We had a fairytale love story that ignited in March of 2011. After dating for a week, I knew Bryan was the one and we married on September 1, 2017. Every day with him was magical and full of love and laughter. We wanted to share that by growing our family. After a yearlong struggle with infertility, I got pregnant in April of 2019. We were over the moon and couldn’t wait to become parents. Bryan often said to me, “Are we ready to be parents?” I always reassured him by saying, ”is anyone ever really ready?”
Fast forward to September 4, 2019. It was a normal day. He was up early working in his office and I was on my way to work. We texted throughout the day as we always did. He was supposed to go bowling that night, but didn’t make it. Bryan was a healthy, happy 34-year old who lived every day to the fullest, but that fateful day, his heart stopped beating. He fell to the bathroom floor and that was it. My husband, my soulmate, the absolute love of my life was gone in a flash second. I came home to his lifeless body at the top of the stairs and kept telling him to wake up. I laid next to him and said you can’t leave me and our baby boy. It was the absolute worst day of my entire life and I didn’t know how I’d live life without him, especially with our baby boy on the way.
My pregnancy was pretty typical. I had morning sickness, heartburn, and extreme fatigue, but the last trimester was very difficult, especially after having lost my husband so unexpectedly. There were days that I didn’t want to eat or get out of bed. I was so excited to meet our son and hold him in my arms, but I didn’t think I would do so without my husband by my side.
Once our son was here, I didn’t think I would be able to take care of him. I didn’t want to be the only parent, but what choice did I have? As it was, I suffered from major depression, anxiety, PTSD, and then added to the mix, post-partum depression. I was scared, not just for my life, but for my son’s. There were days I wish I didn’t have him. I had days where I just wanted to die. I remember sobbing on the bathroom floor, the same spot where my husband died, telling my mom I needed to go to the hospital because I couldn’t breathe. I would pace around my room thinking of how to end it all; all of the pain and suffering.
I was in close contact with my OBGYN and my psychiatrist. I started seeing a therapist who specialized in grief counseling and post-partum depression. The combination of medications and professionals helped to an extent, but I was the one that had to do the work to get my mind in the right place. I had to take care of myself so that I could care for my son. I have a lot of work to do and know there will be bumps along the way.
Grief doesn’t have an expiration date. To this day, almost four years later, I struggle… a lot. I keep busy with my full-time job and my sweet, stubborn, thriving 3-year-old, who I absolutely adore, but there will always be a piece of my heart that is missing. I take things one day at a time and try to focus on the step in front of me, not the staircase. Life is so different and not at all what I imagined it would be like, but life is for the living and I’m trying to do that every single day, even if that means that all I accomplished for the day was getting out of bed. I am hopeful for the future and that I will be happy again, but it will be a different kind of happy. The pain of losing my husband will never go away, but I know it will ease with time. Hug your loved ones tight because tomorrow is not promised. And if someone hasn’t been in your shoes, don’t let them tell you how to tie your shoelaces.
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