heartbreaking at the time; like a knife in the stomach. But that image has pushed me farther than I can describe. One day, I hope we can do that, and I know you’ll be standing right beside us, guns a-blazin’ (figuratively speaking). 

In a drastic change of heart, I made a pretty crazy decision to leave Maryland. I’d be lying if I told you this has been any easy transition. I miss our Baltimore family and so much of what our life once was. Maybe I was holding on too much to that? At the very least, I hope you’re happy about all the influential Husky flags adorning the streets during our evening walks. It’ll be hard for Bryson NOT to be a Uconn fan. I’ll have to put a little extra effort into ensuring his Patriots loyalty; speaking of which…the Bills are AFC East champions.  I kid you not. So many years of heartbreaking loyalty for you; and now they show up. What the actual F?  I hope you’re riding the Nightrain Xpress, throwing a few Loose Cannons back and taunting us all from afar. 

We welcomed quite a few new members to HsigmaO this year, including your newest niece! But don’t worry; no one has had any fun while you’ve been gone. Literally. A pandemic has forced us all to be far less social for the safety and wellbeing of the masses. Pre-cancer Matt (the Matt that I think about most often), would have found it quite the challenge to limit social gatherings; but then again, as long as you had your personal bubble and a deck to play your music from, you were just fine. More than anything, you were astutely aware of how your actions impacted others, always supportive of the greater good. I won’t talk about your political views here, but I think you’d be pretty happy with how things are panning out for 2021. 

As we close out this very hard first year, only rivaled by the year before that, it’s all still difficult to grasp. I still can’t watch the Office, That 70’s Show, How I Met Your Mother, or even NCIS. I couldn’t bring myself to pick out a real Christmas tree this year, knowing that was one of the last things we did together and you’d be damned if cancer stopped you from picking out the perfect tree. It’s the little reminders that sting the most. Crazy how that works. And yet, amidst all the heartache, fear, change, and uncertainty, I’ve learned a lot about myself, about being a mom, and about how I want to show up in this world for myself and for others.

On that note, I’m leaving you with this because I think it’s super important to you: we all still talk about you, share memories, and bring up idiosyncrasies that are so, Matt. Our baseboards are all immaculate, and every time 12 oclock on Saturday hits, well…we’re A-ok. You will always be a force here on earth and your legacy will shine brighter than you could ever imagine. I’m sure you’re in good company wherever you may be now; and while I want so badly for you to be here with us, my faith that you are around us always provides comfort and reassurance. I’m not sure what the future holds for me; for Bryson. What changes await us and what stories are left to unfold. I’ll keep you posted….and I love you.

Christina

To all those who continue to read my blogs, share kind words, send cards, and support A Matter of Hope, I can’t tell you how much that means to me. Sharing such personal feelings and, especially, the depths of grief is scary. If I’ve helped just one person by sharing, then it’s worth while. I hope each and every one of you have a wonderful holiday.

Until next time,

Xtina