I knew losing my husband would hurt. I had already spent years worrying about losing him.
What I didn’t understand was how much of what happened while he was sick would stay with me afterward. How I could miss him and still feel hurt. How the caregiving could end, but the stress wouldn’t just end with it.
There is grief in losing your husband. There is also grief in looking back at everything you went through before he died.
I’m still learning how to make room for both.
When Joe was sick, so much of my life revolved around his health. Heart, kidney, and liver problems. Surgeries, hospital stays, appointments, and the constant effort to understand what was happening and what might help. I learned about things I never imagined needing to know. I researched diets, managed bleeding, tried to keep track of information and medications, and things I don’t even want to mention while also being a wife and a mom.
And through all of it, there was the fear.
When someone you love is seriously ill, it becomes hard to settle into a good day. You want to enjoy it, but part of you is wondering how long it will last. You get used to being ready for something to go wrong.
After living that way for so long, I couldn’t simply switch it off.
The Part That Is Hard to Say Out Loud
I loved my husband. He was also not always kind to me.
That is a difficult sentence to write, especially now that he is gone.
There can be pressure after someone dies to talk only about the good memories. And I have good memories. But there were also painful moments, and pretending they didn’t happen doesn’t help me heal. Therapy has taught me this and how important acknowledging it is.
I can understand that he was sick, scared, frustrated, and dealing with more than anyone should have to face. I can have compassion for what he was going through. But I was going through something, too.
His suffering mattered. So did mine.
It is hard to care for someone when you are hurting emotionally yourself. You still worry about them. You still want them to feel better. You still show up, even when you feel worn down or wish they could see how much you are carrying.
Then, after they die, those feelings become even more complicated. You miss hearing their laugh or their smile. You remember the good. You remember the hurt. There are things you wish you could talk through, and now you can’t. So many questions I wish I could ask now.
I don’t want to erase our love, and I don’t want to erase myself from the story, either.
When Caregiving Ends but the Trauma Stays
When I talk about the PTSD of caregiving, I’m trying to put words to the fear and stress that have stayed with me. I’m not using this post to explain a diagnosis. I’m talking about what it feels like to have lived through so much and still struggle to feel at ease afterward.
Since Joe passed, sleep has been difficult. Stress has been difficult. I wish that knowing I’m no longer in the middle of a medical crisis automatically meant I could relax. It hasn’t worked that way.
There is also something disorienting about no longer being a caregiver. For so long, there was always something that needed my attention. Even when I was exhausted, I knew what I was supposed to be doing.
Now there is space in my life that I didn’t ask for.
Some of that space is lonely. Some of it is a chance to breathe. Sometimes I don’t know what to do with either one.
I’m realizing that I need to grieve my husband and also acknowledge what those years took out of me. I don’t have to decide which part is more important before I’m allowed to talk about it.
Remembering That I Have a Life, Too
I’m a mom. I love travel, run, books, being outside, meeting people, and learning new things.
Those parts of me were still there while I was caregiving, but there wasn’t always much room for them. So much energy went toward getting through whatever was happening that day.
Now I’m trying to figure out what I want my life to feel like.
That sounds exciting, and sometimes it is. Other times, it feels overwhelming. I didn’t choose the circumstances that brought me here. I can be grateful for an opportunity and still wish I hadn’t had to lose so much to get to it.
Finding life again has been less about one big fresh start and more about letting myself participate in things. Going for a run. Making a plan. Going on a date. Spending time with people who make me feel comfortable being myself. Trying something because I’m curious about it.
And allowing myself to enjoy those moments without immediately feeling guilty.
I’m still working on that part.
Joy Can Feel Complicated
After so much illness and loss, even feeling happy can bring up unexpected emotions.
I can have a really good day and then miss parts of our old life. I can look forward to something new and feel sad that my life looks so different. I can laugh and later cry.
I’m learning to let a good moment be good without asking it to mean more than it does. Enjoying myself doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten him. Making plans doesn’t mean everything is healed.
It means I’m here, and I want to have a life I can enjoy.
Joe wanted his life celebrated. I think about that as I figure out how to keep living mine. I’m allowed to carry the good memories with me and also be honest about the difficult ones. I’m allowed to want peace, connection, fun, and exciting new beginnings.
That doesn’t make our history less meaningful. I spent almost 20 years of my life with Joe and now it’s been turned upside down.
Being Honest About Where I Am
I don’t have a neat ending for this. I’m still in it.
Some days I feel hopeful. Some days I feel tired in a way that is hard to explain. Some days I can see possibilities ahead, and other days I need to give myself a little more room.
I’m sharing this because caregiving and grief can be lonely, especially when your experience doesn’t fit the version people expect to hear.
If you loved someone who was sick and they weren’t always kind, you may have feelings that are difficult to say out loud. If you’re exhausted after the caregiving ends, you may wonder why you aren’t feeling better yet. If you’re beginning to enjoy your life again, you may feel guilty about that, too.
I don’t think we should have to hide those parts.
I loved my husband. I went through things that hurt me. I miss the good times. And I’m becoming more confident that there is happiness again, it doesn’t end here.
All of those things are true.
For now, I’m giving myself permission to take care of the person who spent so long taking care of someone else. And little by little, I’m finding out what life can look like from here, while also holding Little Monkey and leading her through this journey. And I know 16, losing her dad, her’s looks and feels very different.
I just want to encourage others who have similar experiences that it is ok to share your truths. It is hard. Really F’ing hard, but we know first hand, we can do hard things.
